Friday Ramble 03/03/2006

Yes, well I can see it’s stuck Knaps, but the question remains:- what were you doing putting a turnip there in the first place? Oh…hello there. Please do come in.

It was one of the best sporting weekends in history. Ya, so the Cats and Arsenal lost. But Scotland the Brave beat the Pommie wankers. I almost shed a tear of joy. Ok, so I did. Oh ya, and we beat the Aussies. Twice.



Scots Wha Hae
Robert Bruce’s address to his army, before the battle of Bannockburn.

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour ;
See the front o’ battle lour !
See approach proud Edward’s power –
Chains and slaverie !

Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Let him turn and flee !

Wha for Scotland’s King and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’ ?
Let him follow me !

By oppression’s woes and pains !
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free !

Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe !
Liberty’s in every blow !
Let us do or die !

Our reverent sage Robbie Burns, Esq.

Tell me that doesn’t make you want to go out and kill some English.

No one holds a grudge quite like the Celts. When I came across that poem a couple of years ago, I showed it to my Old Man and asked if he had ever heard it. “Of course”, he said – he had to recite it at every assembly. Now what you have to realise, is that my old man was born in the midst of the Second World War. Now for those of you who missed that history lesson, that’s the one where the Scots fought shoulder to shoulder with the Poms on various battlefields scattered across Europe against that great threat to world peace – Germany. The battle of Bannockburn? Somewhere in the 18th Century.

And still the Scottish anthem:

And stood against him,
Proud Edward’s army.
And sent him homeward,
Tae think again.

That’s somewhat equivalent to our national anthem being.

Oh, we koi-san
Seen Johan’s flotilla.
Beware my man.
Or we’re gonna kill ya.

(roughly translated from the original:)
Cho xi xo,
Khi ki xkle.
Kho ki ko,
Tsu tu cxle.

That’s some good indoctrination though. Here I am, a half-breed Scot, born and bred in the R of SA and I loathe the English. But I guess, truth be told, the other side of my family is half Afrikaaner and half Irish if you work it back, so that’s some pretty good English-hating pedigree there.

Ramble Recipes for Bachelors
Une Tartine au Beurre de Cacahuete et au Miel

1 Oz Skippy Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter
1 Oz Creamed Raw Honey
1 Oz Butter
2 Slices Bread

Place 2 slices of bread in ‘toaster’ [1]. Press ‘on’ [2]. While waiting for bread to ‘toast’ [3], place the honey in the ‘microwave’ [4]. Be sure to take off the metal lid to avoid a nuclear holocaust. Nuke honey for +/- 10 seconds until runny. Spread butter evenly over toast, making sure to go right to the corners. Spread peanut butter uniformly over toast, as with the butter. Pour over honey to taste. Sweet [5].

Serves 1

[Ed Notes:]
[1] Usually a box-wine sized silver thingy in the corner of the kitchen somewhere.
[2] Often a confusingly non-labeled lever on the side of the toaster.
[3] Bread that has been mildly burned is often referred to as ‘toast’. Fully burned it is often referred to as ‘the toast is burning you tit!’
[4] This time, a television-sized metal thingy in the corner of the kitchen somewhere. Distinguishable from an actual TV by a door and a lack of AV plugs. Ask mom or a girl or that effeminate chap next door.
[5] A nice variation is to add 1 x marijuana cigarette to taste.

The Doors Nightclub. What a place. I have an admission to make. While in my youth a self-styled follower of the metal underworld though I was, I have never been to The Doors. No ways, my lily white northern suburbs arse would have been fodder for a steel-capped boot. Friday afternoon saw the monumental decision made to venture into the dark netherworld of The Vale.

Black T-shirt? Check.
Shaved head? Check.
Two day’s stubble? Check.
Steel-capped kickers? Check.
Menacing scowl? Check.
Tighty whiteys? Check.
All systems are a go.

We were chaperoned by a local – Daniel “If someone’s on the ground kick ‘em or go balls deep, but either way, make sure they’re proper fucked” Garrun – so the three northern suburbs pansies couldn’t do ourselves a mischief.

Enter our heroes, stage left
Proceed to thee Bar.
Beers all round please.
Happy hour? Two-for-one? Sweet.
It’s happy hour. Tequila’s all round. Dan with throw up tequila? Ok then, suitcases? Suitcases.
Suitcases all round please.
Happy hour doesn’t include spirits? You poured us Jack Daniels? R72?!!
Fuck.
Oh fuck it, whatever, they are playing SOAD.

Apart from being money-grabbing assils, The Doors is one great place. I felt right at home. It’s been too long since I felt the stabbing pain of someone moshing hair into my eye. I feel they will be seeing a lot more of me. There were also a surprising number of great looking girls. Yes, yes, I know BEER HAZE + DINGY CLUB = GREAT LOOKING GIRLS but I think that there were some genuinely good looking ones. Of course the next morning when they offer you liver on toast, you have to make sure it’s not your own Hey it’s worth the risk, right? I’m not using mine much anyway.

The subliminal power of the media fascinates me. On the MWeb website this week, they had a whole links feature schpiel about the local elections. The image alongside had just Patricia de Lille and Tony Leon. Something like that has to have some sort of effect somewhere along the line. I mean it’s a reputable source of information for hundreds of thousands of South Africans. Do you think the editor might be a little partisan to the opposition? Just a thought.

Tuesday night. Wow. What a spectacular spectacle. I was privileged enough to be invited for 9 holes of pub golf courtesy the tenants of the Playboy Mansion. It was seriously well organised, let me not lie. 3 or 4 combis full of people, scorecards and everything. Everyone was kitted out in varying shades of Payne Stewart. I was thrown together with four other dudes who I had never met before to be my teammates. Truth be told, even their names are a bit hazy. Who knows, maybe they only ever existed in my mind. You never know.



My team (The Bogeys - because the girls called themselves The Birdies. I thought it was funny at the time):
Mr. Eager (team captain) - Big bastard. Turns out he played waterpolo overseas and knows Ryan Bell really well and has been in the odd altercation alongside him. Like Ryan, a good dude but completely insane.
Dale – Super chilled out chap. Seems to not quite know what to think but just kind of rolls with it.
The Aviator – Any man who dons aviators instantly has my respect. And they are Ray-Bans. He gets a little bit bleak with me when he points to a blonde and says that it’s his wife and I treat it as a figure of speech. I’m still not used to being of the age where people are genuinely married. I think the phase might wear off in 10 years or so.
The Ballie – He seems to be a couple of years older. He is definitely not stoked with the rest of the team’s gung-ho attitude.
Me – Handsome. Intelligent. Articulate. Legendary Lover. Endowed like a Stallion. Full to the gills of shite.

Hole 1: George Lea Sports Club. My team unanimously decide that this one has to be a hole-in-one. Great. Easy game. Mr. Eager wants to go get a round of Jager-Bombs. Having partaken in the odd ale myself, I’m thinking “easy there Spuddy, we’ll see how eager you are on the 6th”. The rest of the team manages to restrain him. It turns out that due to the handicapping system, we need to have another beer. Mr. Eager is grinning broadly; he can down a drink faster than anyone else I’ve ever seen. And I went to Rhodes.

Hole 2: Herringtons. Par 5. Pints. “2, 3, Ra, Ra, Ra”. Gone.

Hole 3: Combi won’t start. Call the owner of the Combi’s old man. Back inside Herrington’s. One of my team-mates misunderstands what is happening and buys our team a round of pints as ‘insurance’. This hole is also a handicapped one, so two more beers are laid before us all. The eager teammate has us putting everything away in one. I’m starting to admire his stamina. Combi sorted.

Hole 4: Colony Arms. John Deer’s – what else? Easiest downing of the evening. Mr. Eager tells us on the trip to the next hole that at the next place he is going to smash a full can of beer on his forehead for team moral. Er…ok, man.

Hole 5: Jolly Roger and have reached the halfway house. There are people I know there – who also just happen to be serious haters of the jock vibe; and I must be honest, there was a serious jock vibe going on amongst the pub golfers. We are the only team to buy the dummy on the scorecard and get a stout. It’s like downing a loaf of bread. Much chanting and chugging and ra-ra-ing. My friends have disowned me. Ah fuck it, everyone knows a jock is all I’ve ever wanted to be. Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirates life for me.

Hole 6: Pirates Club. Have lost The Ballie somewhere along the way but gained one of Mr. Eager’s mates. Mr. Eager apologises for forgetting to smash a full can of beer on his forehead for team moral at the Jolly. Mr. Eager smashes a full can of beer on his forehead for team moral. His mate smashes a full can of beer on his forehead for good measure. I am too pretty to smash a full can of beer on my forehead. Turns out we are gate crashing some poor dude’s 35th. We are asked to finish our drinks and are hurriedly ushered out. +/- 35 hammered people being told to do anything in a hurry? Ya, so that takes about an hour. I have by now exhausted my memory of old war cries and chants and stuff. I start up a rendition of Flower of Scotland but no one knows the words so it degenerates into a tuneless bout of screaming. I enjoy that. Mr. Eager starts singing Backstreet Boys. I know the words. I join in. I’m not even ashamed. Blame it on the booze.

Hole 7: Zoo Lake Bowling Club. We are turned away because it is so packed.

Hole 8: I am now ravaged like that girl in Once Were Warriors. We are sort of following the scorecard but I’m the one in charge of our team because it has been decided that I’m most in control. Oh, how appearances can be deceiving. I think there may at this point have been a cane depth charge. That’ll show them for leaving me in control. I’m genuinely impressed that Mr. Eager is still on his feet. His prolific downing ability has become a bit of a novelty and everyone is queuing up to race him. I am a-mazed. Hats off squire. Peer pressure is amazing. Our entire team has done everything in one. I think everyone is a little afraid Mr. Eager is going to smash a beer can on their forehead for team moral.

Hole 9: Laughed off due to it already being past closing time and everyone has had a skin-full. Holeeee duck I feel like I’ve just been roundhouse kicked by Steve Hofmeyer.

Clubhouse: Back to the Playboy Mansion for draught on tap. Gumpers and I wisely (very unlike me in this state) decide to walk home while we can still stumble.

I got wind of a little story that Chip found me loitering around their kitchen dustbin with intent sometime in the odd hours of the morning. He shrugged and lifted the lid to see what would happen and so I drained the main vein. It’s all lies and allegations, but a funny little story nonetheless. I R Jock. HOO WA!

My darling little sister. When I dropped her off at her new res, I noticed that her neighbour was quite a feisty little thing. When I was speaking to her yesterday, she told me that I would be pleased to know that she was friendly with said girl.
“Cool,” replied I, very coolly.
“No offense,” replied my darling little sister, “but she’s a little out of your league”.
Made to bleed so cruelly by my blood! Et tu Katru?

I have a strong suspicion that she is in fact a little bit mad too. She is studying physio and I started teasing her about how she would have to be carving up bodies soon, thinking that she would be squeamish.
“No,” she answered in a blasé, deadpan voice, “we start with limbs. Then later in the year I think we might get half a body. Y’know, split down the middle.”
Um. Have I mentioned how I’m really, really sorry about how I used to put beetles and frogs and stuff in your bed? If I wake up minus an arm sometime, I know who to blame.

An sms that amused me from Dan the Furniture Guy.

Hey bud one in the morn just lit up a braai got some chops and wors hows that
for fuck fontana?

Miracle of miracles I received into my very own inbox an email from the venerable Kent Matthew Sheep himself. What a pleasure. The man is still alive and behaving in a Kent-like manner. I.e. behaving like a drunken cad and then hating himself for behaving like a drunken cad so going out and behaving like a drunken cad to forget that he is bummed with himself for behaving like a drunken cad (?!! Say that three times fast).

In competition, during gunfire or while bombs are falling, players may take
cover without penalty for ceasing play. A player whose stroke is affected by the
simultaneous explosion of a bomb may play another ball from the same place.
Penalty, one stroke.

Richmond Golf Club, temporary rules, 1940

Just caught the South Park movie and saw something that had previously escaped my attention. When ‘Big Gay Al’ sings his big number to the US troops the make of his piano is ‘Felcher and Sons’. That’s poofie.

And I’m done.
May your shuffle towards the weekend be as smooth as possible and your sprint towards Monday be covered in chocolate sprinkles.

Love, kisses and vivid mental images of Jan bareback riding Knaps
Jamo.