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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Camps Bay: Walking A Little Funny This Morning, After A Visit From Shaun.

It is a rainy and miserable evening in Cape Town, and so naturally I decide to venture out to Camps Bay for another raucous Thursday night adventure.

I am joined in my quest by The Gupster, looking rather buff and beefy after several weeks of gorging protein shakes, whilst working out in the gym. Feeling slightly inadequate by his broad frame, I quickly change into a shirt two sizes too small, in an effort to make myself look rather buff and beefy after several weeks of gorging protein shakes, whilst working out in the gym. Things don’t quite pan out the way I had hoped though.

“Change that shirt. You look ridiculous”, said The Girlfriend. And so I do.

Fifteen minutes later, and The Gupster and I are outside Ignite. The air is electric, and my carefully gelled mane is now actually standing on end. I make this observation to The Gupster, who informs me that this anomaly is in fact because my hair has minced in the rain, and not because of any perceived “electricity”. I make a note to spit in his next drink as we head off to the bar.

There, we meet up with The Brand Ambassador, in the process of trying to persuade a young flossie to start drinking his premium brand of brandy. The Brand Ambassador is obviously thrilled to see us, and so we head to the outside area to commiserate and swap old war stories. Seated at a table, we are joined by a rather shapely – if slightly weathered – lass, who is obviously attracted to our Hollywood looks and witty repartee. The conversation eventually steers toward careers, and she duly informs us that she is a high class escort, able to do anything one’s heart desires. The Gupster is immediately digging in his pockets for his credit card, but just then her phones rings, it’s a business call, and so we bid her farewell.

We find ourselves on the dance floor, where time manages to tick by, in a haze of Jameson, Fish Eagle, Jägermeister, Tequila, Peroni, Absinthe as well as methylated spirits, which I gulped down in the toilet. Oh and glue too.

By this stage of the night I am in a state, The Gupster is in a dark corner somewhere, fondling a 19 year old brunette with heavy eye makeup; The Brand Ambassador is talking shop to clubbers, singing the praises of his premium brand of brandy; and I am trying to dance to the beat of some R&B song (it’s R&B Night)

This is proving difficult though as my legs feel like thick stilts, and I could never use stilts, having dropped out of Stilt Walking School many years earlier. Also, my vision appears to have gone to shit, everything seems blurry, and the club seems to smell of whiskey. Am I going blind? Why am I smelling whiskey? I remember reading in a medical journal somewhere that you get the aroma of Irish malt before your appendix bursts.

Am I dying?

No, no – false alarm. I have been looking at everything through the bottom of a glass of Jameson. Feeling slightly sheepish, I try and stilt-walk my way back to the bar, where a pretty model strikes up a random conversation with me. I know she is a pretty model because she tells me.

“What do you do!”, I demand abrasively.

“I am a pretty model”, she answers.

“Oh”, I retort aggressively.

She seems quite enamored by my boyish charm, giggling furiously when I let out a massive burp whilst simultaneously scratching my testicles. She is also mightily impressed when I tell her of my 9-5 as a masked crime fighter, as well as my ongoing passion of building a yacht using Lion matches, which I will then use to sail in the America’s Cup. By myself. Which I will also win by the way. You read it here first.

Anyhoo, I am in the middle of regaling her with heroic tales of my days as a fearsome Texas Ranger, when I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. It is The Gupster, who calmly informs me that the 19 year old brunette with heavy eye makeup has an older Russian boyfriend who would very much like to cut us up into little cubicles, which he will then no doubt feed to Vladimir, his German Shepherd, as well as Terence, his Afghan hound.

Taking all of this into account, we make the informed decision to leave the premises – it’s a hobby of mine not to be eaten by Afghan hounds named Terence, and anyway – we’re hungry and the lure of a “Double Delicious” special at Barcelo’s is reeling me in, like an older Italian woman seducing the young pool hand at the Tuscany villa in the hills.

As we blast off into the sunset with The Brand Ambassador, I am satisfied that another glorious night has been had. So satisfied that I don’even need to end this properly.

I will just stop writing now.

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.

It’s Saturday evening at The HQ, and The Girlfriend is busy painting my toenails whilst braiding my hair at the same time. She is interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone, causing her to panic and yank out a handful of my luxurious mane. While she attempts to stem the bleeding and wipe away my tears, I answer the phone in my trademark husky voice.

“This is Shaun Oakes,” I answer in my trademark husky voice.
“Hey Shaun Oakes. It’s The Brand Ambassador,” said The Brand Ambassador, “Are you crying?”
“…No… What do you want, The Brand Ambassador?”
“I’m throwing a little soiree at Blush Lounge, formerly known as Bossa Nova. Are you up for it?”
“Only if I’m well looked after, The Brand Ambassador. Only if I’m well looked after.”
“I’m The Brand Ambassador. Of course you will be well looked after.”

Two hours later, myself, The Gupster and The Brand Ambassador found ourselves at Blush Lounge, which was once known as Bossa Nova many moons ago. It’s another JAG (Just All Guys) night, and with tables bedecked with booze, and two blonde angels at our beck and call, we quickly settle in. A large transparent clock mysteriously appears out of nowhere, signalling that a good deal of time is quickly going by. I point this out to The Brand Ambassador, who looks at me strangely and advises me to sit a couple of rounds out.

While The Gupster is busy swapping numbers with one of the angels, I take a stroll through the club. I see a former classmate from my days at Catholic primary school. I desperately try and duck behind a chubby fellow sucking face with his chubby girlfriend, but I’m not quick enough and the classmate spots me. She prances over, forcing me to swiftly apply my artificial smile. For the next few minutes I’m made to relive the glory days of story sums, playground banter and mid-morning prayers. She is literally boring the pants off me, I can feel it slowly wriggling down my waist. I consider using my tried and tested technique for when dealing with dull and uninteresting people, which involves me pretending to pass out in a state of utter inebriation. This has a 100% success rate, as people tend to stop talking once you collapse in front of them (it’s a natural reaction – try it, you’ll see).

What’s preventing me from carrying this out though, is the fact that the floor seems rather sticky. Earlier, we saw another patron standing on the same spot for about 5 minutes, causing the bouncers to come over and have the unfortunate chap’s feet amputated in order to free him from the confines of the tiled floors. (They gave him a couple of comps as an apology though, which he graciously accepted)

The Gupster walks toward us and, upon seeing our mutual classmate, finishes his drink and does a flying leap behind a velvet couch in one swift motion. Truly amazing stuff. His cat-like movements are not enough to escape her eye though and she prances over, forcing him to swiftly apply his artificial smile. For the next few minutes he is made to relive the glory days of scholar patrol, prefect duties and mid-afternoon prayers. (We prayed regularly at catholic primary school) In the meantime I’m chatting to Thabo From Jozi, who is telling me about a personal mantra he lives his life by – J.U.I.C.E – which equates to “Join Us In Creating Excitement”. It all sounds pretty impressive and I’m determined to remember it, so I make him repeat it about 48 times, after which he doesn’t seem that excited anymore, and doesn’t really speak to me after that.

The first portion of the evening has really flown, like a brick hurled through a glass window by someone with a sturdy arm. It’s Saturday night and we are presented with two options – FTV Cafe, where more free booze and snacks await, or Opium, where a group of young flossies are awaiting The Gupster. We decide to flip a coin – heads for FTV, tails for Opium. Bizarrely the coin lands upright, which as everyone knows, means a visit to Tiger Tiger in Claremont.

Driving like the wind over the Atlantic on a Winter’s day, we arrive at Tiger Tiger. We are greeted at the entrance by a bloodied gentleman being lead out by the always helpful doormen of the club. Despite bleeding profusely, he seems in good spirits, telling us to enjoy our night. Being polite gentlemen, we respond in kind, telling him drive safely as we watch him being dragged away. Upon arriving at the door, we are told that Tiger Tiger is having a “White Party”, which makes me uncomfortable, and I threaten to call in Barry (the Token Black Guy) who I have on speed dial. The stamp girl assures me that there is no racial overtone, the decor is merely white and there is an assortment of white balloons, white sand and white people inside. “But there are blacks and coloureds inside too” she quickly adds, and I put the cellphone away. Having our reservations placated, we arrive and begin with the first of many drinks orders. A large transparent clock mysteriously appears out of thin air again, but no one seems to see it except me. I decide to switch to beer for a bit

With the match played earlier at Newlands stadium (Stormers 10 – Shark 36), the place is crawling with players, closely followed by an assortment of groupies and flossies. At the bar, I bump into Bob Skinstad, who again thanks me for giving him my blessing to sign for the Sharks. I give him a reassuring pat on the back and head toward The Gupster, who is busy loading up his harpoon gun and sailor cap in anticipation of a little whaling. The Brand Ambassador is starting to feel tired, it seems. He’s become very snappy and didn’t laugh at a joke about cats I had made earlier on, which hurt my feelings as I thought it was really funny. We decide to watch The Gupster hooking up with a large whale for a bit – which is amusing at first – but the novelty soon wears off though and we start feeling weird watching the two go at it. I’m feeling gassy and head off to a bathroom cubicle. There, I let off one of the greatest and pleasurable farts of my life. I look down and literally see my stomach deflating, showing my taut and ripped abs. The wind breaker is long, lasting the entire length of a Robbie Williams treffer, and there are tears of joy in my eyes at the end of it. The smell is appalling though – as I leave the stall, I warn the oncoming gentleman to give this one a miss. He is cocky and arrogant though, and thinks he has seen it all. As I head out I turn around to find him flat on his back, possibly dead.

We decide to call time and head on out past (passed? I don’t know anymore) the rushing paramedics. On the way to the car, The Gupster cracks a lame joke with a vague reference to tonight’s adventures. We all laugh simultaneously, then all three of us freeze in still motion mid-laugh, as corny rock music plays and credits begin rolling down from the sky. Till the next JAG night.

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.

Jameson Decided To Pop In For A While.

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, 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.

Some Other Guy, Paul, Vicky and Claus Strike A Pose. For Facebook.

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.

Needing 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.

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 The Brand Ambassador and saunter over, giving him a manly smack on the bottom. I soon realise that this in fact is not The Brand Ambassador and several awkward minutes are spent explaining myself to a rather offended gentleman. I eventually see The Brand Ambassador, 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, Bazza The Barry 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, The Brand Ambassador 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 The Brand Ambassador 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 The Brand Ambassador 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.

Planet Bar At The Mount Nelson

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.

Ignite And Zep Tepi

On Thursday after moving all the boxes into The HQ, it was decided that the new neighbourhood would be explored. Putting on my trusty explorer hat, a brown Indiana Jones style fedora, I dialled The Brand Ambassador and The Gupster, and told them to come on through. Upon their arrival, we rubbed two sticks together, creating fire and thus toasting the single slice of bread I owned. Once we were finished feasting, we jumped in the Gupstermobile and headed on out to Ignite in Camps Bay, where we planned to get smashed and act in a horribly juvenile manner.

While The Gupster was out and about pulling women, The Brand Ambassador and I milled for a bit on the deck, debating the merits of slinky pants over the micro, belt-like skirts which seemed to be in abundance at the club. A case in point was the pretty young brunette with the Cindy Crawford mole, who literally showed us her Hello Kitty panties every time she breathed.

After a session of heavy petting with a young floozie, The Gupster came back to us and we headed on out to Baraza, where I bumped into the Cape Town DJ and Top Billing presenter Jeanie D. I immediately apologised and helped her off the floor, but she was clearly in an unforgiving mood and sunk one of her razor-sharp nails into my Achilles tendon. As I hobbled off, it was decided not to hang around Baraza and so we headed off to Zep Teppi, a new club next door where we were promised free booze and snacks. By this stage I was famished and had begun nibbling on my forearm as it’s quite chunky and, with the right seasoning and a little imagination, actually tastes like chicken.

Booze was in abundance at Zep Teppi, the whiskey flowing like the Niagara Falls on a rainy day, but sadly snacks (and clientele) were lacking. We found the decor of the club quite interesting, with some sort of catwalk / lifted dancefloor in the centre of the club. We amused ourselves for a few minutes parading up and down the floor ala Fashion TV, The Gupster looking like an absolute tart in the high heels and fishnet stocking he found lying in the bathroom, but eventually the joke got old and so we headed on back to Ignite.

While The Gupster was out and about pulling women, The Brand Ambassador and I milled for a bit on the deck, debating the merits of plunging necklines over the push up padded bras which seemed to be in abundance at the club. A case in point was the pretty young redhead with the Cameron Diaz eyes, who literally affected the Moon’s gravitational pull every time she breathed.

After a session of heavy petting with a young floozie, The Gupster came back to us and we headed toward the dancefloor, where everyone made space for me and applauded my innovative dance moves. The truth was my snapped tendon was making it difficult for me to walk properly, and I was really on my way to the bar, but I lapped up the praise nonetheless. By this stage we were well and truly legless, almost literally in my case and so it was decided to head on home back to The HQ.

On our way out, we were greeted by the always funny sight of a girl giving a guy an almighty beating, as he had apparently groped her on the dancefloor. The girl was ably supported by a cripple, who used his crutches to great effect, smashing the groper’s knee caps into a thousand pieces. The Gupster whipped out a hand broom and attempted to sweep it up but the cripple was having none of it and tried attacking us.

His crutches meant he wasn’t the most mobile of creatures though and, in our irresponsibly drunken state, we still managed to make it to the car before he could unleash his fury on us. The Gupster quickly punched in the co-ordinates of The HQ and the Gupstermobile roared off into the night, leaving the angry mob the cripple had assembled in our wake. Feeling peckish at this stage, I grabbed The Gupster’s sun shade and a water bottle and combined it to quickly manufacture a crude hunting spear, using it to maim a grey pigeon which we then spit braaied once we reached home.

So that signalled my first night in Town, who knows what adventures await us next Thursday?