Cliff Jennings - A Mediocre Fat White Guy.
Pretending To Be Mediocre.
As a budding cabaret performer
and musical artist, I have often dreamt of becoming "South
Africa's next Idol", singing side by side with such
musical heavyweights as Heinz Winckler and Karin Kortje, before
ultimately sharing a stage with the legendary and irrepressible
Kurt Darren.
And so every year, I can be found among the hundreds of wannabe
singers, as well as the jokers looking for television time, in the
queues waiting for my chance to audition.
Alas, I have never made it before the main judges - Dave, Mara,
Gareth and Randal - as the preliminary judges I encounter are always
heavily intoxicated by the time I get to sing for
them, thus severely impairing their judgement, and preventing me
from showcasing my considerable talent. The closest I ever got to
seeing the "main guys" was the time the preliminary judge offered
to put me through if I showed him a bit of leg.
Being a man of great principle, I obviously declined, but it really
hurts when I see the dross that gets to sing in front of Randal
Abrahams.
Which brings me to the particular case of the mediocre fat white
guy, known as "Cliff Jennings", or "Cliffie"
to his mates. Apparently, in an attempt to boost ratings, Idols
South Africa decided to rope in an actor to play the bumbling
Jennings, supposedly a wannabe singer who writes his own music and
follows the judges across the country, desperately trying to get
into the next round.
I suppose they are trying to create a cult favourite like that bloke
they had on American idol, William Hung?
Remember?
Well, they have been caught out now.
A couple of blogs have already broken the news, and things should
pick up pretty rapidly now, as these bloggers are worse than old
coloured women, when it comes to gossip and rumour.
You can read about it at Bruinman
(Brownman) who I think first broke the story. Well done Brownman,
a future in investigative reporting surely awaits
you.
Will be interesting to see what Mnet and Idols
response will be to this. Will they actually admit to the fraud,
and play it off as an elaborate joke, or deny knowing
anything about this?
While they're on the subject, will they also then admit that Randal
is trying to be a Simon Cowell clone, and that
Gareth Cliff is a big wally?
Ever had to deal with a Telkom support operator?
Not sure what their company policy is, but it seems like when there's
a problem that needs fixing, they're always passing the buck.
Our phone lines at The Office were down the other day, and I took
it upon myself to call up Telkom's help line and
sort things out. Firstly, I had to deal with that annoying pan pipe
music, interspersed with news of Telkom's The Lion King production
with Pieter Toerien and Lebo M. This went on for several, painful
minutes. Then, as I was about to plunge a blunt scissor into my
neck, the operator picked up the phone.
Upon explaining my predicament, the operator then
decided that she wasn't in the mood to deal with my problem, and
proceeded to put me through to another department.
After being passed around and around like one of The Gupster's many
flossies (floozies), I eventually found myself explaining
for the 15th time what the problem was, only to
then be given the vague and sweeping answer of - "Oh, it must
be the 'exchange'"
My mind numb from the pan pipes, I accepted this explanation and
put the phone down. After realising that this means absolutely nothing
to me, I banged my head into the nearby wall, and phoned again,
going through the inter-department dance once more.
This time bizarrely, I was told that - "Oh, the problem is
your internet service provider". Not seeing
the correlation between my internet service provider and the phone
line, I spoke to a third operator, who then informed me that the
problem was indeed on Telkom's side and that a technician would
be deployed swiftly.
"How swiftly?" I enquired, half dead from the glue I had
been sniffing to block out their background muzak. In about
48 hours, I was told. Of course, that makes perfect sense, as their
technicians clearly use ox wagons to get around. So, left without
a phone line, I got other people to phone in with the same problem,
keeping track of the various replies being received.
The results certainly make for fascinating reading, click the button
below to see the findings of my study:
Try it for yourself, I guarantee you an operator will use one
of the quotes attributed above. That is a fact.
What is going on there Telkom? Why do you keep messing with me?
Is it because I wear glasses? Is it because I'm slightly
overweight, and fond of tight-fitting black vests?
I received
this last week sometime, and I thought I'd mention it, but then
I clean forgot, as my life is often filled with death defying adventure,
coupled with some mystery. And intrigue.
Anyhoo, it's a poker tournament on the 29th August,
that's tomorrow, to be held at the Old Castle Breweries in Cape
Town.
Ever since I first
endorsed Poker, it's become a bit of a social phenomenon, a
bit like when I mentioned Facebook or proclaimed
Kurt Darren as a South African musical guru.
Anyhoo, the organisers, Labyrinth, have promised
this to be the first of many poker events, involving A-grade celebs,
B-grade schlebs and the odd C-grade never was.
So who knows, play your cards right and you may end up seated with
the likes of Danny K, Ferdinand Rabie and that blonde guy from the
first Survivor.
If poker (Texas Hold’em) gets you excited,
be sure to make a turn there tomorrow evening. Apparently you give
off half your winnings to a charity of your choice, which may scare
off the greedy, morally corrupt poker players I usually rub shoulders
with, but the upside is you get a bit of publicity
for doing that.
And we all love a good bit of publicity, don't we? Yes, yes of course
we do.
It was a tepid Friday night at The HQ, and I was scavenging around,
desperately looking for food. The fridge was a definite no
go area - the bowl of tuna pasta was old enough to be my
mother, and the slice of pizza at the bottom shelf was actually
waving at me, asking me where the party would be that evening.
I didn't know where the party would be that evening, but I did know
where Sinns Restaurant was, and so The Girlfriend
and I ventured forth to Wembley Square in Gardens, for what we hoped
would be an evening filled with gastronomical delight.
Sinns is what one may call a "trendy spot". The location
is certainly superb, on the ground floor of Wembley Square,
opposite that sushi place that everyone loves, and S-Bar,
which is actually Sinns bar.
S-Bar was understandably packed - full of beautiful, hip, upwardly
mobile people - with a sprinkling of ugly, hip upwardly mobile people.
And one distinctly immobile person, who looked like she would need
an oversized crane to help her off that ottoman.
Sinns on the other hand, was relatively quiet, which was rather
disconcerting for a Friday night. I remember trying to make a reservation
some time last year, phoning on the Friday afternoon hoping to make
it for that evening.
The hostess at the time, laughed her tits off at the thought, and
I ended up at McDonalds instead. This time round
though, it was actually possible to stroll in without a reservation
and get a table.
In terms of the food, The Girlfriend yearned for the duck, whilst
I settled for the line fish, which was Silverfish. Both dishes came
with a side order of fresh vegetables, which consisted of broccoli,
pumpkin, carrots and a horrible beetroot mix.
The food was... adequate, certainly not horrible, but not exactly
spectacular either. Bland is probably the word
I would use to best describe it. The chef is obviously trying out
some creative concoctions - my fish was on top of a bed of cream
spinach, surrounded by crisp strips of bacon - but it just didn't
quite come off.
The Girlfriend felt the same way about her duck, and we were both
left feeling that something was missing. The food lacks that X-factor,
that thing that makes you say, "Shit, that's helluva tasty"
and gives you a semi erection at the thought of it, days after,
when you're lying on your leather four-seater eating toast.
A redeeming feature was the dessert though, a rich chocolate
cheese cake surrounded by fresh fruit and creamy ice cream.
That was something which certainly met my expectations, leaving
me with a warm chubbiness in my loins for days after.
In summary, Sinns was like the new Linkin Park album,
very well packaged and marketed, until you actually play it on your
iPod and realise that there's only one good track worth listening
to.
Slightly underwhelming, let's try harder next time, shall we?
What: Sinns
Where: Wembley Square, Gardens
How Much: + - R180 per person. (Give or take a stiff Jameson or
two)
AxeJet - Prematurely Ejaculates In The Faces
Of The Winners
Remember all those sexily suggestive television adverts on the telly?
You know, the ones with beautiful air hostesses (or "Mostesses"
as the marketing gurus so cleverly named them).
They would be seen flirtatiously cavorting in the cabins with the
passengers of the AxeJet, whilst a sexy voice over
lady, the Cell C sexy voice over lady to be exact, would say - in
a sexy voice - "AxeJet. Get On. Get Off"
Well, in the grand tradition of the classic high school tease, when
it came time for the nitty gritty, the whole AxeJet
campaign turned into a giant
let down. Extract from The Times:
It was supposed to be the promotional event of the year.
But the high-flying fantasy of a private luxury jet, staffed by
glamorous hostesses catering to the every whim of celebrities and
competition winners, came crashing to earth this week amid threats
of legal action when “the Axejet” failed to take off.
The flight and the wild party at the end of it were part of a marketing
campaign for Axe, a deodorant for men, made by Unilever. It was
meant to publicise the launch of Axe’s new fragrance by giving
competition winners the trip of a lifetime to party hotspot Ibiza,
in Spain.
But celebrities, competition winners and journalists were all left
stranded at OR Tambo International Airport when the private jet
didn’t show up.
Ouch. Well, I'm pretty sure someone is going to get their balls
put in a vice for this.
Personally, I never got the whole Axe vibe. I remember spraying
myself silly with Ego (it's more aptly named predecessor)
during the heady days of Catholic primary school.
There I was, a sprightly 11 year old, looking to pick up the hottest
girl on the playground, who hung out with the coolest guy in grade
7, but only because he was 16 and could drive.
After gulping down a shot of raspberry Lecol, I
tentatively waddled over and knocked her plastic cooldrink
bottle out of her hand, causing both of us to immediately
reach to pick it up. Our eyes locked as we bent down, just like
in the Ego advert I had seen, and I knew she would soon be mine.
Alas, things didn't go according to plan, as these things often
tend to do.
She told me that I smelt of cat urine, which was a fair comment
- not used to being so close to her, I had nervously made a wee,
which had begun running down my leg. As a reward for this grand
achievement, I then also earned a sharp punch in the solar plexus
from her 16 year old boyfriend, leaving me sprawled in the dust,
reeking of piss and regret, as they sped off in his Ford escort,
which was really his dad's.
Extras - One Of The Funnier Shows You Will Ever
See
Shaun Laughs His Arse Off
Extras - Simply Hilarious
Having a pretty evolved sense of humour, there
are not many shows that leave me feeling tickled.
Extras, however, is one of them.
I was at the "movie shop" (can we still called them "video
shops"?) the other day, when I literally stumbled across this
little gem. A frail old woman with Parkinsons had
taken it off the shelf, which of course then resulted in the old
bird flinging it into my path.
Once I had dusted myself off, I took a closer look at what had caused
me to turn my ankle over. Extras is the follow
up show from the guy who brought us "The Office" - Ricky
Gervais.
In this show Ricky plays another middle-aged loser by the name of
Andy Millman, who claims to be an actor but is
actually a full time "extra", you know, the background
guys that you don't really notice on telly (Seaman #4 etc)
Andy's aspirations are not helped by his incredibly useless and
incompetent agent, who in five years, hasn't managed to get Andy
one audition, and actually tries to discourage him from acting.
This show shares the same humourous style as The Office,
with many awkward and embarrassingly cringe-worthy situations experienced
by Andy.
Another great thing about this show is the famous actors who play
themselves on the various sets Andy finds himself on.
We see Ben Stiller, playing a very egotistical
Ben Stiller, who can quote verbatim the opening weekend grosses
of his hits like Dodgeball and Meet The Fockers.
We meet a very whorish mouthed Kate Winslet, who
appears to be an absolute pro when it comes to talking dirty on
the phone and gladly shares some of her favourite lines. ("I
want your willy wonker in my oompah loompah")
Then there is also Patrick Stewart (Professor X)
who has written a script which involves him having the power to
rip women's clothes off with his mind, exposing their boobs.
This is quite honestly one of the funnier shows you will ever see.
I've already ordered the first season, there is also a second season,
which I haven't seen yet, but will no doubt get my grubby sausage
fingers on shortly.
If you are a fan of sharp witty humour, you owe it to yourself to
get a copy of Extras, it could quite possibly be the best purchase
you ever make. It could also be the easiest purchase you make, simply
click on the link below to purchase it through Kalahari.
SABC 3 - Using the Corporate Colours of
Always Ultra Pads
I was flipping through the channels the other day looking for softcore
pornography. Granted, it was 6:30 in the evening, so I
knew the chances were slim, but I'm what one might call an eternal
optimist / glass half full kind of guy, and harboured hope that
a tardy technician would answer my prayers and show me a silicone-enhanced
bosom.
It was whilst having these positive thoughts that I stumbled across
what I initially thought was an advert for Always Ultra
pads, a product that The Girlfriend occasionally makes
me buy at the Gardens Engen (Woolworths), and something that all
women apparently use and talk about when they're sitting around
in the lounge or at a trendy coffee shop.
Turns out that this is in fact the new corporate colours of SABC
3, who had now also gone and ditched their batch of presenters
for a new crop.
SABC 3 Branding
This distressed me a little, as I had become quite fond of the Aussie
Afrikaaner accent of Irene Bester (or "Bister"
as she called herself), as well as the suspiciously and perennially
stoned-looking Graeme, whose last name escapes me now, but who always
looked like he had just had a sneaky joint before going on air.
Instead, I was greeted by a blonde bit of fluff by the name of Liezel,
who literally boasts the biggest mouth in television
today.
Seated at a 45 degree angle - I suppose this is meant to make the
presenters look more casual, looking over their shoulder as if you've
just tugged them on their sleeve - she proceeded to tell me about
the current affairs program later that night, which
would be focusing on child and women abuse, all the while boasting
a Cheshire cat grin with that massive mouth of hers.
Liezel - The New Crop Of SABC Presenter
It was so big that viewers couldn't make out the rest of her face.
(Did she have ears? How long was her hair?)
The camera crew must have realised this and eventually decided to
zoom out a little, hoping to get a better shot
of dear Liezel.
Big mistake.
Although pleasant looking - massive mouth not withstanding - Liezel
also happens to sport the ugliest pair of hands
you will ever see. It's... it's knobbled, like
a really old person and unnaturally large for a seemingly petite
woman.
Liezel's Hands - Knobbled. And Overly Large.
What is up with that? Is she a really old woman who hasn't had her
hands worked on yet? Did she spend her youth soaking her digits
in sea water? Has she ever heard of hand cream?
These are the questions that have kept me up at night since then.
Have a look next time you her on telly. It will make you helluva
scared.
The Hottest Reviews From A Critically Acclaimed
Food... Critic
Shaun - A Food Connoisseur
You may have noticed over the last few months that I enjoy eating.
It's just one of my many favourite past times (along
with sleeping, braiding my hair and playing Trivial Pursuit)
As I'm such a helpful and gentle soul, I've taken the liberty of
putting all my critically acclaimed (by my mom) food reviews under
one section, namely the Cape
Town Restaurants section, making it easy for you to now decide
where to eat in Cape Town.
That's just the kind of man I am.
In case you were wondering.
"What kind of man is Shaun?" you may have been wondering.
Well, now you all know.
Incidentally, if you would like your restaurant or eating
establishment reviewed, please contact me and we can arrange
something. If you do not own a restaurant or eating establishment,
but would like to cook me a warm meal either way, then keep that
to yourself. I'm not interested in making house calls, especially
after that one time - you know, when they served burnt sago
pudding?
I HATE burnt sago pudding.
In fact, if I was really honest with myself, I'd say that
I hate sago pudding.
My reporter friend Lauren C recently pointed out that her company
had joined a large prestigious group, one that was growing rapidly
throughout South Africa, and in fact, the world.
No, her company hadn't joined an action cricket team, gotten trendy
new water coolers, or joined the official Kurt Darren fan
club - they had blocked Facebook
in the office.
Whilst not entirely surprised by their actions - most large corporations
and banks have recently done the same - the fact
is that most people I have spoken to have sort of drifted away from
Facebook, the way you might drift away from a hot flossie
(floozie), after months of courting, cajoling and eventually getting
to have sexual relations with her.
I remember the golden era of Facebook (about 5
weeks ago) when nary a minute went by without me checking my inbox,
seeing who had accepted my friend requests, and who had managed
to find me.
These days, I may check every second day or so, and I think it's
going that way for quite a lot of people right now. Basically the
whole Facebook thing is starting to get old now,
just like many of the other crazy fads which at one point threatened
to take Cape Town by storm.
Remember when EVERY self respecting red blooded male in Cape Town
wore pink?
That was kind of my doing.
I got pissed drinking "Late Harvest"
("Laat Oes") boxed wine with some homeless chaps one afternoon,
rocked up at the local laundry afterward, and then forgot to seperate
my whites with my coloureds, thus ending up with a pink v-neck.
Which I kind of liked the look of.
I wore it one fateful night during a jaunt in Long Street and lo
and behold, a trend was born.
Then there was the time I walked out of Billy The Bum's (now Sobhar)
and didn't have a lift to get to Green Man (now Tin Roof, or "Tinners").
Afraid that my heart may give in due to the excessive distance (+
- 300 metres) I immediately looked for a solution.
I spotted some ball bearings lying on the ground and, whilst humming
the theme tune to Richard Dean Anderson's MacGyver,
attached the wheels to the heels of my bulky skater shoes. I then
proceeded to "skate" and "wheelie"
my way down Claremont Main Road, and the rest, as they say is history.
So yes, I know a thing or two about fads. In my mind, Facebook is
starting to lose it's lustre and in about 3 months, any mention
of the word "Facebook" will make people look at you the
way clubbers may look at a DJ when he tries to play a Danny
K song.
As a side note - this has nothing to do with me not getting ANY
new friends for the last few days... seriously, NO new friends whatsoever...
despite sending out at least 5 friend requests
in the last week... and despite KNOWING that they went online at
least twice in that time.
Whenever
I have a few stiff Jamesons, things tend to get
a little crazy.
Like the time I smacked Colin Moss with a Valpré
water bottle after he beat me in a game of dominoes,
and started mouthing off, the way only Colin can.
"I've been a presenter on TWO reality shows. What have YOU
done?" he gloated sarcastically.
Well, I showed him, and to this day Colin still flinches at the
sight of bottled still water, preferring to stick to sparkling.
Then there was the time I threw my strawberry daiquiri
over Danny K, who wanted to burst into a rendition of "Hey
Shorty" at a bar mitzvah we were both attending. "Someone
do something! Quickly!" said the nervous host.
And so I did. And the guests were all saved.
Yes, triple distilled Irish whiskey and I can be
quite an explosive and d..d....deadly - yes, I'm stuttering - combination
if not mixed correctly. I can do very silly things.
Case in point this weekend, where after a few Jammies, I proceeded
to eat a live cat. He kept eyeballing me at the soirée
I attended on Saturday evening. Wait, let me just correct myself.
The soirée I attended on Saturday. There was no reason for
me to mention that it was the evening.
That was being redundant. Sorry about that.
You see, a soirée is an evening party. Yes, that's
right. You just learnt something new, didn't you?
Anyhoo, whenever I came into the kitchen he would be sitting there,
eyeballing me whilst sipping on his Grappa. What
was a cat doing sipping on Grappa? I thought cats preferred pot-stilled
brandy?
I didn't bother asking him, frankly he began upsetting me with his
shitty attitude, rolling his eyes at me as I battled to get the
ice blocks out the tray.
Eventually I had it with him, and so I swallowed him whole.
You would think that would be the end of it, but no, he had his
revenge.
Apparently it's not a good idea swallowing cats. It gives you a
helluva indigestion. Which is what I had. Which is why you haven't
heard from me for a while. Which is why you should never eat cats.
Or swallow them.
Mambo's In Plumstead. Where Everybody Knows
Your Name.
When I'm not putting together multi-million
rand business deals, negotiating corporate take-overs, or painting
my toenails; I enjoy nothing more than sitting around at my favourite
pub, Mambo's, for a quiet ale or two.
This invariably leads to a few stiff Jamesons thereafter,
and as everyone knows, once that happens - things can get helluva
crazy.
Over the years I have enjoyed many a wild adventure in that beloved
pub, mainly occurring once the sun went down, but occasionally when
the sun was shining brightly too.
These adventures would mainly involve Irish whiskey, loose cigarettes
and the occasional inflatable sheep, the type of
experiences which every exuberant youth goes through in the journey
to becoming a man.
Mambo's is supposedly a "caribbean" themed pub, but the
decor is distinctively pub like. A pub is distinctive by the following
attributes:
1) Cheap and easily accessible booze - No hovering
at the bar for 40 minutes trying to get a drink. A deep and stern
"Barman!", will get you a frothy cold one quicker than
you can say, "Stop! Collaborate and Listen! Ice is back with
my brand new invention".
Which never f**king rhymed in the first place. What gives, Vanilla
Ice? You were a shit lyricist. People don't like hearing that, but
it's true.
2) Numerous cigarette vending machines - This is
your bar. Go on, fill up your lungs with nicotine. Cigars
are also available, but I've been lead to believe that they are
pretty mediocre.
3) Easy-on-the-eye bar staff - Pretty ladies with
overly large cleavages are par for the course at Mambo's. Is she
into you?
When you ordered that Amstel she was clearly undressing you with
her eyes. Oh yes, she wants you. Especially after you gave her that
R5 tip.
4) Dodgy Music - Anything from Dire Straits to
Kurt Darren. You will never know what tunes will crop up at Mambo's.
And who will end up dancing to it.
Sometimes a group off hot women will pop in, a Ricky Martin number
will hit the decks, and then all bets are off.
5) Drunk Old White Men (DOWM) - This is quite an
anomaly.You will find a healthy dose of DOWM at any pub worth
it's salt. Even pubs in "coloured" or "black"
areas have their fair share of Drunk Old White Men. They sort of
just magically appear out of nowhere - you didn't ask for it, but
it's just there, like a Danny K fan club.
Or Danny K.
Drunk Old White Men are normally seen drinking brandy, or whatever
it is you're offering, and have a vast knowledge of a variety of
sports. They also invariably have moustaches. Strange but true.
6) Rose Ladies - Another anomaly. They normally
rock up while you're sitting with your male friends drinking beer
and talking about tits, and will think nothing of then asking for
a donation so that some poor kid will have a teddy bear.
The nerve.
Yes, all these and more can be found at Mambo's. It's a fact, it's
the greatest pub in the entire southern suburbs.
What: Mambos
Where: Near the Ocean Basket and Mimmos off Plumstead Main Road.
How Much: + - R150 per person will ensure a festive time.
Shaun Braces Himself For A Long Walk To The
Office
An Attendant, Wondering Where All The Petrol Went.
Filling up at a petrol station is something I
like to treat myself to every now and then. Together with a full
body massage, a conditioning treatment, and getting my teeth cleaned,
this represents the gist of my early-month spending,
before the rest of my wages are blown on Jameson and irresponsible
deeds. My arrival at the local garage however, made for grim viewing.
Normally I would rock up and proceed to cross swords with Hemmingway,
a portly, laid back gentleman who excels in throwing dirty
water over my windscreen and demanding R5 for his efforts.
I was greeted instead, by what us smug folk in South Africa call
a “Mugabe Line” – dozens upon
dozens of irritable customers, queuing for national product. It
wasn’t bread or drugs we were after though, we had come to
throw ourselves at the mercy of Engen, possibly BP, and maybe even
Shell if things really became desperate.
Lawyers, business executives, teachers and gangsters, people from
all walks of life had gathered in the name of petroleum.
Yes, the petrol
workers’ strike had certainly ruffled the feathers of
Cape Town suburbia, who stubbornly cling to their petrol-hungry
motor cars like a protective mother clings to her mentally
handicapped child.
Uber trendy and slightly intolerant toward others, Capetonians don’t
have many options when it comes to other modes of transport.
Walking and jogging is confined to the treadmills
of Virgin Active. Sure, you may occasionally see people running
around frantically near Table Mountain, but this is merely to evade
the gang of hoodlums trying to mug them.
Metrorail is certainly no alternative – the
thought of being harassed in “first-class” carriages
by toothless red-skin peanut sellers or bible thumping preachers
is enough to make me hurl myself toward an oncoming train –
something made all the easier by the broken windows and doors which
refuse to close.
Buses and taxis are not the answer either – sitting
on the lap of a sweaty, obese man with a runny nose and a roving
hand sounds more like a Catholic Sunday school experience. It certainly
wouldn’t inspire me to get out of bed on a cold and wet Thursday
morning.
According to weekend newspaper reports, both parties are currently
at the bargaining table. Petrol company bosses
have taken their workers’ list of wage demands and used them
as toilet paper, so negotiations are at a pretty delicate stage.
Analysts have predicted that the strike could last for several weeks,
so get those walking boots out, be prepared to be felt up, and keep
your red-skin peanut money handy.
Beer has always been on good terms with me, we all get on smashingly
and spend an almost unnaturally large amount of time in one another’s
company. I know The Girlfriend gets suspicious sometimes but the
truth is we’re really just good mates.
Most of you know that Amstel and I basically grew
up together, Black Label is like a brother and
even Castle has been good fun on the odd occasion.
Heiniken has a bit of an ego - he’s not as cool as he’d
like to think he is - but he is tolerated nonetheless, as is Millers.
I was a little wary of Peroni when he first arrived,
but Castle and Black Label both vouched for him and I’ve come
to appreciate him more and more.
As everyone knows Amstel had a bit of a falling out with everyone
and went on a bit of a hiatus. This hit me pretty hard, and to fill
the void, I started hanging out more and more with Windhoek,
not the Light though, because he’s a bitch and tries to undermine
everyone, I’m talking about regular Windhoek. Still Windhoek
had funny ways – he wouldn’t open up easily, and that
left me feeling hurt and slightly depressed.
Then a new guy showed up, we all saw him at clubs and bars, and
he also started cropping up on television adverts as well on print.
(What we call “below the line” advertising)
Hansa Pilsener Marzan Gold was his full name, a
bit of a mouthful and not very impressive sounding, so we stayed
away at first, keeping our distance and watching things from afar.
Well, we hung out with Marzan Gold the other day
and let’s just say, we were very impressed.
We could just as well call him Amstel, with a different outfit.
Same crisp taste, same twist-off design, same-foil like material
that comes off the bottle and sticks in your teeth if you’re
not careful.
Well done Marzan Gold, you have won us over. We are now rather fond
of you.
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