June 17, 2007
Throwng Our Names Away In Camps Bay
Camps Bay: Walking A Little Funny This Morning, After A Visit From Shaun.
It is a rainy and miserable evening in Cape Town, and so naturally I decide to venture out to Camps Bay for another raucous Thursday night adventure.
I am joined in my quest by The Gupster, looking rather buff and beefy after several weeks of gorging protein shakes, whilst working out in the gym. Feeling slightly inadequate by his broad frame, I quickly change into a shirt two sizes too small, in an effort to make myself look rather buff and beefy after several weeks of gorging protein shakes, whilst working out in the gym. Things don’t quite pan out the way I had hoped though.
“Change that shirt. You look ridiculous”, said The Girlfriend. And so I do.
Fifteen minutes later, and The Gupster and I are outside Ignite. The air is electric, and my carefully gelled mane is now actually standing on end. I make this observation to The Gupster, who informs me that this anomaly is in fact because my hair has minced in the rain, and not because of any perceived “electricity”. I make a note to spit in his next drink as we head off to the bar.
There, we meet up with The Brand Ambassador, in the process of trying to persuade a young flossie to start drinking his premium brand of brandy. The Brand Ambassador is obviously thrilled to see us, and so we head to the outside area to commiserate and swap old war stories. Seated at a table, we are joined by a rather shapely - if slightly weathered - lass, who is obviously attracted to our Hollywood looks and witty repartee. The conversation eventually steers toward careers, and she duly informs us that she is a high class escort, able to do anything one’s heart desires. The Gupster is immediately digging in his pockets for his credit card, but just then her phones rings, it’s a business call, and so we bid her farewell.
We find ourselves on the dance floor, where time manages to tick by, in a haze of Jameson, Fish Eagle, Jägermeister, Tequila, Peroni, Absinthe as well as methylated spirits, which I gulped down in the toilet. Oh and glue too.
By this stage of the night I am in a state, The Gupster is in a dark corner somewhere, fondling a 19 year old brunette with heavy eye makeup; The Brand Ambassador is talking shop to clubbers, singing the praises of his premium brand of brandy; and I am trying to dance to the beat of some R&B song (it’s R&B Night)
This is proving difficult though as my legs feel like thick stilts, and I could never use stilts, having dropped out of Stilt Walking School many years earlier. Also, my vision appears to have gone to shit, everything seems blurry, and the club seems to smell of whiskey. Am I going blind? Why am I smelling whiskey? I remember reading in a medical journal somewhere that you get the aroma of Irish malt before your appendix bursts.
Am I dying?
No, no - false alarm. I have been looking at everything through the bottom of a glass of Jameson. Feeling slightly sheepish, I try and stilt-walk my way back to the bar, where a pretty model strikes up a random conversation with me. I know she is a pretty model because she tells me.
“What do you do!”, I demand abrasively.
“I am a pretty model”, she answers.
“Oh”, I retort aggressively.
She seems quite enamored by my boyish charm, giggling furiously when I let out a massive burp whilst simultaneously scratching my testicles. She is also mightily impressed when I tell her of my 9-5 as a masked crime fighter, as well as my ongoing passion of building a yacht using Lion matches, which I will then use to sail in the America’s Cup. By myself. Which I will also win by the way. You read it here first.
Anyhoo, I am in the middle of regaling her with heroic tales of my days as a fearsome Texas Ranger, when I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. It is The Gupster, who calmly informs me that the 19 year old brunette with heavy eye makeup has an older Russian boyfriend who would very much like to cut us up into little cubicles, which he will then no doubt feed to Vladimir, his German Shepherd, as well as Terence, his Afghan hound.
Taking all of this into account, we make the informed decision to leave the premises - it’s a hobby of mine not to be eaten by Afghan hounds named Terence, and anyway - we’re hungry and the lure of a “Double Delicious” special at Barcelo’s is reeling me in, like an older Italian woman seducing the young pool hand at the Tuscany villa in the hills.
As we blast off into the sunset with The Brand Ambassador, I am satisfied that another glorious night has been had. So satisfied that I don’even need to end this properly.
I will just stop writing now.
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