Moobs - What we are currently dealing with.

I was staring at my reflection the other day, after someone rather eloquently commented that the shirt I as wearing made me look like “a huge tit”. Seeing as resembling a large female breast was not really the look I was going for, I decided to give my appearance a closer inspection, and thus made the following observations.

1. I did in fact look like a bit of a tit. (although to be fair, the popped collar and garish sunglasses I was wearing inside the shopping mall was meant to be taken ironically)
2. I had seemingly developed man boobs.

Now the first point was not too distressing, as I regularly get called both a tit as well as several other vulgar terms (mostly relating to male and female body parts) by various friends, colleagues and family.

No, the really devestating thing was the moobs, which had crept up on me in a dark, insidious manner. I even misspelt devastating in the previous sentence, that’s how devastated I was. The once fairly proud, muscular pecs that I could crack wallnuts with – especially ones that had already been slightly cracked to start with – were now reduced to saggy, drabby little bits of flesh, that kind of droop and hang loosely. A bit like how a 75 year old man’s balls must look after more than a half century of shagging.

Saggy Man Boobs - What Shaun would look like if he took his top off, put on blue underpants, and got kicked in the mouth by a professional wrestler.

The Girlfriend claims she has been telling me about this for months now, but this must have clearly been blocked by the internal filter I have, the one which prevents me from hearing her when she asks me to take the trash out, pick up the wet towels, or when she tells me to stop trying to have sex with her when she is sleeping.

Besides the shock and horror, I am also left with a feeling of incredible annoyance – not really at myself and my laziness (granted, it’s been several months now that I’ve been swapping dumbbells for doughnuts) – but more at life in general. The man boobs are most apparent when I am wearing shirts, but for various reasons that I will vent about another time, this is my preferred clothing attire, after having a major fallout with t-shirt manufacturers.

And then, just like that, life decides to not just give me lemons, but to take a wedge and squirt some in my eyes as I look up at it in surprise.

F**k it.

Time to do some bench presses I guess.

Oakes signing off.

So the other day I had a dodgy aubergine and so, whilst walking around the Woolworths in Canal Walk, realised that I badly needed to drop off some kids at the nearest restroom. Now, I absolutely hate using public toilets, any toilet in fact, except my own. Even when I’m at The Office, I will rather make a quick 10 minute trip home to enjoy the comfort of my own throne, together with a day old Cape Times, then use the work facilities.

Canal Walk is twenty minutes away from home though, and The Girlfriend was not keen on leaving just yet, so I knew I would have to bite the bullet and put my delicate buttocks on a porcelain surface touched by dozens of bums already that day.

I quickly trotted to the nearest toilets at that little section where they sell all those African trinkets and overpriced cotton t-shirts. Careful not to make eye contact with anyone at the nearby stores outside, I nipped into one the toilets and eyed out my surroundings.

I tend to be pretty loud at the best of times, and I was already started to turtle-neck a little bit. I knew that this would NOT be one of those silent poos, where it feels as if you have just squeezed some toothpaste out of a tube.

No, this would be a loud concertina, but I was banking on the fact that at this time of the day (it was 8:15pm) the toilets would be empty.

Thankfully, it seemed deserted, and I quickly dashed to the furtherest cubicle. I did a quick dab on the seat with some paper, laid another layer of paper down as a buffer between the seat and my ass, and sat down, ready for engagement. I was just about to pull the trigger when, of course, I heard the unmistakeable sound of someone pulling his pants down and sitting in the cubicle next to me. Now, there were four cubicles – and by rights he should have moved to the first one – but, in his haste, I don’t think he was aware of my presence. I heard him beginning an introductory fart, one which suggested that there was more to follow. Fearing an awkward situation potentially ensueing, I coughed politely, loud enough for him to know I was there, and causing him to immediately halt his fart in mid-air.

We both sat in silence for what felt like several minutes, seeing who would blink first.

…

No one made a sound.

It was clear that both he and I were kindred spirits, not daring to unleash hell in front of company. (Even when I am at home, I give a coutesy flush just as I press away, to help drown out the loud voilin-like sound I make.)

I had heard people in similar situations refer to this as a “Mexican stand off”, I’m still now sure why it’s called that but it seemed pretty apt. I wasn’t sure how long I could hold out for though, and my eyes began tearing from the mental strain of the physical restraint.

Just then, I heard someone else peeing in one of the urinals, and I silently began praying. I prayed that he was one of the 23% of South African men who washed their hands after peeing. As fate would have it, he was, and as I heard him switch on the taps, I mentally prepared myself for the next move. He put his hands under the automatic dryer, the shrill hairdryer-like sounds filled the public toilet, and I was away. Like clockwork I could hear the guy in the other cubicle fire away as well. We had about eight seconds of cover fire to drown out our sounds, and we had to make the most of it.

The urinator finished drying off his hands, and I was done. I quickly finished up, flushed away, lathered up my hands with soap and rinsed off. Mercifully, I also used the automatic dryer, giving my adversary another opportunity to launch a noon gun, which he no doubt gratefully took.

I walked out the restroom, and would likely never hear him again.

Oakes signing off.

Far Alert - Sometimes it's just not appropriate.

“My car is in the shop, do you mind just dropping me at the mall?,” the hot neighbour asks Trevor.

“Of course not,” Trevor replies reassuringly. “It’s on my way, and it’s no issue whatsoever.”

He feels his heart beating faster as the two of them leave and walk down the stairs to his car. He isn’t sure if it’s just because she needs him for a lift, but she has been laughing at all his jokes up tll now, even the lame ones he blatantly stole off the internet. She has also been brushing her hair back with her hand as she is listening to him tell his jokes, and months of reading Cosmo has told Trevor that this is a sign that a woman would like to stroke his genitals.

He mentally thinks back to the shower he took that morning, and whether he used enough soap to lather his loins. No one wants to stroke a funky smelling loin, no matter how likeable he may be.

Trevor quickly finds himself staring at his hot neighbour as she daintily walks down the stairs, gently swaying her hips from side to side. If he stares hard enough, he can just about make out the outline of a lacy thong under her curve-hugging, velvet pants, and he finds himself reciting the first verse of Phil Collins’ “Just Another Day in Paradise” in a valiant effort to subside the slight bulge that is forming in his pants.

He begins thinking about how he might ask her out during the journey. Perhaps he should drive past the Bombay Bicycle Club, and mention their fantastic ribs, using that as an opening.

Trevor is now fantasing about the fabulous dates he will have with her, the passionate relationship that will then develop, and the eventual marriage and kids that will follow.

He is going through a list of Irish names for their first born son when he gets into the car and takes a first whiff of the spicy, stagnant fart that he released approximately 12 hours earlier.

The fart that had originated from the spicy Indian curry leftovers he had for breakfast earlier that day. The fart that had made him chuckle with childlike glee as he pressed it out in roughly six seconds. A duration which, although not sounding like much, is still a decent amount of air time for a mid-afternoon fart in the seating position.

It’s a fart that truly is bitter sweet, as although it gave Trevor great satisfaction hours earlier, it has now come back to haunt him in the worse possible way.

They are now both sitting in stony, awkward silence, as he pulls away. The jokes and conversation have dried up and died, just as quickly as Trevor’s dreams of having a happy life with his hot neighbour. She coughs timidly and gently opens the passenger window, letting some much needed fresh air into what is truly a repugnant smelling motor vehicle.

There will of course be no stroking of genitals tonight.

And THAT, dear readers, is why you should NEVER fart in your car.

That smell just takes FOREVER to go away.

Oakes signing off.

Oh, you are blowing on your vuvuzela, are you? Come closer, I want to show you something.

Vuvuzelas are loud and crap. I don’t care if it’s a “uniquely South African thing”, just because it’s local doesn’t mean we all have to like it. The singer Danny K is local and no one really likes him, I think he is loud and crap as well.

Not as loud and crap as the vuvuzela though.

Couldn’t we have rather come up with something less annoying? Like a dance or some sort of sporting chant? Christ, even our lame unofficial rugby anthem we sing when the Springboks are winning – Ole, ole ole ole, ole, ole – sounds good right about now. I agree with anyone who says the vuvuzela kills the atmosphere at the stadium. It hunts the atmosphere down and strangles it.

I went to watch the Holland vs Cameroon game the other night, after getting my clammy hands on some World Cup tickets.

I managed to put up with the ridiculously overpriced food and beverages (two chicken pies and two beers for R100). I even managed to ignore the annoying old man who sat next to me, who kept trying to make random conversation whilst I nibbled on my overpriced pie (“Their goalkeeper is really tall, hey? It’s getting quite cold now, hey? That was a bad miss, hey?”) and who complained bitterly about the woman in our row who went to the bathroom twice during the second half.

Sure, I managed to deal with all that, but not the vuvuzela. I think I enjoyed the novelty of the vuvuzela for about 5 minutes when I initially entered the stadium.

Then it just began irritating me.

You can’t hear the crowd cheering, or shouting, or angrily swearing at players – you know, the type of interaction that really creates atmosphere at a live game.

No, all you hear is this incessant buzzing sound.

It’s like sticking your head inside a large music speaker and turning the bass up. To make things worse, a fat balding man wearing an undersized Argentina jersey and an untreated case of hellitosis (he was seated behind me, and was a heavy breather) whipped out a horn attached to an airbag, meaning he didn’t even have to blow on it, he just squeezed the bag over and over and over again. And again. And again. And again. And over and over again.

And again.

I’m pretty confident that the vuvuzela will go down as the worst thing to come out of post-apartheid South Africa since Barry Hilton and that shitty Egoli movie they just made. Oh, and anything made by Leon Schuster after his candid camera stuff in the 1980′s. Those were still okay, but his actual movies he has made after that have all been shitty and annoying.

Just like the vuvuzela.

Oakes signing off.

Being Charitable - An attribute of Shaun.

I feel really strange as I write this today, the way a composer might feel after creating a new song, or the way a young man might feel after having his winky touched for the very first time. I think it’s called a feeling of accomplishment, and it kind of just happened out of the blue.

There I was in Gardens Centre, on my way to Pick n Pay to buy my weekly supply of El Grande Extra Large condoms (Plus sized condoms for Plus sized men) when my spider senses suddenly kicked in. This usually occurs in dark alleys when Big Issue Vendors are approaching, but it seldom occurs inside shopping malls, as Big Issue vendors are famously allergic to shopping malls for some strange reason, you will always find them in the streets, rather than outside a shop, which never made sense to me.

Anyway, I am digressing.

It was of course a charity volunteer which caused my heightened sense of danger to alert me. Usually, I would respond to an approach by one of these vile beasts with an anti-clockwise forward roll, followed by a swift chop to the throat (charity volunteers have notoriously weak necks). I was however, wearing a new jeans which still felt a little starchy, and I wasn’t that confident in my forward rolling technique with starchy pants. Not after that unfortunate incident with the Edgars cashier and the well-known lingerie model, but we will leave that story for another day.

So anyway, I was accosted by a dreaded charity volunteer, who gave me her shpeel about some poor community needing food. I nodded and smiled and told her that I “would see”, the way your boss would do in a brushing off manner, when you ask for that promotion or upgraded company car.

Funny thing was, after I bought my stash of baby-maker-blockers, I felt a weird urge to buy some canned foods for the charity. Not the type of canned food I would eat of course, but something a poor person would simply love and gobble up.

When I gave it to her two things happened; firstly she gave me a warm smile and said I was a good person whilst gently brushing her boob against my arm, and secondly I kind of felt all warm inside, as if I had just had two shots of Jaegermeister straight after one another. It was a good feeling, and it makes me wonder whether I should continue doing good deeds like this.

My mom regularly complains that I am “a bit of a shit” when it comes to helping others, and will regularly whip out her rosary (a set of holy beads used by Catholics) and pray for the salvation of my soul.

Hey maybe it’s actually working, and I will become a regular contributor to charity. Of course, the fact that the volunteer in question was an absolute Milf, probably helped.

But I would like to think that wasn’t the only reason for my charitable nature, and that I am indeed, a good person. Maybe.

Oakes signing off.

Changing a tyre: Wrong, but the effort is at least there.

So the other day God decided to have a good old laugh at my expense, and gave me a flat tyre. The reason this would be a funny scenario for him is due to the fact that I am of course incapable of changing a flat, and am normally left floundering hopelessly until someone feels sorry for me and helps me out.

I remember my dad trying to show me how to change a tyre many years back, but X-Men was about to start and I desperately needed to find out whether Professor X survived the waterfall jump he and Magneto attempted in an effort to get away from the talking Pterodactyl, who was rather determined in his attempts to kill them. (as talking Pterodactyls are known to do)

Sure, it sounds silly when I talk about it now, but back then, I had sleepless nights wondering about their fates, and whether Cyclops and Wolverine would be able to find them in time.

So to cut a long story short, I never did work out how to change a car tyre, and as mentioned, have been relying on the good will of others over the years. Even though it’s 2010 however, I am rather disappointed to note that there still seems to be some sort of stigma around men not being able to carry out this admittedly simple task.

This was quite evident when I called my insurance company to get someone to assist me. “I’m sorry, did you say you need someone to change your tyre?” the woman on the other end asked rather incredulously.

“Erm… yes, please,” I responded timidly.

“But… you do actually have a spare in your boot, you just need someone to change it… is that right?” she continued, methodically working me over with relentless jabs to my ego.

“That’s right, I am incapable of changing a tyre, and I need the assistance of another man to help me,” I replied, this time with a small lump starting to form in my throat, the way it usually does when I watch the final scenes in Armageddon, when Bruce Willis gives Ben Affleck permission to have sex with Liv Tyler.

Cue what sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter in the background (wait, was I on speakerphone?!?) and several text messages later, and I was soon joined by a burley, hairy, lumberjack of a man, a tow truck driver who looked as if he chopped down trees and fought crocodiles in his spare time.

After an awkward few minutes of introductions and explanations – I explained my dad’s poorly attended lesson, as well as the X-Men episode that I really couldn’t miss – he duly went and changed my tyre, whilst I sheepishly stood in the background, pretending to send text messages and tweets on Twitter.

Not realizing it was such an issue until now, I suddenly felt very self conscious, and silently berated myself, as my motorcycle-riding neighbor from across the street pulled out of his garage in his customized bakkie and looked on in puzzlement.

“I hurt my back during a Muay Thai fight, the doctor insisted I shouldn’t change tyres,” I mustered weakly, but I could see he wasn’t really buying it.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity – or seven minutes, depending on who you asked – the whole debacle came to an end, and I was soon back on the road, listening to the smooth sounds of Phil Collins whilst silently drying my tears.

So in the interests of anyone else who may not know how to change a tyre, please have a look at the video below and learn from it, as I have.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGp1meWKCD8

Great stuff. So now we learnt something today.

Oakes signing off.

Muay Thai: What Shaun is doing right now.

So, many of you have probably been cursing me as I once again carried out my favourite little party drink. No, not that one. I only do that when I have one too many Hansa Marzen Golds, and start feeling slutty. No, I’m of course referring to my regular disappearing act, which I do every couple of months or so.

So what have I been up to recently?

Well, having grown weary of being regularly abused by Big Issue vendors, heroin junkies, and women with small feet, I decided to take the plunge and start Muay Thai classes.

You know what Muay Thai is, right?

It’s an ancient form of Thai kickboxing, which has suddenly become quite mainstream and popular in South Africa, especially Cape Town. After being a bit of an underground activity for many years, it’s burst onto national television thanks to a reality show, and now every man and his dog seems to be trying it out, wanting to learn how to kick the shit out of someone in an efficient and practical manner.

I was one of those men with their dogs, and have currently just completed my third week of training. So, besides desperately trying not to throw up during the fitness sessions, what have I gotten out of this?

Well, whereas in the past my fighting style was likened to that of an old woman, I have now learnt how to throw a decent punch. This is evident in the fact that when I hit the punching bag, I don’t fracture my fingers anymore. I have also learnt how to skip like a man, and not like a 9 year old girl, and I’ve probably done more press ups in the last three weeks, than I have done in my entire life.

This has also already seen some significant weight loss, what with me literally sweating about 23 litres of water every night. The other day I got out the shower, looked down and happened to catch a glimpse of my winky – in all its immaculate glory – something I had not been able to do for several months previously, due to various medical conditions concerning my stomach.

Let’s be clear though, Muay Thai is no walk in the park. It takes dedication, long hours of training and a killer aggressive spirit to succeed. There are both men and women who attend classes, with quite a few belters who wouldn’t look out of place in a swimsuit photo shoot, if they weren’t trying to break your ribs with a power kick. A lot of the guys seem quite scary looking, and for now I’ve just been keeping to myself, eyes to the ground, the way you would do in a gym change room when winkies are being flashed around.

So yeah, things are looking pretty good thus far. I’m feeling fitter, looking healthier and next time a woman with small feet tries to mug me again, I may just be able to kick her ass this time.

Oakes signing off.

Shiny silver car. Not owned by Shaun.

I was trying to remember where I parked my car on Saturday morning (something which happens far too often for my liking) when I noticed a shiny silver car parked in one of the shaded – and thus coveted – parking spaces just outside The HQ.

Usually this would not be an issue, all the tenants fight to get the good parking spaces and not have to park way down the street. None of us are too fond of walking, me especially, for obvious reasons.

What annoyed me however, was the fact that the guy who got out of the shiny silver car was none other than the heroin addict who has been sleeping outside in the street for several months now. I’m pretty sure I have mentioned him in the past. He is the guy who will swear at you like a seasoned gangster when you politely ask him to get out of the way, so you can drive off the property and not ride over him and his girlfriend, who are both snuggled in nicely under a warm blanket having a lie in, whilst you are trekking to work on a cold and wet Monday morning.

I have never been envious or resentful toward them before, as he resembles a weasel, and she looks like a middle-aged man, and they both give off a rather peculiar odour (I believe it to be a combination of urine, onion, and parmesan cheese, but I’ve never been close enough to confirm this)

Now, resembling a large weasel can perhaps be put down to genes (his parents probably look like weasels as well), and I’m probably being a cock for bringing that up, but I’m a firm believer that you should never smell of urine, onion and especially parmesan cheese, so he gets no sympathy from me on that one.

It's fine to look like a weasel, but smelling of parmesan cheese? No.

The fact that he seems to have a newer car than me, leaves me feeling both bitter and confused. Something is clearly not right in the world, when a guy who sleeps on the street and who urinates in both public parks – and I sadly suspect, my car doors – can drive a newer model vehicle than me. Especially when he is mean and calls me horrible names when he sees me.

I’m not sure how he is managing this, but am certainly not going to ask him. I usually pretend he is invisible when he is near, as invisible as those blind Zimbabweans at the traffic lights in the southern suburbs, or the Big Issue vendors in the CBD. Unlike them though, he doesn’t go away after an awkward few seconds of being ignored, and will instead demand money to look after your car, or stand the risk of having him pee on it.

So not only do I have to put up with him owning a shinier newer model than me and taking the best parking spots, I also have to drive around in a car which consistently smells of weasel piss. Not a happy camper right now.

Oakes signing off.

Toilet Paper - My New Nemesis

Now, I’m a mature adult, and I know that buying toilet paper is just a part of everyday life. I can easily go to the shop and get some of my El Grande extra large condoms without any qualms. I’ve even gone to the shop on occasion to purchase something The Girlfriend calls “tampons”, which are these little nappy things that women seem to be very fond of.

So yes, generally speaking, I’m a pretty chilled guy, and would usually have no issues around buying toilet paper. Let’s face it, we all use them, it is nothing to really be shy about.
Why is it though, that WHENEVER I am purchasing a few rolls, there is ALWAYS an issue with the scanning of the barcode?

Always. Without fail.

For reasons unknown, the shop attendants seem completely incapable of working out how to scan my toilet paper. They will look at it in complete bafflement, then proceed to “um” and “ah” for a few minutes, whilst I stand and squirm, silently urging them to quickly push it through and toss it in my trolley. They will try flipping it around, attempt to approach the scanner from obtuse and acute angles, before then eventually having to call the supervisor to come and assist.

I will of course then slowly turn around and look straight into the eyes of an attractive woman, who has been carefully watching the debacle proceed. I’ve carried out an extensive study on this now, and on every occasion that this has happened, there is always a hot woman standing behind me in the line. It’s as if they lie in wait, patiently watching from behind the chips and cereal aisle, carefully waiting for me to approach the cashier.

Guys, I guarantee you, if you ever want an attractive female standing in a shopping queue with you, just buy some toilet paper. Or hemorrhoid cream, that’s another popular one, but we will leave that discussion for another day.

On this particular occasion, the attractive woman was someone I recognised as a model I had seen on a television advert, in which she wore a skimpy two piece, and a dirty smile.

As I said, I shouldn’t feel self conscious about this, but I do anyway. I guess I just don’t want any attractive models to know that I poo.

And that I use single ply toilet paper. Yes, I think that could be it.

Oakes signing off.

Cycling. Meh. Meh. Meh.

I received an email the other day, asking me why I hadn’t mentioned anything about the Pick n Pay Argus Cycle Tour which occurred a couple of weeks ago in Cape Town, and whether I had gone to see any of it. I never bothered replying to the email at the time, so Paul S, if you are reading this, allow me to answer you: I didn’t mention the Pick n Pay Argus Cycle tour simply because I find the whole thing terribly boring. I also didn’t see any of it because I was too busy watching the block of Gouda cheese in my kitchen decompose.

I’ve never seen the attraction of cycling, both as a sport and as a leisurely activity. Before anyone starts hurling insults at me, yes I can cycle and yes, I have tried it in the past. I also know many people who participate in the Cycle Tour, and who enjoy cycling.

I am not one of those people though.

As a professional sport I don’t respect it because it’s something you can easily and effectively do whist sitting down, so how hard can that really be? It’s a bit like sitting on your couch playing Tekken 6, and claiming to be an elite athlete. The Tour De France is arguably the dullest television spectacle ever conceived, and is something I will forever hold against the French.

When it comes to cycling, there is no real skill involved, you pretty much just sit on your seat, and then pedal like crazy. It all comes down to your level of fitness and how defined your calf muscles are. I’m pretty sure there are many silicon-boobed Constantia moms at the Virgin Active spinning class who could probably win the Pick n Pay Argus Cycle Tour or even the Tour De France, given half the chance.

Cycling as a leisurely pursuit is also pretty pointless. As a form of exercise, It doesn’t give you a full body workout, so you are left with a weedy body, yet strangely well-defined calf muscles, which look as if you could beat someone to death with them, if you were somehow able to detach them from your limbs and use them as clubs.

People who claim they cycle in beautiful surroundings to enjoy the view are also deluded.

The fact is, you can’t enjoy the view or your surroundings when you are cycling, as you are going too fast. It’s not as if you are able to cycle slowly either, because whilst you’re marveling at the beautiful fynbos or trying to spot the endangered Paternoster water rat, you run the risk of hitting things, like pedestrians or oncoming cars.

If that is not bad enough, the clothing attire required when cycling also leaves a lot to be desired. I did some research, and apparently it’s a constitutional law that you have to look like a complete wally when cycling. This includes wearing a helmet which makes you look like the alien from, well, Alien, as well as incredibly tight cycling shorts, which pretty much advertises your package, whilst slowly suffocating your sperm cells.

“Look at my magnificent package,” you are saying on the one hand, whilst “Look at me, I am slowly killing my baby makers” you are saying on the other. It’s an ironic contradiction and is something that women don’t want to see when it comes to selecting eligible men to procreate with. It’s for this reason why a recent UCT study showed that 91% of all heavily active cycling enthusiasts are single men, a further 83% of whom are named either Guy or Richard.

In short then, cycling is overrated, and the Pick n Pay Argus Cycle Tour even more so.

In fact, the only reason a silicon-boobed Constantia mom hasn’t won the Cycle Tour yet is because they realize, like I do, that the whole thing is just a complete waste of time, and that there are more fulfilling things to do on a Sunday morning. Like watching a block of Gouda cheese decompose.

Oakes signing off.

UPDATE: [30/03/2010] – So it seems I’ve ruffled a few feathers over the last few days. I still maintain that cycling is easy and have thus decided to man up and try it out for a few weeks. I will wear the testicle crushing shorts and the alien helmet and document my findings. Stay tuned.

Fame: Ricky Martin shows how it is done.

I’ve been quite the social butterfly these last few weeks, and so in that spirit, Friday evening saw me shaking my bon-bon on the dance floor of a swanky night club in Camps Bay. I don’ t usually find myself on that side of Cape Town too often, firstly because these days I am more likely to enjoy a book rather than a bender; and secondly because it can be a bloody nightmare finding parking anywhere along the strip, what with all the Ferraris, Audis and minibus taxis hogging the streets.

Nevertheless, I eventually found a spot for my Lamborghini and, once I had successfully navigated the pavement filled with female vagrants with babies on their backs, looked forward to rubbing shoulders with the creme de la crème of Cape Town’s urban night life.

Cue a few minutes later, and there I was, in the middle of a packed dance floor, doing the Macarena. Now, as anyone who has actually seen me do the Macarena will tell you, it’s a very seductive and hypnotic dance move. I’m pretty sure that, were the whole world to somehow watch me perform this majestic shuffle, we would see an end to all wars, conflicts and domestic squabbles.

So it was no real surprise then, when I was soon approached by four females, who had slowly begun dancing around me, like a pride of lions gingerly circling round a beautiful wild stallion, who had inexplicably managed to find its way into the wild jungle that is the Kruger National Park, but who nevertheless feared no one.

“Excuse me,” said the leader, nervously approaching me, in a non-threatening manner. “Are you a normal person, or someone famous?”.

“Why, I am famous of course,” I replied, with all the confidence and charisma of a seasoned liar.

“Oh really?” she said excitedly, “what is it that you do?”

“Well, you may know me from my various underwear commercials I did in 2005. I was the official face of Polish underpants brand Slovski.” I struck out my crotch as I said this, subliminally highlighting my magnificent groin region, which I had further augmented with a strategically placed sock.

“Seriously? That is quite impressive.” she said, no doubt referring to both my modeling achievements, as well as my pronounced package.

“But that’s not all,” I continued, on a bit of a roll now. “You probably also recognize me from my short but pivotal role as the kid with the ice-cream, in the Michael Dudikoff classic, American Ninja 2, shot right here in Cape Town during the 80’s.”

“Mmm, I was only born in 1991,” she said, “but let me ask my friend, she is a big fan of ninja movies, especially ones starring Michael Dudikoff.” She then proceeded to do so and, after carefully scrutinizing me for a couple of minutes, her friend confirmed that it was in fact me.

This then lead to them following me around for approximately 25 more minutes, until they came to the realisation that there were likely to be people at this party more famous than a burnt out former underwear model, one who insisted on paying for his beer with R5 coins he kept in a separate pocket in his jeans, and who steadfastly refused to tip the barmen..

In fact, I later saw the leader sucking the face of a particularly unattractive man who claimed to be the brother of the American actor Johnny Depp, this despite the fact that I had heard him speaking in Afrikaans to his friend at the bar earlier that evening.

Which just goes to show, you can easily pull women in Camps Bay if you’re famous. Even if you just lie and say that you are.

Oakes signing off.

Walking: Something Shaun Is Quite Crap At.

So a few Sundays back I decided to call The Girlfriend’s bluff, and agreed to her offer of a brisk walk in the nearby forest. It was an instinctive action, after hearing her tell the other guests at the braai we were at, what an inactive, beer-soaked man I was becoming. I obviously disagreed with this sentiment wholeheartedly, and playfully tossed an empty beer can at her head to show my disapproval.

So, once she had made what was probably meant to be a symbolic gesture, I felt almost obliged to except it, if only to save face. By this point, I had vanquished about a half a chicken, three baby lambs, and approximately seven feet of sausage. Admittedly, I had also managed to consume a healthy amount of lagers by then, so my estimation of the food I had may have been a little off.

Nevertheless, I am fairly certain about one thing though. When it comes to walking, I am surprisingly useless.

This became apparent after about 5 minutes of trooping through Newlands. Sure, it wasn’t the coolest day, and Havaianas are not the preferred footwear for hikers, but there was a gentle breeze, and we were walking at a fairly leisurely pace. I was quite alarmed then, when I literally began melting after the first kilometre. I must have easily lost about five kilos in water retention, and that was after a mere ten minutes of strolling. People began pointing and staring, as I resembled someone who had just dived into a swimming pool with his clothes on, and was now walking in the street, soaking wet.

I couldn’t quite fathom this, and began resenting the fact that I gobbled down another lamb chop seconds before we embarked on the journey, as my stomach had now decided to partake in flip flops, after encountering the rather foreign concept of exercise so soon after digesting meat.

Besides that, my legs began tightening up, and eventually dug its heels in and refused to budge, like a sulky 12 year old who has been told that he isn’t going to the beach anymore as promised, but is instead going to visit horrible Auntie Ethel with the halitosis, as she is on her last and wants to see him one last time.

Somehow, we made it to the halfway spot, a fairly lush area, filled with trees, shrubbery, and various benches and open areas for picnicking. I think I recall a stream running through the area as well, but at this point I was just about to pass out through sheer exhaustion, and had begun hallucinating. I swear I saw Kevin Spacey having a quiet sarmie on one of the benches, but The Girlfriend assures me it was just a white vagrant smoking marijuana.

I remember closing my eyes tightly for a second, as an obese, delusional woman with the tiniest pair of cheeky shorts entered our line of sight. When I opened them again, I suddenly found myself lying half naked on the lounge floor at The HQ, with an assortment of smelling salts, cooling fans and bottles of mineral water aimed at my general direction.

There are two possible explanations for this debacle then; someone either spiked my bottle of water (my money is on the old grey-haired couple who trotted passed us early in the journey, they smelled of copper and wore grey shoes.) or I actually do have the athletic stamina of a dry piece of toast.

Suffice to say, my ego has been badly bruised and my reputation considerably sullied. I shall now stick to driving for a while. Less chance of me looking like a complete wally that way.

Oakes signing off.

Bender from Futurama: Not really what we are talking about.

Now don’t ask me why, but last week I found myself knocking back shooters in Claremont, the preferred stomping ground for students and young revelers who haven’t quite worked up the courage to party in the city itself yet.

The night had started innocently enough, with a quiet ale at the local watering hole near The HQ, after which I had planned to go home, have some milk, catch an episode of Flight of the Conchords before having an early night in.

I know – very rock n roll, very sexy – but hey, this is what gets me excited these days.

In any event, things did not go exactly as planned, and instead of shaking my head in amusement at the antics of Jemaine and Bret in the comfort of my lounge; I found myself shaking my head in bemusement at the antics of Jonno and Big Dave, two jocks who started shoving each other on the dance floor of a semi deserted club on Claremont Main Road.

Now as far as I can work out, Claremont currently has about six clubs or bars all within walking distance of each other. And by walking distance, I mean you could literally spit outside the window of one establishment, and risk hitting the doorman square in the face as he is busy standing outside the other one. Since most of these doormen seem rather juiced up and irritable, I would strongly advise against that though, but it does give you an idea of the close proximity and level of choice one has.

Because of this choice, the market is understandably saturated, and so many of these places resort to blatant bribery and lies to get patrons through their doors. At our first stop, the doorman was practically begging us to go inside and create a vibe, promising great music, scantily clad UCT students, and copious amounts of cheap booze. Upon entry however, he was proven to be a liar, as we were greeted by a Johnny Clegg dance remix from 2004, together with a fat brunette with a tiara on her head dancing by herself. Granted, the drinks were dirt cheap, but 1 out of 3 was a fairly poor effort on the doorman’s part, and so we decided to move on to another venue.

Club number two fared no better though. There, after ordering a fairly strong round, we found ourselves doubled up, thanks to a 2-for-1 deal the barman with dishonest eyes had failed to mention to us. We weren’t exactly complaining about this, but it did seem to be a delaying tactic designed to keep us there, as I could literally count the number of other patrons inside. This included a group of five guys who were diligently watching a football game which had occurred days earlier, together with a couple who were vigorously sucking each other’s faces, whilst a third wheel sat with them, watching intently whilst gently touching himself.

Finishing our drinks, we headed off to club number three, which to its credit, had a semblance of a decent vibe to it. The drinks were affordable, there were more than 20 people inside, and the music didn’t completely make me want to put a bottle through my neck. Counting against it though was the caliber of clientele. About two minutes into my dancing to Chris Brown’s “I Can Transform Ya”, I was accosted by an overly aggressive female, who reeked of cigarettes and vomit. “My friends think you should dance with me” she bellowed in a voice several decabils lower than my own, and it required the welcome diversion of Jonno and Big Dave’s altercation, to allow me to slowly moonwalk my way out of there.

We did eventually manage to make a night out of it, and I ended up punishing a good few bars that evening. This of course resulted in a rather dreadful morning after, one in which my skull seemed determined to crush my brain for reasons unclear to me. Suffice to say, I’ll be sticking to milk and Flight of the Conchords in the immediate future. Sure, benders can be fun, but usually only when you’re 18. I think that ship has sailed for me, I’ll now be returning to Jemaine and Bret’s cheesy music videos instead.

Oakes signing off.

A typical day in Cape Town.

Can there be anything quite as annoying as the wind we are currently experiencing in Cape Town? The gale force howling we have been hearing these last few days, is of course what locals refer to as the “Cape Doctor”, a fierce South Easterly wind which is meant to clean the city of any smog, fumes and other harmful toxins, blowing them all into the poorer suburbs of the Western Cape instead.

In theory it is supposed to clean Cape Town but all it seems to do is blow the city’s rubbish all over the streets before having it all settle, frustratingly enough, onto my car. I staggered out my flat this morning to find what appeared to be someone’s grocery shopping sprawled across my windshield. There were yoghurts, dried fruits and – more disturbingly – a brown sticky substance which I hope to God was some sort of chocolate mousse dessert.

They of course all managed to find their way around the dozens of other cars parked in the street, in between the two heroin addicts who sleep on the pavement, and under and over the various trees which line our property, before deciding to nestle nicely on my car.

I know I’ve written about the wind before, and I know I’m probably sounding like a stuck record now, but I really do detest it. Even as a young boy watching the hit cartoon series Captain Planet and the Planeteers, the Russian girl with the power of Wind always rubbed me up the wrong way, to the point where I secretly wished the Asian bird with the Water power would drown her during an alcohol-fuelled argument over one of the boys. Sadly, it being a kids television show, they never did have that drunken fight, but I have continued to be annoyed by both the kid, as well as the shitty element she controlled.

So much so, that I have even spent considerable time researching how to reduce the effects of the wind in the Cape Town city centre. Based on my findings, I’m fairly sure we can successfully divert it with approximately five strategically placed windmill constructions, which will catch the wind as it heads toward my bedroom window, and gently but firmly steer it towards Port Elizabeth instead.

Why Port Elizabeth? Well, the people who live there are fairly reserved and soft spoken and so would not kick up too much of a fuss. Also, I know of at least two people who I don’t get on with who currently reside there, and so this would also appeal to my sense of vengeance.

Seriously though, is there anything we can do to prevent getting blown over on a daily basis? I don’t care about blue light convoys getting banned in the Western Cape, I want Helen Zille to focus her efforts on making the Cape Town Gardens area a wind-free zone. This is becoming a huge problem now.

As my neighbor is fond of telling me, the only good thing about the wind is when you are breaking it. Just make sure to light a match straight after though.

Oakes signing off.

Cell Phones: Trendy and cool.

I remember proudly walking around with a brick-sized cell phone attached to my belt during the year 2000, a time where I completely fancied myself. Back then, brick-sized cell phones were all the rage, it was during the cell phone boom in South Africa, and you were considered to be un trendy and slightly pathetic if you did not own one.

A truly multi-purpose gadget, I remember using my Nokia 5110 to leave missed calls for my friends, hit people over the head when they annoyed me, and even used it to send an sms to cute girls I wanted to rub my winky on, but was too shy to speak to in person.

Back then, air time was ridiculously expensive, Vodacom and MTN were bending us over and giving everyone a hefty rogering, and you could easily end up paying the equivalent of a month’s rent on a hour long cell phone call. Being a traditionally stingy nation, South Africans proclaimed the sms as the desired communication tool of choice, as it worked out to about 99c to send a 90 character message. Unlike Twitter’s famous 140 characters though, 90 characters never really got you very far.

Usually, you would just about manage to describe the length and girth of your winky, before running out of characters and having to pay an extra 99c for the pleasure of sending a two unit message, which would then take up 10% of the recipient’s cell phone storage. (Hard to believe, but there was a time when cell phones only stored about 20 messages) Obviously this was a lose lose situation, and so people developed a short hand method of communicating via sms.

And so, “that” soon became “dat”, “before” evolved into “b4”, and just like magic, every man and his dog was soon “Lol”ing at anything mildly amusing, saving the “ROTFLMA”ing for the very special moments in life.

Although this was a horrible time for someone who insisted on speaking eloquently, I grudgingly accepted it, both in terms of the economic value in speaking like a retard, as well as the fact that it was quite an inconvenience typing out long words on a cell phone key board.

That was then though, and this is now. Today, I am completely underwhelmed by people who continue to persist in communicating in this manner, especially with the use of BlackBerry keyboards and predictive text. Don’t even get me started on people who use computers to update their Twitter or Facebook status.

Quite frankly, if you are using a fully fledged computer keyboard to update your Facebook status, and you still insist on using “dat” instead of “that”, I will make it my mission to track you down and kick you firmly in the throat. Come on, it’s one extra letter, type the damn thing out. You know how to spell, you are not a cretin.

There is nothing cute about writing like a six year old. Especially when you are a thirty seven year old. Keep this up and you will be needing a colonoscopy, specifically to identify the foreign object found up there, namely my foot. Lol. Or not.

Oakes signing off.

Salsa - 'Why Not?' thought Shaun

The Girlfriend has been rather animated recently about us sharing hobbies and doing more things together. This is easier said than done, as some of my favourite hobbies include getting drunk at grubby bars, watching bikini clad tourists swim in the pool across the street, and just generally being cynical and miserable about most things.

Understandably, she seemed a tad reluctant to take up these activities with me, and so Salsa dancing was mentioned as a compromise hobby instead.

Now, for those of you who are not familiar with Salsa, it’s probably the biggest and most famous Cuban import we have in South Africa today – well, besides all those clichéd Che Guevara tshirts you see everywhere – but those are made in China anyway.

The Salsa is a very sexy dance, where the women wear revealing outfits, and the men wear disturbingly tight pants. Mix this up with some hypnotic salsa music, which basically sounds like something the Latino singer Ricky Martin might belt out; together with the always lingering presence of booze at the bar, and you have the makings of a seriously sexy Wednesday evening on your hands.

As this would be the only opportunity for me to rub myself up against other women without the risk of The Girlfriend punching me in the throat, I immediately jumped at the invitation, and decided to check it out.

The Girlfriend, who had been doing this for months already, ditched me for her Advanced dancer friends pretty much as soon as we arrived, leaving me to fend for myself and try and make friends in the Beginners Class. The Beginners Class was an eclectic blend of people from all walks of life – shy geeky men, women with facial hair, a couple of attractive model wannabes and, for some obscure reason, a large amount of Scandinavian students.

The class itself is a relatively relaxed affair. Through disciplined repetition, you are made to do the same steps over and over again, until you have successfully molded your second left foot into a fully functional right one. On this particular night, I was taught how to do a two step primarily using my toes and swiveling my hips, whilst at the same time maintaining an air of heterosexuality. The men also learnt how to successfully spin a woman around without twisting her arm or sending her sprawling into an adjacent wall, something I have always wanted to master after several unfortunate incidents in the past. With each new repetition, the women will move one place to their left, meaning that in theory, everyone gets an opportunity to dance with one another. Somehow, this didn’t seem to work in my case, as I kept ending up with a muscular Swedish woman who, despite her rather butch nature, seemed more determined to rub my crotch with her upper thigh, than actually learning any moves.

Somehow, I managed to evade her attempts at indecent assault, and successfully managed to make it all the way to the social part of the evening. Here, normally shy men get the chance to dance with women who would typically be way out of their league. Interestingly enough, the unwritten code in the world of Salsa seems to be that you never decline an invitation to dance.

Trying it out for myself, I gingerly approached a tall brunette who looked as if she could crack walnuts with her chiseled calf muscles, which resembled elongated slabs of solid concrete. It was whilst dancing with the slightly scary Nut Cracker, that I learnt another Salsa lesson – you don’t talk during Salsa. “So do you come here often?” I began, only to be cut short by a look of pure venom, usually given to me by The Girlfriend whenever I forget to courtesy flush.

I looked around the dance floor and yes, although everyone seemed happy and wore reasonably genuine smiles, no one spoke whilst dancing.

So it seems then that Salsa, not unlike many relationships I know, can only truly be enjoyed if the men keep their mouths shut.

Oakes signing off.

A Smoker: About to get screwed by the Man again.

With Pravin Gordhan’s budget speech last week, heavy smokers can now look forward to paying more than R1000 per month for the pleasure of putting tar in their lungs. I can of course sit back and be rather smug about this – with it having absolutely no bearing on me – as I have not had a cigarette in more than 5 months now.

This may surprise many of you, my mom included, but I have often flirted with the likes of Rothmans, Peter Stuyvesant and Marlboro over the years.

Going through about four packs a week – usually two during the work week, with another two during obligatory Friday and Saturday night binge drinking sessions – I may not have been classified as a heavy smoker per se. Looking back, I don’t think I ever woke up wanting to have a smoke – cravings usually occurred whilst vanquishing another stiff Jameson, or trying to look cool in front of impressionable young 18 year old girls who found guys who smoked “edgy”.

There were of course also times when I felt nervous and needed nicotine to calm me down, often when I needed the courage to speak to someone prettier than me, or when I needed to persuade bosses that it would be in their best interests not to fire me, and that they should in fact pay me more instead.

The shock tactics employed by anti-smoking organizations never really phased me. Sure, you hear all the bad press smoking has, the fact that it causes lung cancer, emphysema, can make you sterile and even cause impotency. As a young stud finding his way in the world however, these were not the types of issues which would keep me up at night.

Talk of impotency is best left to old people with saggy balls or the Brazilian footballer Pele, not a twenty year old man who can just about pee straight. As such, these concerns would often all be filed in the “Let’s worry about this in another few years” folder, which also contained plans to eventually be tax registered, and to set up a high yielding pension fund.

As a rule, I tended to buy the “Smoking Can Harm Your Pregnancy” boxes anyway, as it served to re-assure me, fairly confident that I was highly unlikely to fall pregnant, and thus could smoke without causing any danger to my unborn child.

No, It was the noticeable signs of ageing that eventually lead me to throw my cigarettes away.

I was pretty comfortable with the smell – for many reasons, I found it rather comforting that I permanently smelled as if I were at a braai, and the smoker’s breathe could easily be countered with the disciplined use of sugar-free chewing gum. It was the yellowed teeth, wrinkled face and slightly grey complexion I developed which eventually swayed me though.

Which is why I believe these anti-smoking adverts should seriously change their tact. Showing pictures of black lungs are not going to get people to stop buying cigarettes. Showing a photograph of me after a heavy night of boozing and smoking just might though.

Oakes signing off.

Cricket: A fearsome game.

So this past Sunday I had what The Girlfriend often refers to as a “Shaun Moment”, which basically involves me doing something entirely irrational and more than a little silly. Examples of previous Shaun Moments would include the year I gave The Girlfriend a Nintendo Wii for Christmas, the month I decided to invest half my salary in lottery tickets, and the fateful night I decided to consume a large tumbler of what I now know was not cream soda but rather something called “absinthe”.

On this occasion however, I decided to forfeit my usual Sunday ritual of lying on the couch, breaking wind intermittently whilst eating roast chicken and reading the Sunday Times, and instead spend the day chasing a hard piece of leather around a field, in what was meant to be a gentle game of social cricket.

Now, I haven’t played much cricket since high school, back in the days when I often had differing opinions to my cricket coach, leading to endless debates about my role in the team. ( I thought I should open the batting for the team, he thought I shouldn’t be in the team)

Nevertheless, the lack of match practice didn’t really bother me, as I felt confident in my natural fitness, my arguable cricketing talent, and the fact that I would be up against a bunch of internet geeks who were more likely to humiliate me playing cricket online than on an actual field.

So it was with this false sense of bravado that I walked up to the wicket to bat, having not picked up a cricket bat in several months, and then it was only to try and gently tap the vagrant who I found sleeping under my car.

I’ve always thought of cricket as a bit of a soft sport. Sure, there are times when you may have to face 150km/h balls from a maniacal Pakistani fast bowler, but at this social level of the game, it’s more likely to be a dibbly dobbler computer programmer who can just about turn his arm over.

Five minutes of batting however, and I was beginning to question that school of thought, what with my big toe having been severely abused not once, not twice, but three times by a deadly accurate and fiercely aggressive dibbly dobbler. Added to that, my hip and arm resembled something that had been chewed on by a rabid dog, as I had earlier made the suicidal decision to dive into the batting crease, not realizing that with the bone hard pitch, this would be the equivalent of throwing myself into broken glass. If this were not enough, my knees then decided to pack in, no doubt out of pure shock, having not been forced to exert itself in this manner in close to seven years.

The end result saw me scratching around and scoring a fairly respectable 31 runs, having faced approximately 672 balls.(I’ve always believed in a steady and measured approach to batting). I even had a bit of a bowl and took a wicket with my first ball, before reverting to type and bowling, what coaches and fans alike would describe rather aptly as “a pile of shite”.

Unfortunately my hands let me down though, and I ended up dropping a catch off the batsman who would go on to win the game for the other team, leading to various jeers, curses and insulting remarks by both teammates and the crowd.

In addition to losing the game then, the damage inflicted on Shaun Oakes was particular heavy. With a big toe as large as my head, bits of sinew and bone hanging off my arm, and walking in a manner which suggests an eventful night in a Pollsmoor Prison cell, I am currently resembling a man who has been a victim of a vicious assault.

Which is why I will probably stick to rugby or bare-knuckle boxing in future. Cricket is just a tad too rough for my liking.

Oakes signing off.

Cape Town Municipality. Or Hell.

Being a raging masochist, I felt like punishing myself last week and so – rather than closing a door on my hand, or having The Girlfriend kick me in the groin repeatedly – I decided to go one step further and pay a visit to the Cape Town Municipal offices instead.

Getting inside the offices is a process in itself, finding legal parking outside the building takes an extraordinary amount of luck and good fortune. Basically, there seems to be more chance of you winning the lottery than actually finding a parking bay which is available to the public, as everything seems to be demarcated and catered for what is referred to as “disk holders”. Who these disk holders are, or where you can get hold of one of these magical passes is anyone’s guess, but I’ll go on the assumption that the vast amount of parking bays are set aside for staff. It will go down as one of life’s great mysteries then, alongside the Loch Ness monster and the existence of aliens, where the municipality expects the public to park.

After several fruitless minutes searching for parking, I eventually stopped crying, composed myself sufficiently, and then reverted to the age old custom of bribery, offering the security guard at the boom gate untold riches as well as the soul of my unborn child if he allowed me to park in one of the demarcated bays.

Once inside the building, I then proceeded to do the customary inter-department dance, which involves going to a department where three clerks are available with no queues in sight, before being twirled around and spun in the direction of another department, where two clerks are available for a queue of approximately twenty thousand.

Now besides dealing with the clerks, who all seemed to have recently woken up from year-long comas, there are also the members of the public one has to contend with.

For some bizarre reason, people seem to think they can unload their life stories to one another when queuing in government buildings. Who came up with this rule? When did I agree to it? Apparently I did though, because I am now privy to the fact that Ethel, a grey-haired woman from Walmer Estate, is eagerly awaiting the return of her son Clive, who is living the dream and serving people warm beer in a seedy pub in Bradford, England. I can also tell you that she hates black people because she found it necessary to mention this to me. Repeatedly.

With the racist Ethel to my left, I was sandwiched nicely with a seemingly retarded woman on my right, who seemed to be seated there for no apparent reason, and who laughed hysterically whenever I asked her to shift up as we got closer to the clerks. To rub further salt in the wounds, I was also lucky enough to have an old man sitting directly behind me at one point, who sounded as if he had water on the lung, and who insisted on coughing on the back of my neck.

Eventually I made it to the front of the queue – although technically I was actually second, the retarded woman in front of me seemed to be treating this as a day out, and seemed more concerned with eating the contents inside her nose then being served.

From here I dealt with one of the recently revived clerks, who spoke to me in slow, dull tones, and who seemed absolutely terrified whenever he looked at his computer screen.

After what felt like a lifetime, I eventually staggered out of the building. To my surprise the whole experience had only taken two hours, it was still Thursday and, as far as I knew the year was still 2010. The municipality is a bit like Narnia in that respect, as time seems to stand still once you enter the grey netherworld.

Nevertheless, if you ever want to punish an enemy or nemesis, get them to file a query at the municipality. There can surely be no fate worse than that.

Oakes signing off.

Tools: Manliness

After years of sterling service, our beloved toilet seat passed away peacefully in her sleep this week, having developed a terminal crack in her left side after feeling the full force of a particularly heavy dinner guest.

On most occasions, any sort of house related maintenance job would see us calling a variety of tradesmen and professionals, be it plumbers, painters, or even someone to change a car tyre. Although I strike an intimidating pose, I am surprisingly useless when it comes to any sort of DIY job around the home, and it is usually The Girlfriend who will change the light bulbs, whilst I stand behind her, watching and nodding approvingly.

2010 is a year of action however, and so Saturday morning – rather than sleeping off the whiskey of the previous night – saw me lying on my back in the bathroom instead, with an assortment of impressive looking tools at my side. There I lay for a good half hour or so, staring intently at the nether regions of our toilet, as an impending feeling of desperation slowly engulfed me.

Contrary to popular belief, changing a toilet seat is a mammoth and intricate task, eclipsed only perhaps by performing brain surgery, or designing an interplanetary space shuttle. Created in the early 19th century by engineers who had grown weary of urinating in the streets, they built a contraption that is pretty much indestructible – save for the seat itself – which is like the Achilles Heel of the traditional bathroom loo. Displaying a wicked sense of humour however, they went and decided to make the process of removing the seat an almost impossible task, a task attempted by many but achieved by few.

You see, the seat is attached to the porcelain base through a complicated set of long screw-like nails carefully mounted on each side of the bowl. These are fastened from both the top and the bottom of the bowl, through carefully hidden screws unseen by the naked eye.

Unfastening these with a traditional screw driver is an exercise in futility – there is simply no space to leverage yourself and turn the screw driver appropriately. It took me about two hours of sweating, swearing and just a little bit of sobbing before I came to this realisation, eventually resorted to contorting my body into a human pretzel, basically having to tuck both my left leg and right arm behind my head in order to successfully unfasten the first bastard of a screw.

Ecstatic at this moral victory, I immediately broke into a celebratory Macarena, until The Girlfriend appeared and sagely pointed out that there were still three sections to complete, I was a mediocre Macarena dancer, and she needed to use the toilet facilities shortly.

Using her threat to turn my car into a porta-loo as a motivating factor, I was able to power through and remove the old seat, and install the new one in a relatively quick turn-around time of three hours 45 minutes, or roughly the time it takes to learn the Macarena.

All in all it was a good day then; we have a new toilet seat in the family, I saved my car from a terrible fate, and I discovered that I am able to to tuck my leg behind my head.

I’d say that’s a win in any man’s book.

Oakes signing off.