Poo

So, this week I have been flirting with danger, and I guess it was only a matter of time. Well done to the first winner of the R250 A Day Challenge, who noted that I was a day late in publishing something on Thursday.

Stephen Oakes (no relaton?) please drop me a line and my people will arrange for your prize to be delivered.

Oakes signing off.

Shaun Feeling Sorry For Himself

Competitions: Money Shaun will never win.

I could well be the unluckiest person in the world. Now granted, it’s a completely and utterly ridiculous thing to say – I know for a fact that there are people out there who have far worse luck than I do – those who have lost limbs in freak accidents for instance, or those who bank at the FNB branch in Gardens.

I do however, have terrible luck when it comes to competitions. Since I first became aware of the concept of winning something for doing nothing, I have literally never won a single thing – well, save for a pink hair brush and makeup set in a dodgy school raffle back in ‘91, but I completely discount that prize, as an eight year old straight lad with self esteem issues would never regard getting a Tinkerbell makeup set as a win.

No, I am of course referring to the countless competitions I enter, both online and off – the various cars, pens, watches, trips overseas and vast sums of money I try and win on a regular basis, which thus far has sadly come to naught.

The European Lottery, which I play on a weekly basis, is a case in point. Every Friday I studiously play my lucky numbers, consisting of the first time I had sex, the number of girls I have had sex with, the number of sexual positions I know, and the number of times I can have sex on a given night. Using this unique combination of one depressingly high number, together with three disappointingly low ones, I am always naively optimistic that my chances of winning are fairly strong.

I will go to bed on a Friday night, visualizing the email I will receive on the Monday morning, and the little dance I will spontaneously break into upon my announcement as that week’s winner (it’s usually a toss up between the Robot and the Macarena, I can never be too sure which one will take hold). As I try and feel up The Girlfriend in the bed, I will begin running through the technical specs of the luxury yacht I will purchase, whilst also mentally compiling a list of the various people I will visit with my Lamborghini Murcielago. People I will then proceed to mercilessly gloat in front of, before again breaking out into an impromptu rendition of the Robot or Macarena.

According to the latest figures released last year, South Africa currently has just under 50 000 dollar millionaires, which is enough to fill Newlands Rugby Stadium. Now, that is a fair amount of big spenders, but I am willing to bet that not even 1% of them will have as much fun throwing around their millions as I will.

And I guess that is why I am not sitting with $100 million in my bank account right now.

To be ridiculously wealthy, you either have to be incredibly unattractive with no sense of fun (ugly people work three times as harder as the rest of us, as they have nothing going for them otherwise); morally corrupt to the point of being a crook; or one of those goody-two-shoes, helping-thy-fellow-man characters, as Karma tends to smile down on these new age hippies.

Since I am more of a weak hybrid of all three camps ( slightly weird looking man, with a loose moral here and there, who helps others only when they can offer something in return), I have somehow managed to fly under the radar of Lady Luck, who is no doubt looking down at me from her pedestal, laughing her arse off whilst breaking out into an impromptu rendition of the Robot or Macarena.

[Shaun's note: The European Lottery currently stands at £129 million. Give yourself a chance by clicking here and playing.]

Oakes signing off.

Just a reminder

Just a short update on this balmy Tuesday afternoon. My R250 A Day Challenge is still going. Thus far, I have kept up my end, as I hate parting with money, and have written literally every day.

To stand a chance of earning some cash – not a fortune – but enough to buy a decent round of drinks – be sure to join the Facebook Page over here, and then lie in wait, like a hungry lion about to kill a deer, or antelope, or one of those American tourists who get overly familiar whilst driving around the Kruger Park.

I will chat to you all a bit later maybe, have a few things I need to get off my chest.

Oakes signing off.

Or Getting Shot Maybe

The Met: An annual Cape Town event.

Someone asked me the other day why I never wrote about the Met, the annual horse race which occurred last week at Kenilworth race track, and whether I had in fact forgotten about what many regard as a prestigious social event. The reason for the omission is actually a rather simple one really.

I just couldn’t be bothered.

For me, the Met is about as much fun as breaking a leg, or sitting at the beach on a particular windy day. In all three instances, you are left feeling annoyed, irritable and in more than a little discomfort, especially if you were unlucky enough to break the leg while sitting at the beach.

Now, let me just start off by saying that I have in fact attended the Met, I’m not going to just sit here and slag it off without having experienced it first hand. It was fours ago and – It being my first time – I actually looked forward to attending the event. In fact, I would even go so far as to say I was excited about it, which, due to my rather dour personality and general outlook on life, is a very rare thing indeed.

Armed with a dashing suit, crocodile leather shoes, and an open mind, I entered the hallowed turf of the Kenilworth race track, ready to soak up the glitz and glamour that I had read and heard so much about.

“Well, this is rather impressive indeed,” I mused, as I looked around at all the pretty people standing and milling about. This lasted for approximately 15 minutes, after which I wasn’t that impressed anymore. Disinterested would probably be a good description of my feelings at that point. Bored would be an even better one.

You see, the thing with the Met is, if you are not lucky or famous enough to be in one of the corporate marquees, there really isn’t much point in being there. Sure you are able to view one of the sporadic and brief races which occur throughout the day, but watching a collection of horses ridden by brightly dressed midgets, or “jockeys” as they are also sometimes known, has never really appealed to me.

In the marquees however, you can rub shoulders with ex-Springbok rugby players, former beauty pageants, Afrikaans soap opera stars and a range of other B and C-grade local celebrities. More importantly however, you also have the opportunity to literally soak yourself in copious amounts of sponsored booze, which history has shown can heighten the mood of the dullest event.

Outside these tented havens however, you are left to fidget and try and think of subject matter to discuss with the rest of the plebs who are milling around, as you desperately wait for the overpriced whiskey you quickly gulped down to kick in and help make the day more bearable.

Through the grace of God, I somehow managed to get through the afternoon and into the evening, an evening which I was assured by a mate would make up for the mediocrity of the earlier proceedings.

Alas, I soon realized that my friend was a liar, with the highlight of the evening being harassed and felt up by a drunk woman with bad teeth, who then proceeded to vomit on my treasured crocodile shoes. So yes, I think I will pass on the Met, thank you.

Oakes signing off.

Good Sex? Or Bad Sex?

Avatar - Shaun has finally seen it.

So, after being one of the 54 people in South Africa who hadn’t seen the movie Avatar up until this point, even going so far as to lie about watching it, The Girlfriend and I finally nailed a ticket and saw it in 3D this morning.

We were both pretty chuffed with the result, and I plan on writing about it shortly. In the interim, what did YOU think about it? Did it blow your mind? Or do you think it didn’t live up to the hype?

Let’s hear your thoughts below:

Oakes signing off.

Quality

A quick and dirty update on this Saturday evening, I’ve been quietly chuckling to myself for the last few days with these clips, and thought I would share them with you.

It involves a Christian television station who take live calls and read out emails on air, and a group of people who have clearly decided to launch an extensive and hilarious campaign against them.

Have a watch, I think you will thank me for this. There are three to enjoy.

You are welcome.

Oakes signing off.

They Just Are

The other day I lost a bet with The Girlfriend and so, rather than contently staring at the lounge wall whilst drinking shots of Jameson as I had planned to do, I found myself walking around Long Street in Cape Town instead. For those of you unfamiliar with Long Street, you may be surprised to know that it is in fact, a rather long street, approximately 1,2 km (+ – 1 mile, I think) in length, and filled with an assortment of stalls and stores.

There are of course also a wide range of poor people, con artists and various chancers who will ask you for money, but The Girlfriend’s pepper spray, together with my surly demeanor, happily kept them at bay.

It was whilst working our way up the street and going in and out of each store, that I realized why I don’t really go shopping anymore, and am usually spotted wearing clothes I stole from my dad, my brother or anyone foolish enough to leave something behind in my flat.

I tend to find shop assistants, especially the ones who are employed at trendy retail stores, to be deeply offensive. I don’t think it’s really their fault, and they are never outright rude to me, but their mere presence is enough to make me want to punch them in the mouth, before taking one of their fashionable white leather shoes, and hitting them over the head with it six or seven times, eight if they are wearing skinny jeans. Nine if they also have those puffy leather jackets on.

And those are just the females, with the guy shop assistants I would probably be far worse.

I think this loathing is down to a combination of various things –the clichéd trance / drum and bass that simply has to be played at these stores definitely being one of them. Apparently, you can’t be a trendy retail store if you don’t have Infected Mushroom on your play list. Playing anything besides relentless hard house music will immediately see your membership to the “trendy alternative shop club” revoked.

I suppose petty jealousy also comes into play. On most occasions, these young shop assistants are incredibly well-groomed, with every immaculate hair in place, and smelling like what a Greek god or goddess would no doubt smell like, were they to indulge in expensive cologne and perfume. I on the other hand, will tend to resemble a twenty-something man on the cusp of vagrancy, with dry unkempt hair, pasty complexion, irregular facial stubble, and just the faintest whiff of Jameson whiskey.

Their barely concealed smugness certainly plays a part in my feelings towards them though, especially when I desperately try and explain that I am usually a 34 waist, and it must be the store brand’s unique style and cut, that I am now forced to try on a 36 or – God forbid – a 38 instead.

Someone once suggested I should get a stylist, after I rocked up at a party wearing sandals with socks. Now in my defense, my feet were feeling rather tender after an ill-advised game of cricket, and it was a pretty nippy night to be wearing open toes, but it turns out that sandals and socks, whilst making complete sense from a comfort point of view, is a crime of fashion punishable by death, or at the very least, complete alienation by your peers.

Not that this phases me though, I don’t really mind being a fashion reprobate, but I do draw the line at ill-advised comments about my waist.

While I may generally be a pacifist with questionable style, if you hand me another 38 inch pants again, I will surely punch you in the stomach. Smug shop assistants, you have been warned.

Oakes signing off.

I Just Don’t

Now, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I have an uncontrollable fear of rats. Seeing a rat, especially the dirty brown ones that crawl around in sewers or inside Cavendish Square, fills me with an immense fear of dread, and will have me screaming like a young school girl who has just had her copy of Twilight taken away by her mom.

I don’t think I’ve ever really been attacked by a rat to be honest, but I’m pretty sure that running into one, much like running into a Great White Shark or the South African singer Danny K, would be an unpleasant experience not worth repeating.

Which makes me a hypocrite of the highest order, as I realized this week.

You see, we have a park across the road from us, where I will often be found running around in multi-coloured tanktops and ill-fitting shorts, desperately trying to lose the excess weight around my stomach and thighs, which currently has me resembling a large oven-baked potato. It is in this park, where I will regularly collapse to the ground – partly from exhaustion, but mostly due to a weak character, bitterly disappointed that it took only five minutes of jogging before my lungs decided to resign, and wondering whether I would be able to crawl back to the loving but judging arms of The Girlfriend.

It’s usually while compassionate passers by are calling the Netcare 911 guys to come and resuscitate me, that the squirrels will come along. These ones in particular are pretty ballsy, and will literally come to within a few inches of my puffy, clammy face, curious to see what the wheezing and incoherent curses are all about.

The thing is, I don’t really have an issue with it, as they are just squirrels after all, right? I mean, they are lovely and cuddly and friendly, and are often the supporting heroes in children’s cartoons or stories written by old women with cats, sometimes specifically for old women with cats.

But has anyone ever bothered looking closely at a squirrel?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but squirrels can be best described as having brown / grey fur, long snouts, beady eyes, and long elongated front teeth which often protrude from said snouts. Mmm, where have we seen that before?

Is it a squirrel... or is it a rat?

If I were a rat, I would be pretty disappointed with the double standards society has put in place here. On the face of it, two incredibly similar creatures are being positioned on completely opposite sides of the social spectrum. Sure, there are stories of rats being aggressive, biting people and generally spreading diseases, but are you saying there are no bad seeds in the squirrel camp?

You have to believe there are some arsehole squirrels out there, who will scratch through your rubbish, nibble on your toes and spread the plague if given half the chance. Yet these guys are still getting the plum roles on cartoons and other fictional stories. Rats on the other hand, are always depicted as the bad guys, the ones who will steal from the rabbits in Magic Forrest, or lie about the whereabouts of the little field mouse they have kidnapped.

I guess it’s a bit like Apartheid was in a way, where white people were put on a pedestal, and black people were given the poor treatment, despite the fact that we all looked similar, and are essentially one and the same.

I think the time has come to address this now though. Sure, rats and squirrels have some ideological differences, but they are both rodents at the end of the day. Let’s ditch our obvious prejudice, and treat them both equally from now on, one way or the other.

There is a rat who lives by himself downstairs where we keep all the bins. I’m going to go down there later and give him an acorn to nibble on. Will let you know how it goes.

Oakes signing off.