What’s Up With Those Whole “Queuing” Thing?

So last week Tuesday I found myself at Cape to Cuba’s cigar bar in Long Street, murdering a few Fish Eagle’s and partying like it was 1999. Even though I knew it was actually 2008. I was just IMAGINING that it was 1999 you see, I wasn’t being delusional or anything.

It’s just a little game I like to play.

Anyhoo, the cigar bar is a cool place to murder drinks and make drunken chit chat, but I felt like shaking what my mother graciously gave me at birth, and so decided to head on over to Tiger Tiger in Claremont, where I could dance to commercial pop songs, whilst arrogantly splashing out on overpriced bottles of Pongracz.

And so, amid a rock music montage showing us driving through the streets of Cape Town, my publicist and I arrived at the Claremont night club at about 10:30pm, to find about 10 people in the queue in front of us.

This didn’t really phase me, as I was fairly confident of arriving inside, quicker than you can say “Blueberry pancakes”, and then watch Bruce Willis shoot John Travolta as he comes out the bathroom in Pulp Fiction, a scene which never really gelled with me as everyone knows you should ALWAYS take your piece in with you when you go to the loo, ESPECIALLY when you expect the disgraced boxer to return to his apartment and collect his watch which Christopher Walken kept up his arsehole in that Vietnamese prison camp all those years.

Rookie f**king error, Vincent Vega.

Plot holes aside though, a half hour passed by slowly, like that South African swimmer without arms or legs, the one that did the 100m breaststroke in the Paralympics, and yet there were STILL 10 people in the queue before me. Behind me, there were now about 40-50 disgruntled youths, waiting to get in.

Just then, I spotted an inebriated young man sauntering out the club, smiling graciously as he received a blowj*b from the girl he was with. I pulled him aside, congratulated him on receiving fellatio whilst walking (which is a pretty amazing feat if you think about it) and enquired as to the status of the club’s patron numbers inside.

He looked up, gave his girlfriend some money to buy him a beer at Tin Roof, and then murmured, “It’s not very full inside.”

“It’s not very full inside”

(I know I’ve written it twice, but I’m just repeating it for dramatic purposes, to drive home the point I’m trying to make. Stop being so pedantic about everything.)

So there we were, standing around like timid little dogs before they’re drowned, boiled and then sold as edible snacks in North Korea, only to find that Tiger Tiger WASN”T EVEN THAT FULL. (I shouted that bit)

Sean from SLXS mentioned the fact that there is a massive drinks special from 8pm-10pm, and it’s the management’s way of not losing too much money, but we arrived there well after that. It clearly just seems to be a big ego stroking thing on Tiger Tiger’s part, who clearly enjoy the sight of a massively long queue outside their little establishment, even when this doesn’t need to be the case.

Eventually we put our prides in our pockets, popped our collars, and moonwalked down to Tin Roof with all the other disgruntled people who couldn’t be bothered to stand around the Atrium on a Tuesday night, and closed up Tin Roof instead.

Not impressed with Tiger Tiger right now.

Get your act together, gentlemen.

Mmm, I’m Not So Sure About This One.

Wadda Club - We're Not So Sure.

So Saturday night I found myself at Wadda in Claremont, which is around the corner from Tin Roof. I was there to celebrate the life of “Dangerous D” - he wasn’t dead or anything, it was his birthday - but the celebration of his life was to be held there.

I remember being at Wadda in the past, and having a pretty decent fist of it. There was that infamous night where we took the red ropey thing they use at the entrance, put it down The Gupster’s pants, and made it seem as if he had a giant red penis. Quality humour right there.

There was also the time Bazza The Barry managed to piss off Protea cricket captain Graeme Smith, by repeatedly referring to him as “Hansie”, and insisting that he explain exactly how the devil made him do it.

So ja, I’ve had decent memories of Wadda. On this occasion I had a few problems with the place though. Here with some of my gripes:

1) No Toilets
I’m sure I’ve noticed this in the past, but it was made abundantly clear on Saturday night, when I had to make a number 2 in one of the urinals, which made the other bathrooms users rather uncomfortable. Why don’t you have toilets, Wadda? What about the guys that need to poo or throw up, as well as the shy ones who don’t like flashing their winkies at the other boys. Get some cubicles in there asap.

2) Bar Essentials
I asked the barman for a “Double Jameson. Neat”. He responded by putting ice in my glass, then seemed confused that I wanted a whiskey without ice, lime, or coke. I didn’t really mind that though, as I assumed he didn’t hear me correctly. What really pissed me off was the fact that Wadda doesn’t have any whiskey tumblers at the bar. I had to drink my Jameson in a beer glass, which made me look like a chop. Why do you want me to look like a chop, Wadda? I suggest getting some whiskey tumblers pronto.

3) Patrons
Last but not least, there seemed to have been an abundance of youngish looking kids there. I’m sure they were all legal as the security were pretty tight on ID’s etc. Is that the market Wadda is aiming at now though? Last time I was there they seemed to be attracting the type of folk that would usually go to Tiger Tiger, but didn’t feel like missioning up all those stairs. ie: Early twenties, pretty with just a hint of skankiness, acquired from their student days at Tin Roof. Some of the kids on Saturday looked old enough to be my grandchildren, which made me feel old and dirty, especially when I was busy grinding up against that blonde upstairs. (Ha ha, jokes - The Girlfriend would cut my toes off)

Anyway, sort yourself out Wadda. Get all your shit together.

Die Einde.

What A Sexy And Clever Heading

It was pissing with rain on Friday night in Cape Town, ideal weather to stay in and watch a romantic comedy starring Kevin Costner or Mark Ruffalo. It was fitting then that I found myself in the lounge at The HQ, under a warm blanket and on top of The Girlfriend, who I had successfully managed to pin down on the couch, which is no mean feat as she is surprisingly elusive in high heels.

It was whilst whispering dirty words in her ear, that my cellphone began ringing, temporarily distracting me and giving her the opportunity to land a stiff jab to my throat. As I staggered over to the bathroom to cough up blood, she unpinned her legs from behind her head and took the call. It was The Brand Ambassador, reminding us about the event at the Assembly night club in Cape Town later that night.

Although it was in our diaries, the magical chemistry between Ruffalo and Jennifer Anniston had caused it to temporarily slip our minds, and so we found ourselves frantically dashing through the poorly lit and dangerously wet streets of the CBD. Eventually we arrived, and settled down for an evening of Fish Eagle brandy and live bands.

We have spoken about Assembly before, haven’t we? I was actually there about two weeks back as well, but didn’t get a chance to report back on it as I was pretty vague about what exactly transpired then. I remember watching a band called the New Age Rockets, hitting a few shot of Jaegers (they hit me first and I retaliated), getting into a tussle with some other shots of Tequila, and then waking up the next morning with blonde highlights and a small packet of Flings down my pants.

On this occasion I planned on being pretty well behaved though, as those blonde highlights didn’t really suit me, and those Flings were f**king stale, so I was in no mood for a recurrence.

Ironically it was The Girlfriend who had a bit of an altercation, as when we initially arrived there, an obnoxious guy brazenly pushed her out the way as she tried to enter the Fish Eagled branded area. With stealth like precision, she proceeded to cut his hand off with her sharp tongue, and only gave it back to him after he had profusely apologized for the 5th time.

Anyhoo, where am I going with this whole thing?

Ah yes, we were there to watch some bands. I will now give you a brief summary of each performance that we saw.

JacSharp (I think that’s how you spell it) – Unfortunately we didn’t actually see them perform, as we slipped out to Cape to Cuba’s Cigar Bar in Long Street for short rukkie. I forgot to mention that, but ja, we did. The lead singer for JacSharp looked like quite a belter though. The Gupster saw them perform and when I asked him about them his words were “Erm.. I can’t really remember their set, but their lead singer was quite the belter.” So make of that what you will.

The New Academics – We saw a bit of them when we returned. (from Cape to Cuba) I think I may have seen them play before. Either that or I may have just heard something by Rage Against The Machine. That’s really what their sound is about – it’s like a metal / rock / rap kind of vibe. Think Rage, 311 and Shootyz Groove. If you don’t know those bands then you probably won’t be into them. The crowd at Assembly were certainly into them though.

The Gang Of Instrumentals – They were probably the most well known group on the night. I knew most of their songs via 5fm, so you get the idea that they were quite commercial. The crowd were pretty into them though, although their set didn’t seem to be very long. I think it was 15 minutes? Maybe 20? I think it probably just felt that way – by this time I had Fish Eagle coming out of my eyeballs, which freaked out The Gupster as he was busy talking to me at the time.

Anyhoo, I’m just going to end this now.

Just like that.

Without any summary or recap of what I had just written.

Is it bad journalism? Yes.

Do I care? No.

Pay a visit to Assembly’s website at www.theassembly.co.za

On A Friday Night

Partygoers In Long Street, Cape Town.

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 80s 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.

At Peddlars… On The Bend. And Sobhar. Oh and Wadda Too.

Peddlars On The Bend. Where The Journey Begins.

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 The Brand Ambassador, 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.

A Good Little Local Pub Spot.

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.

As Well As Our Car Keys.

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 Marzen Gold. 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 Marzen Gold 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.

The Infamous Saturday Night 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.

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.