One Night In Caprice

It's Sunday, and as usual, I am busy reading scripture, observing the Sabbath and meditating in complete silence amid the backdrop of scented candles. The Girlfriend is bored though and suggests we pass on the scripture and rigorous chanting this week. Never afraid of change, we decide to do something different and instead pay a visit to Caprice in Camps Bay, Cape Town.

We take off our robes, throw on some clothes and head on out to Camps Bay which - to the uninformed - is pronounced "Camps Bay", a Dutch name which literally translates to "Beautiful warm place where beautiful warm Flossies can be met, and seduced."


Claus Vanished, And A Crazy Bosnian Gypsy Took His Place At The Table.

Caprice has always carried a stigma of being a pretentious hotspot for rich and beautiful people. This is not the case though, which leaves me slightly disappointed, as there are seemingly many ugly and weird-looking people who frequent the place. The place seems rather placid, the sun is shining, and patrons are chatting away to the background sounds of soft, ambient music.

I am left slightly underwhelmed and disappointed, like the time I found out Britney Spears wasn't personally emailing me (what the hell is "bulk email", anyway?) Nevertheless, we settle down at a table in our six-strong Fighting Crew and begin the first of many drink orders.


The First Of Many Drink Orders. The Crazy Gypsy Was Beginning To Get On Everyone's Nerves.

The night quickly sails by, like a luxury Yacht on fast forward, when you watch it on DVD and want to skip that part to go to the next more exciting part. I'm suddenly alert to the fact that the sun has set, the place is packed and the music is rather loud right now. Curiously, there is also a bottle of whiskey at our table, purchased by a female patron who obviously liked the look of our six-strong Fighting Crew. How long was I out for? The Girlfriend wipes the drool from my mouth, takes my bib off, and tells me to go and freshen up in the bathroom.


The Good Lad Jameson Equates To A Good Time.

Once there, I encounter a rather annoyed gentleman at the urinal, who is arguing with his gentleman friend about the fact that he can't get the next round as "his dad only paid him two thirds of his allowance this month". They both look in their mid twenties, and obviously need the money, so I do my little party trick (the ability to urinate newly minted R5 coins) and toss them a few silvers for a couple of Vodka and Red Bulls. They seem slightly disgusted but take the money nonetheless.

On the way back I bump into Cape Town uber celebrity Jeanie D, sending her sprawling into the nearby tables. Remembering our last altercation (See The Great Camps Bay Thursday Night Adventure), I take evasive action, running and leaping behind the bar, as two ninja stars come hurtling toward me (where did she get ninja stars from?) narrowly missing my well kempt hair, and lodging into the nearby wall. I quickly duck out and head back to our table.

I arrive back just in time for drink orders. Jäger bombs hit like a bullet to the brain, and everything seems fuzzy again, like the bad E-tv reception at The HQ, when I'm trying to slyly watch the Saturday night soft porn movie while The Girlfriend is asleep.

The night quickly sails by, like a luxury Yacht on fast forward, when you watch it on DVD and want to skip that part to go to the next more exciting part. I'm suddenly alert to the fact that it's rather chilly, the place is still packed and the music is even louder right now, making my ears bleed a strange blueish liquid, which totally freaks me out because I've never seen anything like it. Curiously, the bottle of whiskey at our table is finished, and I have a very strong whiskey taste on my tongue. How long was I out for? Did I finish the bottle? What's this strange blue substance coming out of my ears? These are the questions racing through my mind as The Girlfriend wipes the drool from my mouth, takes my bib off, and tells me we are to leave now.

With a stiff kick in the solar plexus, she sets me rolling down the street toward the car. Did I enjoy myself? I think I may have...sigh...I think I just may have.

Till next Sunday then.


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Monday Morning Fillers

It's Monday, it's a public holiday tomorrow, and here I am at the office. I don't feel like writing anything of real substance, so will just throw on some funny Cyanide and Happiness cartoons which left me tickled.









Kind Regards.


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A Royale With Cheese

It was a cold and wet Winter's Thursday evening, the kind of evening that makes you go "Hey, let's sit down and have a meal at Royale Burger, in Long Street, Cape Town". And so it came to pass that we sat down and had a meal at Royale Burger, in Long Street, Cape Town. Royale is an interesting venue, boasting a 50's Grease-Lightening styled theme, innovative decor and design, and substantially large burgers, the size of a small Cape suburb. Many an evening had been spent gorging on one of their famous Federale Burgers, getting pissed at the bar upstairs (called, interestingly enough, "Upstairs") and then proceeding to physically roll home, using sheer will power and the momentum of a stiff kick from The Girlfriend's steel-tipped boot.

Plans to follow in this proud tradition were going swimmingly - I had just devoured my meal like a hungry lion, whilst drinking copious amounts of beer, and the disgusted look on The Girlfriend's face meant a stiff kick in the solar plexus was imminent.

I had just finished my 27th Windhoek, when my spider sense suddenly kicked in, alerting me of impending danger. Instinctively I did a forward roll into a defensive stance, expecting a karate kick from The Girlfriend, but she was still stretching and warming up, and an attack from her side was still minutes away. Then I saw the source of my danger radar - a rather pretentious looking cockroach had sauntered in, mouthing off to the patrons in a rather derogatory manner. He scurried around from one table to the next, causing great alarm and distress to the easy-going customers, who just wanted to enjoy a good meal and were now being treated to the greatest disrespect from the feisty Parktown prawn. Seemingly inebriated, he clearly had his Beer Coat on, looking for a fight, but he quickly met his match when a rather annoyed patron whipped off her Green Cross sandal and smashed him to pieces in one smooth motion.

Everyone cheered and clapped in mutual appreciation, but our joy was short lived as another roach soon entered the fracas, cursing obscenities from the nearby wall above us in a rather vulgar manner. At this, we then decided to get the bill, and proceeded to leave in a hurry, our ears still burning from the foulmouthed tirade of the wretched pest.

Royale, one roach was bad enough, but two is simply unacceptable. Me thinks it's time to call in the Pest Control, or I may have to have my burgers elsewhere.


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Thursday Night At Asoka

Thursday has always been my favourite day of the week - after Friday, Saturday and Tuesday. And Wednesday. It normally involves a fun evening of Scrabble, a glass of fine Scotch, and a roaring fire, which if we're lucky would occur in the general direction of the fireplace. With this in mind, I entered the HQ, after yet another trailblazing day of kicking ass and taking names. I was greeted by The Girlfriend and Kim, who quickly informed me that Scrabble would be off the menu that evening.

In a whirlwind sequence of string pasta, spicy chicken and the good lad Jameson, we soon found ourselves at Asoka, where we were joined by Some Other Guy, Vicky, Claus and Paul. It also represented the perfect opportunity to earn my "Little Photographer" badge at Boy Scouts, and I justifiably grabbed the chance with both hands, as everyone knows that that particular badge is helluva hard to come by.

That last bit wasn't a typo by the way. I meant to say "that that". Read it again. It will make sense.

So anyway.... sigh....Actually, if I'm totally honest with myself, I don't really feel like writing anything else right now. I'm just going to put some photographs up, with brief descriptions with what has transpired.


Milling at the lounge at The HQ. I had just found out that Scrabble was no longer on our regular Thursday night itinerary. I'm taking the photo, and I have a very sad face. Everyone else seems pretty chuffed though.


Dancing Queen. 'Cos I don't feel like dancing, no sir, no dancing today. Some Other Guy and Kim didn't feel like dancing, but they did anyway.


Thin Ice. Some Other Guy got drunk and began making moves on The Girlfriend, forcing me to shoot him with my tranquilizer gun.


Cheers! Getting the ball rolling again at Asoka. As you can see, at that stage of the evening Kim's face was attached to Vicky's. It's a weird little party trick they do. Also notice how drowsy Some Other Guy looks. The horse tranquilizer was just starting to wear off.


Need a light? With lighters and matches in short supply, Claus needed to make a plan. Some Other Guy would also later try, and succeeded only in having his nose hairs singed.


Night night. Kim and Claus decide to have a little lie down, so we decided to go through their pockets. Milling through Kim's handbag, we found a tortoise as well as a little Malaysian kid, who ironically was busy making miniature handbags. Which we then took from him and sold so we could buy floor cleaner, which we were running low on.


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Where Is The Cat That Poo'ed In My Mouth?

I'm trying to get hold of the feral cat who must have shat in my mouth while I was asleep, after having a naughty little night over at Dharma's naughty little boy, Asoka.

So yeah, have a good weekend.

I've got your number, so I'm sure we'll see each other very soon. Yes, I'm talking to you. No, not her. I don't know her name. What? .... Lanolin? Like sheep's wool?

God, I'm boring today.

Peace Out.


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Mexican Evening At The HQ

The Girlfriend and I have always been intrigued by Mexico, the little Mexican town just south of the USA. The Girlfriend is an avid collector of sombreros, which are overly large hats worn by Mexican men. (They of course wear these hats as they are renowned for their overly large foreheads) We are also huge fans of Speedy Gonzales, Mexico's most famous celebrity and second biggest import, after the Mexican wave.


Speedy Gonzales: Not As Famous As The Mexican Wave

And so with this in mind, we decided to throw a Mexican one evening. This didn't go down too well though. Pablo the dwarf didn't appreciate being tossed around, nor being referred to as a Mexican (apparently he is from El Salvador - wherever that is) and so we settled on a Mexican dinner evening instead.

The dinner, unlike the dwarf tossing, proved to be a success. Mexicans, when not doing the Mexican wave or eating Big Korn Bites, love spicy food and Tequila. To get into the spirit of things, we thus indulged in large quantities of said items which invariably lead to a jovial evening. So jovial in fact, that the night reached it's crescendo with a titantic battle of 30 Seconds, the greatest board game ever made. (Fact)

In a close nailbiting finish, The Girlfriend and I eventually triumphed. No one can beat us at 30 Seconds. No one. One of our guests (Some Other Guy) thought he was smarter then us and tried to win, but once he fell out the window (4th floor) our temperament really shone through.

The rest of our opponents didn't get a single answer correct after that unfortunate accident, it was if they weren't even trying. Mmm... anyhoo, here are some random pics from that incredible night.


Kim With Some Other Guy In Happier Times, Before he Fell Out The Window (4th Floor)


Claus Grimaces As Paul Tell A Bad Joke. Kim Looks On.


Jose Cuervo Milling Around With Cyril, The Fearsome Cactus. Oh, And A Glass Of Water Too.

Thanks to everyone for making the night a success. Some Other Guy, sorry about that again, it was an accident.


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300

Attending a catholic primary school in the early 90's, I quickly learnt that violence is the best way to solve any problem.

"Diplomacy is for Devil Worshippers and Communists", bellowed old Sister Mary Clarence, an old bird incredibly intollerant toward devil worshipers and communists, and so many debates would be settled on the hallowed tarred playgrounds of one of Jesus's holy schools.

I was lead to recall these heady days as I watched 300 with The Girlfriend the other day.

Let me make this very clear - 300 is an awesome film. My mouth was literally watering as I watched this at the cinema. The Girlfriend eventually had to help me put my bib on, that's how much this film made me drool.

It's essentially a comic book or graphic novel film, like a Batman or Superman Returns, except that it's infinitely better. The basic plot revolves around 300 Spartans who come from a place called Sparta. They are left to defend their lands from horrible, evil Persians, who try and take over with their trickery and dishonest ways. This all stems because the Spartan king is a total badass, and refuses to get down on his knees for a smug Persian messenger, deciding instead to kick him down a large black hole. This obviously pisses off the Persian ruler, as the messenger was a mate of his and a good drinking partner. And so the film kicks into gear, with audacious battle scenes, tough guy one-liners and a little bit of gratuitous nudity.

Think MTV meets Troy, and you will get the idea of what this film is about - epic style-cinema filmed in a backdrop of sharp CGI and banging rock music.

Another strong point of this film is the lack of real A-list movie stars, which in this case is a blessing because having someone like Tom Cruise in a loin cloth as the fearless Spartan king would have killed this movie. The cast members chosen are all really buff, which made me feel a little inadequte as a man, forcing The Girlfriend to reassure me that I was just as ripped as the Spartans were.

I'm not going to give away any more of this plot. Go and see 300. Do it now, you will thank me for it.


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The Insane Adventures of Steve O and Dangerous D

Stay tuned for more exciting and riveting adventures.


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JAG Night At Tiger Tiger

The Saturday evening began like any other - myself and The Girlfriend, lounging at The HQ, sipping red wine while listening to "Livin La Vida Loca". Then the phone rings. I pick up the receiver hesitantly and listen. It's someone from First National Bank (FNB), trying to sell me life insurance. I hang up. Then the phone rings again. It is The Gupster. Plans have been set in motion, a JAG (Just All Guys) night had been arranged. I had to be there. Cue an 80's rock music montage of making myself pretty, handing out a world class foot massage to The Girlfriend and then driving like a demon - I find myself at the doors of Tiger Tiger in Claremont. I immediately fall victim to the club's no weapon/metal policy, eventually having to produce a doctor's certificate stating the unnaturally high level of iron in my blood, a rare condition which causes me to pass South African R5 coins through my urine, a tax-free source of income which supplements my wages working on the old plantation.

I step inside and push my way through a throng of obnoxious white boys and scantily clad women. It's Saturday and Tiger Tiger is literally spilling over, on the way upstairs I had already stepped over a dozen or so clubbers who had spilled over the railing - that's how full it was. I eventually see Kurt The Rep and saunter over, giving him a manly smack on the bottom. I soon realise that this in fact is not Kurt The Rep and several awkward minutes are spent explaining myself to a rather offended gentleman. I eventually see Kurt The Rep, The Gupster and Lyle Timeshare at the outside bar, first making doubly sure of their identification before handing out manly smacks on the bottom for everyone. Alas, Barry (the Token Black Guy) is missing from this party, no doubt off on another wild and almost-impossible-to-believe adventure.

While I enjoy a "Jäger Bomb", The Gupster is busy chatting up a pretty blonde. The blonde informs him that they have hooked up before, and enquires as to why he has never called her, as promised. The Gupster raises his eyebrows, points over her shoulder - as if someone has grabbed his attention - and makes a hasty retreat.

The music agrees with me and I find myself drawn to the dancefloor. Whilst dancing my tits off, I see an old acquaintance who comes on over, and we exchange formal pleasantries, as acquaintances do. (Hey, how're you doing? Well and you? Good, good) Bizarrely, he then lingers on after this, even though we have nothing more to say to one another. The awkwardness reaches a new level as I then realise that we are now actually dancing together. Putting an end to the gayness, I raise my eyebrows, point over his shoulder - as if someone has grabbed my attention - and make a hasty retreat.

Cue club music montage of myself dancing, Kurt The Rep smoking, Lyle Timeshare showing pics of his baby, and The Gupster questioning his moral ethics. (I want to take this opportunity to point out that the montage is to illustrate that plenty of time has gone by. I obviously can't remember everything that occurred, just little bits that I managed to scribble down in my "Junior Journal" book when I eventually got home.)

I seem to have lost my money tonight, probably when doing backward somersaults at the front bar (I was engaged in a debate with someone, and did it to flummox her train of thought) and so quickly head to the toilet to raise some funds. There I bump into someone from my alma mater who understandably seems quite excited to see me. So excited in fact, that he forgets to wash his hands, extending one of those filthy things in a greeting gesture. I reluctantly accept his greeting and then watch in amazement as warts suddenly start appearing on my hand. I curse the bastard and quickly whip out my trusty bottle of muti which I keep for precisely these types of situations, quickly soaking my hand in goat phlegm, cow eyedirt and the sweat of a male springbok, causing the warts to disappear almost instantaneously in a puff of blue/grey smoke. A crowd has gathered and watches in amazement at this little magic show, and I decide to further impress them by throwing the rest of the muti over an obnoxious guy who was busy preening his (immaculate) hair. He vanishes in a puff of blue/grey smoke to a loud cheer from everyone.

On the way back, I bump into "Blondie", a bit of a "flossie" (floozie) who always reeks of wine. She pulls me closer, seemingly to tell me a funny tale, but I am onto her conniving ways. Her tongue quickly darts out, like a cobra attacking a mongoose, but I am too quick for her and with precision like timing I sidestep out of the firing line. She catches the guy standing behind me, and the two of them begin a session of making out and intense heavy petting. I have dodged a bullet.

While I enjoy a "Jäger Bomb", The Gupster is busy chatting up a pretty red head. The red head informs him that they have hooked up before, and enquires as to why he has never called her, as promised. The Gupster raises his eyebrows, points over her shoulder - as if someone has grabbed his attention - and makes a hasty retreat.

The night has quickly flown by in a blur of Jägermeister, Windhoek Lager, Roxette and Cigarette smoke. I'm busy chatting to The Gupster about the progress of the cardigan I'm knitting for him, when I decide to blink. I open my eyes to find him huddled in a dark corner, furiously making out with a pretty brunette. Lyle Timeshare has meanwhile said his goodbyes, while Kurt The Rep is milling on one of the seats, smoking. I decide to strike up conversations with random strangers, as it's one of my favourite past times, after knitting cardigans and making sketches of the Oros man. I find myself among a group of three young ladies, who seem rather impressed when I tell them I'm a masked crime fighter on holiday.

My tales of heroism are interrupted though as Kurt The Rep pulls me aside. It's time to leave. Already? The night has flown by, like a giant albatross, high from sniffing paint and thinners, before coming down slightly and smoking a Rothmans. What a great metaphor. Or is it a simile? This is the end of the story, and I don't know how to wrap it up properly. Really, I don't.

We all said our goodbyes, and strode off into the sunset, knowing our paths would eventually cross again soon, as the credits slowly rolled down the screen, and a slow acoustic rock song began playing, showing us in happier times. In slow motion.


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I'm Not Dead

Just a quick note to say that I'm still around. Will be updating the site with great tales of revelry shortly. Peace out.


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Thursday Morning View From The HQ

I took this from the penthouse window of The HQ this morning. I would like to climb the mountain one day. And that really tall tree. God that's a tall tree. Look how it juts out, looking over everything. Just like me. I am that tree. God I'm poetic this morning. It's because I haven't been to the loo yet. I'm normally very regular. Not this morning. Now I'm feeling very emotional.


Other Half Of The Mountain: Also On A Thursday

This is the other half of the mountain, also on a Thursday. There's that tree again.

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Babel

I normally make a point not to watch Oscar winning films. I remember watching "Million Dollar Baby" a couple of years back, the multi-award winning film which was so boring I ended up drowning my goldfish Lawrence, which wasn't a bad thing in the end because I later found out he had been spreading horrible rumours about me behind my back.

So it was with slight trepidation that I ended up watching "Babel" which had been critically acclaimed. It also starred Brad Pitt so it couldn't be that bad, right?

Well, as soon as The Girlfriend and I left the theatre afterwards, I attacked her with the fatal Five-Point-Palm Exploding Heart Technique. She had chosen this awful movie and by God she was going to pay. She saw the attack coming though, and expertly blocked my attempts to make her heart stop beating. Then she stomped on my foot with one of her iron-tipped boots, instantly winning the battle and crushing my favourite middle toe at the same time.

I'm not exaggerating though, Babel is an absolute shocker.

It was dreadfully long, incredibly drawn out, and ever so slightly pretentious and full of itself. The basic plot? Let's see - there's a little Muslim kid who jerks off to his sister, he shoots Cate Blanchett, who is pissed off at Brad Pitt for looking really old and haggard (four kids does that to you Brad. Guess you're regretting dumping Jennifer now, huh?) Meanwhile some old Mexican woman is running around the desert with two annoying white kids, while a deaf Japanese chick is running around Tokyo desperately trying to get laid.

That's really the gist of it. Somehow all their stories are interconnected but you honestly don't really care in the end. This film is right up there with the "English Patient" and "Million Dollar Baby" as undeservedly acclaimed movies. I wasn't expecting gratuitous nudity, excessive violence or toilet humour (although Cate does piss in her pants) but the film could at least have been mildly interesting.

This film is a bit like eating at the Dros, you see all the adverts and you think it's great and you'll go "bos", but once you take a bite of one of their steaks, you realise that their food actually sucks.


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Where Is Shaun?

Yes, I know. I'm so sorry. I'm literally up to my neck in work. And shit. Literally. (What am I doing trapped in shit? This is crazy)


Shaun: Up To His Neck In Work. And Shit.

Will update things very shortly, I'm sure you're all dying to hear about my recent crazy adventure, which involved a B-grade local celebrity, a cup of coffee and some sheep's wool. Mind blowing stuff.

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