Cape Town Adventures And Night Clubs

Some of the various exaggerated adventures, anecdotes and downright lies involving a variety of Cape Town nightclubs.

Oh wait, there are also Cape Town bars and pubs involved too. Because I get around. Some of these adventures include the following Cape Town hotspots:

Alba Lounge Asoka (Son Of Dharma) Assembly, The Cafe Caprice FTV Ignite Bar

Planet Bar Mambos Peddlars On The Bend

Friday Night Adventure At The Assembly.

It was a tepidly warm Friday evening, and I was knocking back copious amounts of chilled Ken Forresters, as one is prone to do on tepidly warm Friday evenings.

The evening was going well - I later planned on consuming vast amounts of Flings (baked, not fried), finishing another bottle of Chenin Blanc, whilst watching a light hearted comedy - preferably one starring the reliable actor Mark Ruffalo.

Just then the lights went out, leading to a great wailing and gnashing of teeth. Moving swiftly with all the nimbleness of an elegant gazelle, I managed to fend off the initial attack by The Girlfriend, who somewhat irrationally accused me of not paying the electricity bill.

"But Eskom didn't advertise any load shedding," was her bizarre reasoning, as if this had previously prevented the electricity giant from pissing on our dreams.

With no power at The HQ, and The Girlfriend refusing to sleep with me, we decided to head down to Long Street with The Project Manager and Kim. Funnily enough, not much was happening down there either, and so we moved from one disappointing venue to the next, bamboozling poor bar staff who were now forced to work out the price of four R12 beverages in their heads, obviously causing it to explode.

Their heads. Not the beverages.

Things were looking desperate, we had just caused the death of our third barman, and we were now rather bored with it all. Just then we received an important phone call, as one often does at a critical point in the movie plot, when things are looking dire.

News filtered through of a club armed with a generator - where music and intelligent lighting awaited us - and so we quickly dashed into the automobile, like hungry fat kids looking for a slice of chocolate cake.

In a hazy blur of fast driving, sharp turns and knocking over a pesky vagrant or two, we ended up at a strange warehouse. Staggering up the stairs, I was greeted to a rather strange party consisting of electro music, bad fashion and even worse dancing. The penny dropped - this was an 80's party.


What You Might Wear At An 80's Party.

Content that this was MY scene, I jumped in with both feet, sending a poor patron flying across the dancefloor with foot prints all over her leopard-skinned ass.

Jamming to the likes of The Bangles and The Pet Shop Boys, we spent the rest of the night at this club called The Assembly, which apparently has many a themed party. The venue is quite spacious for the Cape Town scene, where most clubs are usually the size of a UK 10 shoe box.

At the Assembly, the large dancefloor easily allowed me to do my famous chicken dancing routine, whilst the others hid in one of the many dark corners of the club, pretending that they didn't know me. To cut a medium-sized story short, the night sailed by, like a drunken yachtsman taking his boat for a joyride through the Waterfront harbour.

I eventually arrived home at an ungodly hour, felt my way to the bedroom using Braille, and collapsed in an exhausted heap. I awoke the next morning to find a bottle of Hansa Marzen Gold wedged in my mouth, which merely confirmed the awesome night that was CLEARLY had by all.

So next time you're in town, and Eskom decides to take a wee in your glass of sparkling mineral water, thus COMPLETELY spoiling it for you, pay a visit to The Assembly, which seems to be immune to their evil ways.

Pay a visit to their (admittedly kak looking) website at www.theassembly.co.za

Bood Gye.

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Fun Times At FTV

It was a warm and blustery Wednesday night in Cape Town, the type of night that makes you go, "Hey, let's go down to FTV Cafe, because it's Wednesday and I've already watched the entire season of Heroes", and so it came to pass that I decided to head off down to FTV Cafe, where I planned on drinking copious amounts of Fish Eagle brandy, whilst dancing badly to commercial R&B.

FTV has an interesting vibe. Upon arrival one enters through the upstairs section, which is the bar / schmoozing area. I duly strolled in at about 10pm, where I was greeted by Barry (the Token Back Guy), Kurt The Rep, as well as Sergio.

"Hello Shaun Oakes", greeted Barry (the Token Back Guy), Kurt The Rep, as well as Sergio.

"Hello Barry (the Token Back Guy), hello Kurt The Rep, hello Sergio. " I quipped in reply.

After exchanging pleasantries, we mingled for a bit, making light surface talk - discussing current affairs, catching up on new business ventures, and debating on whether the bar girl with the tiny denim shorts was wearing any underwear.


Barry (the Token Black Guy) And Some Other Guy, discussing current affairs.

Sergio is sporting a massively blinged up chain, the size of a small child, and the type of thing that those rapper chaps are fond of wearing around their necks. It says "BAPE" which is apparently some sort of fashion label by the hip hop artist Pharrel Williams.

The font makes the first letter look like an "R" though, which earns him numerous dirty looks from the female clientele. It also earns him a variety of fashionable women's shoes which are randomly flung his way.

"Mmm, maybe it's time to head off to the dance floor," I say, as a silver stiletto narrowly misses my head, severely injuring an unlucky patron two feet away from me.

Stepping over the crippled clubber, we head off to the dance floor, as it's now 11pm and it has officially opened. This area is downstairs, and we head off in unison, careful not to get too close to Sergio, who appears to have a large target sign on his back. There we find The Gupster (officially Cape Town's fifth most eligible bachelor), together with a lovely spread of snacks, Fish Eagle brandy and other drinking paraphernalia and quickly make ourselves comfortable.

Although Jameson is my drink of choice, Fish Eagle is my preferred pot stilled brandy, and soon it is coming out of my pores, which proves to be slightly unsettling to the group of young flossies (floozies) standing nearby, as it looks as if I'm an excessive sweater.

"Come back flossies, I wasn't finished with my joke yet!" I holler.

"It's not perspiration, it's brandy!", I mention as an afterthought, but they have already pranced over to The Gupster, not caring to hear the punchline to my sexist (but funny) joke about women and their driving habits.

To my left I see Breyton Paulse, sporting a luminous pink shirt with white Cuban pants, and I make my way over - ready to mock him about his dance moves and wardrobe, as well as his inability to make it to France.

Although small in stature, Breyton seems to have bulked up a bit since we had that infamous fist fight outside Springbok Pub, and after a few choice words, I decide to apologise, eventually persuading him to release me from the headlock I found myself in.

To my right I see one of the Chong brothers, not the Hyundai Getz one, the other one, and I decide to bite my tongue around him, as he has long hair and that scares me a little.

I mention these two as that's pretty much the regular vibe at FTV on a Wednesday. There are numerous well known celebs, lesser known public figures as well as the likes of Danny K who are regularly seen around the venue.

The girls are quite easy on the eye and very friendly, as The Gupster will no doubt attest to, having been with a large majority of them. The music is, as previously mentioned, very commercial - the type of sounds you will hear on the radio whilst racing down the M3 trying to get to work on time. Wednesday's are basically FTV nights, let's face it - there's nothing else going on is there?

What?

You watch Heroes on a Wednesday?

Didn't you get the memo?

The cheerleader dies in the end.

Now give it up and come down to FTV. You can buy me a drink when you get me there.


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Going On A Bender

It was a wet and wintry Friday night when I found myself at Peddlars (On The Bend) a much loved little drinking haunt in the gang-infested suburb of Constantia.

From here, we ventured forth to Sobhar and Wadda Bar in Claremont, as this cleverly written time line will account for. Read on:

21h15 - Arrive at Peddlars. On the bend. Parking space is a problem and I am forced to park in the muddied outskirts of the establishment. This leaves me slightly irritable, as I am wearing a pair of Italian loafers, who I found hiding behind some crates at a nearby shop, having a smoke break when they should have been working.

21h17 - Wading my way through the 100m of waist-deep mud, before reaching the paved parking area. On the way there, I encounter a dwarf, who is sinking in the quick-sand like environment. I manage to pick him up and hoist him on my shoulders. Strangely enough, he isn't the first little person I have saved from quick sand, but we'll leave that particular story for another time.

21h25 - Peddlars proves to be quite a lively bar. The inside section boasts a restaurant / eatery of sorts, whilst the outside court offers ample seating and standing room, enabling you to drink beer and be merry. It's at the outside court where I see The Gupster and Kurt The Rep, together with The I.T Guy, and I waddle over nonchalantly, careful not to trip over anyone lying on the floor. There doesn't appear to be any bodies on the ground though so I make it through safely. A good sign. The Gupster gets the first of many rounds. I have my first Jagerbomb for the night.

21h49 - There are an abundance of people I know here. It's a high school reunion of sorts, and many people are catching up and swopping old war stories. People seem helluva impressed about my days as a masked crime fighter, whilst studying medicine and working on a treatment for laziness (I make sure to show them the Italians on my feet when I mention this) I mill at the bar for a bit, where The I.T Guy and myself have our 2nd and 3rd Jagerbombs for the night.

22h30 - Send a text message to The Girlfriend, telling her how well behaved I've been and that I haven't thrown away my good name by saying something offensive and stupid. At this point, conversation at Peddlars is starting to lean toward future plans. I tell everyone that I'm going to open a school for retarded kids, teaching them to speak properly. After an awkward silence, I am then informed that the future plans in question revolve around what to do later that night. I send a text message to The Girlfriend, telling her how well behaved I've been and... well, ja. The Gupster hands me my 5th Jagerbomb.

23h05 - After furious lobbying from various parties, Wadda Bar in Claremont is mentioned as a likely alternative. I remember going to Wadda once before many moons ago, where a slightly inebriated Barry (the Token Black Guy), had a verbal slanging match with Graeme Smith, who got really pissed off when Barry kept referring to him as Hansie.

22h07 - We arrive at Wadda Bar, only to discover - wait... that time can't possibly be right.

23h17 - We arrive at Wadda Bar, only to discover that there is a sizable queue, the size of a Danny K concert. As far as I'm aware Danny K isn't scheduled to sing here, but you never know with him, he has a habit of popping up anywhere, trying to flog his single, "Hey Shorty", as a viable club track.

23h18 - Danny K isn't performing at Wadda Bar, but we're still not keen on waiting in the line. It's getting helluva cold right now, the guy in front of us has literally frozen from the elements. (There are stray dogs and a couple of vagrants licking him) We decide to make the best of things and head off to Sobhar, a dangerous and treacherous journey 300 metres away.

23h25 - The journey is a tense one, and we lose many good men along the way - some to the bitter cold, a few to the gale force winds, and a couple to a group of young flossies (floozies) who we encountered halfway through the journey.

23h35 - Eventually we arrive at Sobhar. I often get annoying text messages on my phone, advertising their "Hot and Single" bar staff. Either I'm the only one getting these messages, or no one seems to be paying attention to them, as the place is decidedly empty.

23h38 - A Kurt Darren number hits the decks and the club is magically transformed into a thumping venue, people seemingly appearing out of nowhere to dance to the big K.D's new treffer - "Standing On The Edge". I see someone who shares a remarkable likeness to Danny K, sulking in the corner.

23h42 - The Kurt Darren song ends, and just as suddenly, so does the night at Sobhar. We decide to mission back to Wadda.

00h05 - I manage to force my wors into Wadda, which takes some doing, as there are probably close to 10 000 people packed inside the tiny space. Sadly Graeme Smith doesn't seem to be in attendance, leaving Barry (the Token Black Guy) to look out for any other South African sportsman to relentlessly mock. The Gupster and I head off to the bar, ten feet away.

01h10 - We eventually make it to the bar, having to fight of hundreds of thirsty revellers to get our orders in. In the process, I have sent 13 grown men to the hospital, while The Gupster is lagging behind slightly with 10. He has managed to have sex with three girls in that time as well though, so morally he is the winner. We order our drinks, and toast his victory.

01h49 - The music at Wadda is more or less what you would come to expect from a Claremont nightspot, with commercials ditties from the likes of Fall Out Boy and Good Charlotte interspersed with Roxette. I decide to dance my tits off and head toward the dance floor.

02h41 - I have officially danced my tits off.

03h05 - Wadda was okay, but my stomach begins complaining, as it normally does on a Friday night out. "Hey Shaun, I'm hungry my chyna" it keeps moaning, which is annoying as it keeps interrupting me when I try and speak to someone. It also has an annoyingly high voice, so this makes me helluva irritated. Eventually I can't take it any longer and so we decide to head off to Starlight Cafe in Rondebosh Main Road. To shut my stomach up, I order the "Artery Blocker Burger", which comprises a whole pig, drenched in fat, with a lick layer of grease on top. I gobble it up in three minutes flat, and my stomach suddenly doesn't have much to say anymore.

04h38 - It's fairly late, and I manage to sneak back into The HQ. It's way passed my curfew but The Girlfriend is fast asleep. A reasonable night out comes to an end. Why is my stomach such a bitch, and how did The Gupster manage to have sex with three girls in one hour?

These are the questions I ask myself as I doze off into a deep, alcohol induced slumber. The end.


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Mambos Bar In Plumstead

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.


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Throwing Away Our Names At Tiger Tiger

A recent Saturday night adventure we had at Panchos in Observatory, followed by Tiger Tiger in Claremont, was certainly an eventful one. Drinks and edibles were consumed, reputations and good names sullied, and car keys and self respect were lost.

Just another Saturday night in Cape Town then.



Eish Joe, I'm Dancing Like A Whiiiiite Guyyyyyyy: Kim and Some Other Guy get into the spirit of things, as Claus and Paul smile nervously, not knowing what to do with their arms. In the background is a guy with spectacles. Next to him is another guy, who we dubbed Patrick Swayze, an ironic moniker as he could quite honestly have been the worst dancer in the world. The photo clearly shows him doing the infamous "Running Man" dance move, an offense which would have meant instant death if this were Argentina. But this is Cape Town, so he got away with it. Don't ever go to Argentina, Patrick Swayze - this is Cape Town - so you've gotten away with it.



Kim The Heartbreaker: Sometime during the course of the night, Kim got hit on by a giant bottle of Peroni. She laughed it off at first, but the bottle was a persistent bugger and started being obnoxious, following her around and telling her how great they would be together. Eventually she told him they were too different, thus breaking his heart as well as the rest of his body, as he was in fact a giant bottle of Peroni after all.


Gotcha: Claus tried kidnapping Belinda and holding her for a King's Ransom, but was caught in the act, and so had to return her safely.


Beauties And The Beast: Belinda and The Girlfriend pose seductively for the camera as Some Other Guy goes and wrecks a perfectly good photograph. In the background on the left are two guys making out, a common sight at Tiger Tiger - as well as Claremont for that matter - a suburb which must surely rank as one of the most gay-friendly night spots in Cape Town today.


One For The Record Books: Some Other Guy eventually calmed down and posed for a decent pic, only to then inadvertently show just how abnormally large his head is, in comparison to that of Belinda and The Girlfriend. In layman's terms, it's the size of a small suburb, and may well have it's own postal code.


Coming Or Going: After a few stiff Jamesons, Paul got lost and needed directions to the bar. A kind old woman and her cat Snuffles found him and directed him toward the Shooter Bar, where she first knocked back a few Jägermeisters with the thankful lad, then ate Snuffles, because she was so pissed. And that's why you don't often find too many old women at Tiger Tiger. Because after a few Jägermeisters, they always end up eating their cats.

Till next time then. Maybe.


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The Asoka Saturday Adventure

Saturday night arrived on my doorstep like an unwanted ginger-haired stepson. How could it be Saturday night already? One minute I was watching rugby, eating biltong and stressing over my excessive dandruff problem, and the next minute we were at Asoka, as if reeled in by a magnetic force.

My excessive dandruff problem may still be lingering but it was a good night nonetheless. (One word. Not two. Or three.)



Let's Get This Party Started: With everyone initially struggling to hold a conversation and communicate effectively, it was unanimously decided to get soaked on Jägermeister to liven things up a bit. Is there a social problem which needs addressing here? Note the differing shot glass grappling techniques on display. Whilst Some Other Guy showcases the Four-Fingered-Square Technique, Paul goes for the riskier and flashier Crab-Claw Hold. Kim looks dainty with the Lady Godiva Grab, while Claus highlights the safer Baseball Mit Maneuver. In the background, is a Jameson glass with four fingers attached. It kept floating around, annoying everyone until it was eventually asked to leave by the Asoka management.



Grilled Cheese With Tomato On Top: Kim and Claus say "Cheeese" as they try and block out the guy in the dodgy red shirt. Behind Claus' left shoulder, are the beginnings of a shot glass architectural masterpiece. By the end of the night, we had constructed a miniature Leaning Tower of Pisa, which unfortunately came tumbling down when the Jameson glass with four fingers attached, bumped into it. This was obviously before it was asked to leave by the Asoka management.


Playing With Fire: Some Other Guy got drunk and began making moves on The Girlfriend, which he is very fond of doing. A dart of Horse Tranquilizer in the thigh soon had him reasonably well behaved though.


Grilled Cheese With Salsa Sauce On Top: Claus and Jess say "Cheeese" - or, are at least thinking "Cheeese" as they share an intimate moment.


Duet Time At Asoka: Some Other Guy and Paul, doing their rendition of "Endless Love" by Lionel Richie and Diana Ross, whilst Claus looks on in utter dismay. In the background is that damned Jameson glass with four fingers attached again.


Some Other Guy The Smoothy: At Barcelo's, Some Other Guy tries charming some American chick who apparently sings a bit. He shows how cool he is by giving the Peace Sign which, as everyone knows, is a hallmark of coolness.


Getting Out Of Hand: Some Other Guy started getting out of hand, so we had to shoot him with the trusty Horse Tranquilizer again to calm him down. In the background "Norma's Biscuits" is proudly emblazoned. Her biscuits are amazing. Norma's.

Till next Saturday then.


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A Hot Night In Alba

Thursday night was so bizarre. One minute I was lounging on my Dark Bovine leather couch at The HQ, snacking on a Woolworths Tikka chicken meal - whilst picking my nose and flicking it out the window - and the next minute I found myself at Alba Lounge in the Waterfront, throwing back copious amounts of Jameson down my throat.

How did I get there?

Was I drugged?

Who is paying for the drinks?

Why is Some Other Guy wearing that dodgy shirt?

These were the questions racing through my mind. Thankfully we had a camera on hand for dexterity purposes. (As well as for Facebook)


These Cocktails Are Amazing: Some Other Guy and Claus lose their minds explaining how good the cocktails are, as The Girlfriend looks bemused. They were pretty amazing though. They were so good that Some Other Guy vowed to name his first born "Long Beach Ice Tea", a name which could obviously apply to either a daughter and son.



Earmuff Time: The Girlfriend had a few shots of Jägers, and understandably then began swearing like a sailor. Dashing to protect Kim from the vulgarity, Claus and Paul quickly covered her ears with their heads. Phew, that was a close one!


Let Me Tell You A Story: Some Other Guy felt compelled to share with everyone the amazing tale of the night he developed his now famous bright red ears. Spoilers: It involved tobasco sauce, a pair of pliers and a high stakes dance-off with legendary Afrikaans singer, Kurt Darren.


So Intriguing: Paul and Claus found the story very intriguing.


Unbelievable: The high stakes dance-off with legendary Afrikaans singer, Kurt Darren really had them going.

The night quickly sailed by, in a haze of Jamesons, Long Beach Ice Teas, and Virgin Daiquiris. (we hate whorish drinks, in these here parts)

The evening eventually came to an end once Some Other Guy decided to disco dance with The Girlfriend on the steps outside, and accidently fell over the railing and into the icy ocean below, where he nearly froze. But didn't.

Sorry Some Other Guy, it was an unfortunate accident. I didn't mean to back into you like that.

Till next Thursday then.


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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 Getting 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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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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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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Planet Bar At The Mount Nelson Hotel

After a few weeks of pacing up and down at The HQ, the time had come to find me a local watering hole. I had fond memories of my previous "local", Mambo's in Plumstead, which served as the starting point for many a wild and crazy adventure, like the time I broke the nose of an obnoxious African Elephant, who came down all the way from the Addo in the Eastern Cape to pick a fight with me. Then there was the time I threw my drink at Kirsten Dunst, who would regularly fly down to South Africa incognito, to have some of Mambo's famous Long Islands. As usual, she got drunk and started mouthing off about how there are no real men in South Africa, so I stepped in and poured my Kiwi Brutal Fruit down her cashmere sweater, which settled that little argument once and for all.

Anyhoo, I'm totally digressing here, I had decided I needed to find a new place to get horribly drunk and be anti social. Naturally I decided to check out Planet Bar at the Mount Nelson Hotel, which for those of you who don't know, is a bar at the Mount Nelson Hotel.

Finding the place turned into a bit of a logistical nightmare. Once inside the grounds I mistakenly ended up at a St Patrick's Day Ball, thrown by a large group of jolly Irishmen in celebration of their countrymen not losing to Zimbabwe in the Cricket World Cup. Guinness was in abundance, people were literally swimming in it, but eventually I managed to backstroke my way through the beer and out the exit door, where I found a yellow brick road.

There, I met up with a Scarecrow, a Lion and a Tin Man who were also walking along, completely and utterly lost. The Lion could amazingly walk upright and could speak, although he had quite a dirty mouth. (He called the Scarecrow an "obnoxious prick" and a "slut") The Tin Man didn't seem too phased by his mates bickering though and asked me for a light, which I duly gave him even though I don't smoke. Why was there a lighter in my pocket? Anyhoo, they all stopped for a smoke break while I carried on and eventually ended up at Planet Bar.

The place wasn't really what I expected. The plasma screen TV's were lacking, there were no rugby jerseys and photos of Francois Pienaar hanging anywhere, and - most shockingly of all - there were no bowls of peanuts to be seen for miles. The place was filled to the brim, but I eventually found a spot underneath a double seated couch which I crawled under and settled down. I ordered a double whiskey, downed it in 3 seconds and then attempted to start up a pub song. "Olé olé olé olé" I began, but this didn't appear to go down well.

The decor isn't what you would expect from your typical bar, everything looks very clean and smart. There are carpets and rugs and walls bedecked with paintings of old white men (Not Francois Pienaar though). The music mostly consisted of Death Metal and EMO* with a sprinkling of avant garde jazz or classical music.

Everything is neat, tidy, in it's place. People are well behaved, no raucous patrons appear to frequent Planet Bar. In short, Planet Bar is a classy, trendy upmarket type of establishment but it's certainly not the place to watch rugby or cricket on a Saturday afternoon. And so, with a heavy heart, my search continues.


*Emotional Rock Music

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