The Friday House Party Vibe.

A few Fridays back was of course Kate Moss's birthday, but after last year's shenanigans we decided to give that one a wide berth. Instead we had a Friday House Party Vibe with The Birthday Girl, as it was also her birthday, and it was also held in Sea Point, as the below pics clearly prove.

I will now share these with you, as I don't really have anything of substance to say today, and I know how much you all love photographs.


Party At The Birthday Girl's: Early in the evening, celebrating The Birthday Girl's 24th birthday. We tried an experimental shot, where everyone froze in mid-sentence, allowing us to take this pic. Everyone held this pose for 10 minutes before we decided to take the picture. The blonde on the right was quite the little trooper, as her glass was filled with ice and she manfully kept her shit together and held on with just her two fingers, which is a pretty good effort.


What's Going On Right Now: A pic taken fairly early in the night, with everyone just staring into one another's eyes, making small talk about the weather, the state of the nation, and how cool that red jacket was..


Mind Tricks: Claus shows off his incredible telekinetic powers, getting The Girlfriend's hair to magically blow towards him. He also made a solitary finger magically appear in a puff of purple smoke. (Seen in the bottom left corner) To many, this was an even more amazing feat, as fingers tend to travel in packs of five, and are rarely seen out by themselves as they tend to be insecure and need the comfort of a large group.


The First Round: Roxy prepares to have her first drink of the night. In total, the evening's events saw approximately 1766 bottles of alcohol consumed, 871 names thrown out as well as 613 reputations sullied. In addition, the evening also saw a body count of about 345, which is more or less on par with a John Rambo movie, and signifies a pretty standard night's effort then.


Three Friends: Some Other Guy, chilling with The Girlfriend as well as the massive zit on his face, who introduced himself as Arthur The Zit. Some Other Guy is standing on a soapbox, so it appears as if he is much taller than The Girlfriend. This is what's known as an optical illusion, as he is actually quite the little dwarf. Arthur The Zit is chilling just below Some Other Guy's bottom lip. He isn't standing on a soapbox because, well, he is a massive zit after all, and that would just be ridiculous.


Whaaaaat The F**k?: Some Other Guy and Arthur The Zit share a passionate kiss with The Girlfriend, forcing me to take Some Other Guy outside and beat him with a piece of droe wors I found in the lounge. I also took the opportunity to pop Arthur The Zit, killing him instantly.


Gate Crasher? I don't actually remember these girls from the Friday House Party Vibe, but this pic was in the same folder as the rest so I'm just going to go for it, like Bryan Habana two metres from the try line. The one on the left looks oddly familiar, I think we may have dated in primary school, back when I still had a thing for girls who wore strips of denim across their ample bosoms. Which of course was a common sight back in Catholic Primary School days.


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Fat Bastard.

I'm not sure if it's the cold weather, the pressure of having to be clever all the time, or just my general laziness, but I've let myself go a bit. It started out slowly, a doughnut here, the odd Danish pastry there, a KFC burger or two around the corner, but now things are becoming rather ridiculous. The other day I was walking to my car, when a rather brash Japanese fellow came out of nowhere and tried to harpoon me.

With a f**king harpoon. A big one.

Usually, I would just brush the incident off as "one of those things", but that was the THIRD oriental whaler I had encountered in the space of a week. Then a few days later at the Gardens shopping centre, the lady at the Woolies till asked me if I was the pregnant guy she read about in the papers, and politely enquired as to how I planned on giving birth.


Shaun: Not The Pregnant Guy From The Papers.

The final straw however, was yesterday afternoon when I passed out due to sheer boredom, after losing a bet and being forced to listen to Danny K's greatest hits album. Imagine my surprise then, waking up hours later to find a Chinese ship docked in one of the folds in my tummy, busy offloading it's cargo of armaments into my belly button, or navel as the Belgians call it. (I think there may be a pun in there somewhere, but I'm just too upset to fish it out right now)

Apparently, this was then going to be transported to Zimbabwe for a big soirée Robert Mugabe was planning on throwing, but I was so pissed off about the whole thing, that I chased them away with the big stick I carry with me - the one I usually use to fend off stray dogs and charity workers who harass me.

So I don't really know what happened to the Chinese ship, or what it all means to the people of Zimbabwe, but at this point I don't really care.

I'm hungry, bloated and more than a little emotional right now.

Maybe I am pregnant.

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Shaun Finally Gives In.

It was Thursday morning, which obviously found me curled up in the foetal position, wondering where I was, and why I had love bites all over my chest. As my grogginess dissipated, the memories of the previous night slowly seeped back - memories of great high jinks at Asoka, celebrating the holiday known as Wednesday. Memories of drinking a large vase of Jameson, which I later tried to put under my blouse and walk out with. Memories of asking a vagrant for spare change, as I thought he would find this ironic and funny, which he clearly didn't as he let his dog loose on me.

Ah, so these weren't hickeys on my muscular pecs after all, these were in fact dog bites from the Alsatian with the mangy coat. It was whilst making a note in my diary to get tetanus shots, that my phone rang in a rather shrill manner, causing me to spill my beer all over the bed sheets.

"Shite. The Girlfriend is going to think I wet the bed again," I muttered to myself fearfully, as I groped around for my cell.

The call was a strange one, coming from someone who claimed to be my agent.

Me: What the f**k are you talking about? I don't have an agent.
Agent: You DO have an agent, I debit R25 off your account every month.
Me: Oooh right, I joined your agency YEARS ago. I thought you were dead.
Agent: Why would I be dead?
Me: I kept leaving message on your phone and you never called me back.
Agent: [silence]....Oh right... No, my phone was in for repairs then.
Me: For eight months?
Agent: Ja, I lost a lot of business. Look, let's not dwell on the past. What's important right now is that Cosmo wants to do a writeup about you.
Me: Cosmo? That's a little surprising.
Agent: Ja, I couldn't believe it either. I think they're confusing you with someone else. Are you Shaun Oakes?
Me: Of course I'm Shaun Oakes. Shouldn't you know this?
Agent: No, obviously I know that. I was just checking. That was the name they sent me on this piece of paper. Sometimes they get the names wrong though, if the handwriting isn't neat. You're sure your name isn't Danny K?
Me: No... no, I'm pretty sure my name isn't Danny K.
Agent: Oh okay.
[silence]
Agent: Do you perhaps KNOW Danny K?
Me: We've crossed paths, but I don't really know him very well, no.
Agent: That's a pity. I'd dig to be his agent.
Me: Well you're not his agent, you're mine.
Agent: Ja, I know. I'm just saying.
Shaun: Okay.
Agent: Okay.
[silence]
Agent: So you're Shaun OAKES, I just want to get the spelling right.

A painful and awkward few minutes later, found me again passed out, concerned over my agent's ineptitude as well as my potential death because of the previous night's dog attack.

A few months flew by and a few mornings back saw The Girlfriend beating me over the nose with a rolled up magazine, as I had forgotten to iron her clothes for that day. It was the May edition of Cosmopolitan, and the glossy cover caused it to slip out of her hand, landing on page 30 where, ironically enough, my little writeup can be found.


Cosmopolitan - An Infinitely Better Read, After Mentioning Shaun.

And what a nice little write-up it is. I liked the part where they describe me as "fun, charming and potentially the greatest icon to come out of Cape Town since this whole Table Mountain thing". Wow? Did they really say that? I mean, I added quotes and everything, it MUST be true.

Read the magazine to find out. It's the one with the heavily made up model, who looks a bit like Keira Knightley's brother.

What was that?

Her name is Gina Athans?

Oh okay, cool. It's the one with Gina Athans on the cover then. Get it now.

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Please, Don't Please Call Me.

Receiving a "Please Call Me" on my cellphone is the equivalent of a vagrant blowing his nose on me. It causes me to gag and immediately resent the donor.

It's such an intrusive exercise - why should I have to take the trouble of contacting YOU, after receiving a free "Please Call Me" text message, together with some advert promoting horoscopes, ring tones or some other drivel that I will never make use of.

Whoever thought up the concept of the free call back message, should have their toenails individually pulled out with a rusty set of garden shears, then be made to sit through three hours of stand up comedy from Allan Committee. Yes, that's how heavy the punishment should be.

The Girlfriend is fond of sending me these messages, as she knows how much they offend me. The other day I snapped and tried to give her a judo punch in the solar plexus. Unfortunately, I again forgot just how mediocre I am when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, and predictably came off second best. With all the nimbleness of a fleet-footed gazelle, she evaded my attack, ripped my arm off, and then proceeded to beat me with it. Eventually she exhausted herself and allowed me to call the ambulance to come and fetch and re-attach my arm, although I had to use my toes to dial the number, as she was standing on my other arm and wouldn't move.

The feeling in my arm has since returned, but the irritation toward "Please Call Me's" remains. To my knowledge, South Africa may well be the only country in the world to offer this service. Are we a nation of cheapskates?

We could very well be - look at how popular other freebie services are, such as Mxit and Facebook. To my mind, there is nothing better than hearing the shrill, high pitched voice of a loved one, far more comforting than receiving an impersonal text message. Take note everyone, the days of "Please Call Me's" are numbered.

Seriously, let's all cut that shit out now.

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The Story Of A F**king Blender.

Last Christmas I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away. Ja, I know that was a pretty lame opening intro, but I've been humming that song all day, I'm just digging the Wham! vibe at the moment.

Last Christmas also saw Steve O presenting me with a gift. For months I had hinted about wanting a new computer, leaving notes in his lunchbox, talking about it incessantly during our weekly conference calls, and even keying the word along the side of his car. It was with some surprise then, when he presented me with a blender instead, lovingly wrapped in old newspapers and pages from my manuscript which he had stolen from The HQ weeks before.

"This isn't a computer," I said thoughtfully, before playfully jabbing him in the throat. "But thanks anyway."

I was thankful anyway, as it allowed me to eat soup and other liquidified food stuffs without the use of my dentures, which I had won in a bar fight many years before but which never really fitted nicely, if I was really honest with myself. Also, I had a strong suspicion that this could be the root cause of my horrible morning breathe, so I was pretty keen to see the back of it. So it was with great disappointment and a gnashing of teeth, when I realised I actually owned the blender equivalent of an Eskom load-shedding schedule - clever and practical in theory, but ultimately useless.

Making pea soup took about as long as growing the actual peas in the back garden, and then beating them with a large stick until they turned into liquid mush. Crushing ice was also out of the question. The appliance was more likely to do a stand up comedy routine than crush my cubicles, which really pissed me off as I wasn't in the MOOD for a stand up comedy routine, I just wanted some crushed f**king ice.

Eventually I summoned up the courage to return the blender to Makro, the juggernaut wholesaler where it was originally flogged. The returns section of Makro is rather similar to the Wynberg Home Affairs office, with hundreds of smelly and desperate looking people standing around in a never-ending queue, watching their lives and souls slowly seep away. One gentlemen claimed to have been waiting in the queue for the past 2 weeks, and so was understandably irritated when I managed to jump in front of him whilst he urinated in the blue box he was carrying, a blue box he carried so as not to lose his place in the queue. Which I think is what's known as irony. Or just bad luck.

Through the good grace of God, I managed to stagger to the front of the line - beating off everyone with my pepper spray and choice use of curse words - where I was then greeted by a staff member who seemed to have recently been in a serious car crash, as she spoke slowly and seemed unable to grasp what I was saying. Using a combination of grunts and hand signals, I managed to get the message across that my kitchen appliance was as useful as an ANC Youth League member - minus the sense of entitlement and naked buttocks - and eventually got her to reluctantly accept my donation of one defective piece of kitchenware.

Oddly enough, my act of endeavour was merely the first play in a long winded production of returns, phone calls, more returns and the inevitable threats to commit grievous bodily harm, which I certainly didn't take lightly as Yvonne from returns seems disturbingly psychotic.

So it was with great joy and celebration when I eventually received the blender a few weeks back, after months of to'ing, fro'ing and general procrastination. Excitedly I rushed home, threw in some bananas, a few mangos, a couple of strawberries, the body oil of a 17 year old virgin, and some nectarines - the essential building blocks for a wonderfully blended smoothie. My appliance had other ideas though, and with a burst of electrical flame which singed my nose hairs and burnt my eyeballs, it gave up on me again. After a few minutes of rolling around and singing to Jesus, my eyesight eventually returned, and it was then that I noticed the small yellow note attached underneath.

"April Fools!" it said, signed by the staff from Makro.

And so our battle continues.

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A Cautionary Tale.

During my senior years at Catholic Primary School, I ruled the playgrounds and prayer rooms with an iron fist, a curious little artifact I picked up at the Green Point flea market a while back. I was the senior class captain, a prestigious title I held for several years, despite there being elections every second month.

Victory was always assured however, either through intimidation of voters by Dawid, the 17 year old grade 7 pupil I kept on my payroll, or through blatant bribery, making use of the early bloomer Candice Zaaiman, who would let the boys touch her bum in the small playground at the back of the school.

As is usually the case, the absolute power I possessed began going to my head, and I turned into a bit of a tyrant. I started taking away playground space from the Sub A's and B's and giving them to my friends. I took away the soccer balls from the richer kids, and gave them to the poorer ones - even the ones who didn't play soccer - as I just didn't like the richer kids, who had nicer shoes than I did.

Basically I became quite the young little arsehole, which eventually lead to the formation of the group called the Make a Different Captain, or the MDC for short. This group of disgruntled kids managed to suck up to rest of the pupils by feeding them Chappies bubble gums and not beating them up on Tuesdays, as I would usually do, and so when the elections came, I knew I was pretty f**ked.

The thing was, I had so much clout at the time, that I was still able to manipulate things. I couldn't rig the actual votes, as it was handled by old Sister Solomon, who was QUITE incorruptible, despite my best efforts to sway her. What I COULD do however, was delay and procrastinate on things, such as hiding the box away, getting Dawid to sit on the heads of the official counters etc. This carried on for so long, that I eventually graduated from school STILL the senior class captain, this despite the fact that the elections were held months earlier, which meant I got to keep the shiny badge, which I still have in my little box of memories I keep under the bed.

I am reminded of this episode, after watching the shenanigans taking place in Zimbabwe.


F**k You, Colonialist Pigs.

Let's face it, it was silly and naive to think that Robert Mugabe would just walk off quietly into the sunset. The man has been running the country for 28 years, that's almost as long as one of my grandfather's after dinner speeches.

Voting him out was never going to be so easy.

From the looks of things, the ZEC are going to procrastinate and drag things out for as long as it takes, giving Robert the leeway to hold onto his shiny badge and leave on his own terms.

They clearly have the chutspah to do it. Can they though? Let's see how things play out.

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It's Sunday, Take Your Wheelchair And F**k Off.

Sunday is my favourite day of the week. After Tuesday, Friday and Ash Wednesday. I basically just lie around and try and do as little as possible on Sundays. It's my day of rest, as it should be for everyone. Why then, do people insist on bothering me on Sundays?

Seriously, that's not a rhetorical question, it's not one of those "Why did this have to happen to me?" or "Can you do that thing with your mouth that I like?" where you just KNOW you won't get an answer and you're basically talking to yourself. No sirree campers, if anyone has an answer, please go ahead and tell me.

Anyoo, there I was, lying on my couch making farting noises with my mouth, when the doorbell at the HQ goes off.

Annoyed at this rude interruption which broke my concentration, I slowly rolled off the couch, slid down the fireman's pole, and headed for the front door, ready to deal with this intruder.

It couldn't be The Girlfriend, as she was passed out in the bedroom, after I spiked her tea. My friends know not to visit on the Sabbath - for fear of death and / or a public flogging - whilst my family finds me tiresome and slightly narcissistic, so would generally give me a wide berth whenever they can.

It was with great annoyance then, to be greeted by a strange looking white man with a checked shirt and deep creases in his face, like tanned leather shoes you have been frantically running in, because you got drunk one night and urinated in a mailbox, until a policeman saw you and gave pursuit.

"What the f**k do you want?", I enquired politely, wondering how he managed to get passed the guard dogs and trained snipers I have outside.

"Good afternoon sir," he said over-enthusiastically, even going so far as to tip his cap, which I took as quite a patronising gesture.

"Wait, how did you get in?", I enquired - still curious as to how Schweinhond and Blitzkrieg didn't rip him a new arsehole, as it's a little party trick the two Dobermans are rather fond of pulling.

"Oh, the lady on the top floor let me in," he said excitedly, as if that moment was the happiest day of his life.

F**king Mrs Liedermann, the senile old goat was fond of letting strangers come waltzing in off the street. I think she got a kick out of it, and suspected that she secretly wanted to kill me, and so made a mental note to kick her in the hip when I saw her again..

"Look, you're dressed rather poorly, and you smell of copper. Would I be correct in saying you're looking for a monetary donation of some kind?". I was keen on skipping the inevitable little sob story and just wanted him to quickly state his case, before sending him packing.

He began ruffling through his pockets, which made me uneasy as he could have been looking for his gun, and I only had my six-shooter, which I hadn't really used since the great shootout of '99. Instead he whipped out a little scrap book containing pictures of a guy with a mullet who apparently needed a wheelchair after falling off a mountain.

I worked this out, as I was shown multiple photos of various rock formations, with the smiling mulleted man superimposed on each photograph, until finally, a few shots of different wheelchairs, which I gathered was some sort of wish list.

To my knowledge, these things cost several thousands of rants, and I couldn't quite see what a few R2 or R5 coins would ultimately contribute toward this. I was also quite pissed off that he had managed to get through my intricate security system and was now practically begging at my front door.

He clearly didn't share these sentiments with me and, after I told him off, gave me a sarcastic "Thanks, you have a GREAT day now", which I obviously didn't appreciate and so was forced to retort by unleashing the German dogs of hell on him.

Don't knock on my front door looking for handouts on a Sunday, that is the last thing I am in the mood for. If you're not someone I now, or you're not the Mr Delivery guy, you WILL get your arse handed to you.

In a styrofoam box.

Now f**k off, and let me be. I'm busy making farting noises with my mouth.


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Taste Of Cape Town Festival.

It was approaching dusk, and I was lying on the floor in the lounge, drowsy from the sleeping pills The Girlfriend had ground into my coffee. This usually occurs whenever she wants me to take her out to dinner or buy her new shoes, as the sleeping pills prevent me from being loud and causing a potentially embarrassing scene.

So it came to pass then, that we ended up at the Taste of Cape Town Festival, a food event held at Camps Bay High School.


Taste of Cape Town - A Food Event Held At Camps Bay High School

I had actually never set foot on the hallowed turf of Camps Bay High School before. I had always seen the institution from afar on the high seas, during my days as a snoek fisherman in the turbulent 80's. I had also tried with varying success to sleep with many of the females who attended the school, back when I was still involved in the professional volleyball circuit.

The school itself looks in need of a good makeover, and resembles an old government institution, like a court house or a state library. Seriously, what gives? How about a nice coat of paint and maybe planting some palm trees?

This is supposed to be Camps Bay High, the equivalent of Beverley Hills 90210... High School, or the school that the kids from the O.C would go to. You have an image to uphold, come now, let's get cracking shall we?

Anyhoo, the festival itself was on the fields of the high school, with large marquees and tents erected all around. It featured 16 of the finest restaurants in the city, which included the like of Beluga, Jardine and The Show Room. Pepenero's wasn't there though, which was mildly surprisingly, until I remembered that Pepenero Restaurant is quite shocking.

There was also live music, some performance artists, and many alcohol tents. It was basically like the Community Chest Carnival held in Maynardville, except there were more white people here, with less fighting and broken bottles. I can honestly only think of the one incident between the two Camps Bay kugels fighting over a glass of Merlot, but otherwise everyone was fairly well behaved.

Cover charge is R160 to enter, which is basically to keep the riff raff out, and then you pay for food and drinks with "Crowns" which cost about R5. A decent starter would cost in the region of 7-8 Crowns, whilst a Marzen Gold would set you back about 2. The festival is running until the 6th April so take the initiative and check it out.

Otherwise, you may just end up being drugged like I was, and waking up the next morning with a dead chicken down your pants.

What was that all about?

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