Shaun Is Punished And Made To Watch A Chick
Flick.
It was 8:30 at the Favourite Son
household, it was coffee time, and I had put three sugars in The
Girlfriend's cuppa instead of her usual two. Normally, this would
result in her beating the bare soles of my feet with extra dry droe
wors, but on this occasion she was in a PARTICULARLY foul mood,
and decided to punish me accordingly.
Chicks. In A Flick.
So it came to pass then, that I found myself at the cinema watching
The Jane Austen Book Club, a bonafide chick flick
if ever there was one.
Just so we're clear, the definition of a chick flick is the following:
Any film which does not contain violence and strong language, does
not contain gratuitous sex, does not contain computer generated
special effects but DOES star the actor Mark Ruffalo or the guy
from Grey's Anatomy.
That is a chick flick.
From what I understood, the basic plot revolves around the following
- Six women, tired of being messed around by the disappointing men
in their life, decide to start a book club to discuss
the works of Jane Austen. They then embark on a journey of discovery,
realising the parallels that their relationships have with the novels
they are reading.
It stars Maggie Grace, who was the hot chick from Lost, before she
got killed.
I'm not going to lie - I DID get into this film and ended up enjoying
it. Although the movie seemed to suggest that most men are unsophisticated
Neanderthals, I found myself smiling and giggling away with all
the quirky little jokes and bits of humour where one least expects
it.
It's a movie you might take your mom to go and watch, probably your
girlfriend too. I wouldn't take both of them together though, as
they will probably gang up on you afterward and accuse you of being
an unsophisticated Neanderthal.
And Apparently Doesn't Seem To Know Who Jennifer
Garner Is.
The highlight of the Oscar ceremony last night, Gary Busey
gatecrashes Ryan Seacrest's interview with Jennifer Garner
on the red carpet.
Gary Busey Has Lost His Marbles.
Busey is clearly off his rocker, and claims to have been searching
for Ryan Seacrest for years, who we find out is apparently very
difficult to find, like a rare diamond or a chest of stolen Aztec
gold.
"What have I done?" asks Seacrest when hearing this startling
bit of news.
"It's what you HAVEN'T done" Busey replies somewhat cryptically,
and we see Ryan literally shitting himself as he gets stared down
by the crazed blonde.
Mind you, Gary DOES get to suck on the luscious neck of
Jennifer Garner, so maybe he isn't so crazy after all.
Someone Spreads Nasty Rumour That Danny K
Would Also Perform. Panic Ensues.
Celine Dion.
As a young turk progressing through the ranks at Catholic
Primary School, we learnt on a daily basis the importance
of accountability when f**king up on something.
Punishment usually consisted of being lectured for 45 minutes in
a poorly ventilated room with old Father Barnabus, an ancient priest
with breath so bad, it would literally make your nostrils
burn. This taught us a simple rule - If you're going to
do something, make sure you do it properly.
Clearly the organisers of the recent Celine Dion concert
in Vergelegen Wine Estate, Cape Town, never spent any time with
Father Barney and his good friend Halitosis, or they would never
have produced such a debacle. The Hotel Chick, who attended the
Saturday show, reported back on the incompetent organisation, which
included:
Being stuck in the car for hours on the way
through, with traffic moving so slowly she was able to take a nap
and read the Da Vinci Code, from start to finish.
Paying R900 for a Golden Circle ticket, and
then having to physically fight her way through to the area, as
the concert became a free-for-all and ushers were unable to regulate
who went where.
Being told by one of the ushers not to bother
getting food or drink, as "the queues are too long, and there
is not enough stalls".
Managing to obtain a picnic hamper, only to
discover that it did not contain a bottle of wine.
Cape Talk discussed this on the Sunday morning,
with several callers voicing similar complaints, so clearly someone
dropped the ball.
Apparently, someone also began spreading rumours that local singer
Danny K would be performing at the event, causing many people to
turn their cars around in blind panic, and head for the hills or
nearby bomb shelters, which obviously further complicated things.
With KFM attaching their name to the event, I'm sure they must be
pretty pissed off with proceedings and it will be interesting to
see if they address the complaints on air or simply skirt around
it. (The show itself was pretty amazing from all accounts).
As an adventurous and free spirit, I am someone
who enjoys trying weird and wonderful things at least once, and
will then often try it again and again, like a fat child who doesn't
know when to stop eating. Recent first-time adventures include using
this "Google" thing (3 weeks ago) as well as having sex
(2 weeks ago).
So it was with great excitement then, when The Girlfriend took me
to the Labia Theatre, in Orange Street, Cape Town.
Whenever I think of The Labia Theatre, my mind invariably turns
to screenings of off-beat artsy films, gay and lesbian cinema festivals,
weirdly dressed hippies and slightly mouldy old people in soft pastel
colours. This isn't necessarily the case though. Sure, all of these
ARE there, although to be fair to the hippies - they were not THAT
weirdly dressed - one of them had on the same pair of Hello Kitty
sandals that I was sporting.
... Not LITERALLY the same pair, obviously. It was identical to
mine. We were both wearing our own pairs. They just happened to
be identical.
Anyhoo, at the Labia, you have the ability to drink copious
amounts of alcohol whilst watching your film, a right I
have long fought over with the management of Ster Kinekor as well
as Nu Metro, who unjustly seem to frown upon this, and who have
regularly ejected me whenever I bring out a trusty six-pack from
the confines of the rucksack I carry around with me.
The Labia seating arrangements are also far superior to the larger
complexes, allowing you to bring a blanket, a basket and basically
have a picnic in your seat. It's that big.
A bit of a Cape Town institution, it was opened
way back in 1940, by Queen Labia, the famous Cape Town transvestite
who just wanted a place to watch his movies and drink his beer,
without getting hassled by Ster Kinekor and Nu Metro staff. And
so a cultural hotspot was developed, and became a place much loved
by hundreds of regular patrons, like Table Mountain, or the slightly
skanky-looking blonde who lives in the block of flats next to the
HQ. (What DOES she do?)
What is interesting is that apparently the Labia might be closing
down. As anyone who has driven passed will know, there is currently
a lot of construction taking place. Rumours seem to suggest that
the owners are mulling with the idea of selling it off, to be demolished
and replaced with luxury 2-bedroomed flats.
Which means I may have to smuggle beers into my rucksack again,
and risk being crushed by the fearsome
Neville, from the Cavendish Ster Kinekor.
Seriously, he could - I heard he has a bionic arm.
You can contact the Labia at (021) 424 5927 or email them at theatre@labia.co.za
to find out what's playing.
Old People. Saying The Things That Old People
Say.
The most unpleasant thing about attending a funeral, besides the
obvious sadness over the loss of a loved one, is mingling with the
really old people with bad breath who seem to magically
appear at these events, in a puff of purple smoke and dry ice. You
never see or hear from them for years, until you see them in the
corner of the hall afterward, sipping on their tea and talking about
their bad arthritis.
Many of them haven't seen you in decades, or probably haven't even
met you before, but are merely friends and acquaintances of your
grandparents from years long passed, when dinosaurs and hairy men
in loin cloths roamed the earth. This doesn't seem to phase them
though, and they will invariably try and chat with you
whilst you nervously gulp down your orange juice and caramel cupcake.
This leads to the most inane conversation known to man, and invariably
involves my (apparently) abnormal height. I normally try and entertain
myself by being a complete arsehole, so the conversation
usually plays out like this:
Old Person # 1: My word, but you've grown so tall? Me: Well, yes, my mother and father are both tall.
Genetically, this would lead to the probability that I would thus
ALSO be tall. It's science, really. Old Person # 1: ... Okay. (With a nod of the head,
to signify their understanding of science)
Old Person # 2: Is that you? Wow, look how big
you've become. Me: Really? What do you mean... Jesus Hernandez!
You're right! I HAVE grown! When the f**k did this happen? Have
I been in a coma all these years? Well, this certainly came as a
surprise, thanks for keeping me up to speed.
Old Person # 3: Hello young man, do you remember
me? The last time I saw you, you were this high. (Points to his
knee. Using his walking stick. Because he can't bend that low.) Me: Well, if that were the case, do you REALLY
expect me to remember you? I must have been about 3 years old then.
Why on earth would I remember you from that time. Unless... wait...
did you perhaps touch me inappropriately back then? Is that why
I would remember you? What are you trying to tell me, pervert? Did
I have to call you "uncle"? Are you in cahoots with the
singer, Jurie
Els? [Allegedly]
Old Person # 4: Hey, where are you growing to?
(Followed by a chuckle at their perceived wit) Me: I'm actually not growing, it's an optical illusion.
I just wear really thick socks.
My attempts at sarcasm usually falls flat, and my mother ends up
grabbing me by the ear and making me apologise to everyone I've
offended in person. Which is a little embarrassing because I'm a
grown man now and this makes the little kids laugh at me and call
me names.
Did You Like The Little Move I Did At The
End There? Yeah, I Enjoyed That Too.
Shaun And His Filthy Looking Flat With The Cracked Wall.
" Rise and shine, handsome!" greeted The Girlfriend cheerfully,
"It's the 14th February, do you know what
that means?"
"I certainly do," I replied enthusiastically, reaching
for my false teeth from the nearby glass tumbler. "The Sax
Appeal is coming out today"
Unfortunately, I had misread the script and overestimated
The Girlfriend's excitement toward UCT's yearly publication.
The 14th of February of course, ALSO happened to be Valentine's
Day, an oversight which understandably lead to shards of
glass finding it's way into my morning coffee, and my car tyres
being slashed.
Besides that hairy start, the rest of the day went rather swimmingly.
A romantic evening was enjoyed, consuming vast amounts of cream
cheese and white wine, whilst singing along to various
ditties by the balding genius that is Phil Collins.
Hopefully, everyone else had a lovely day as well.
Although to be honest, it wouldn't really faze me either way, I
was just trying to make conversation.
Hope you have a good weekend though... Although again, see above.
Like an unattractive older woman sneaking up on
her drunken prey, the SA Blog Awards have sprung
up without warning, catching many of us with our pants around our
ankles.
We did really well a few weeks back, getting the nod for the international
blog nomination. Now it's time for the local version, and of
course we simply HAVE to be there.
There is quite a large amount of categories this year, including
a ridiculously egotistical one called "Best Post About The
SA Blog Awards" - also known as the "Big F**king Wank"
category.
The ones you SHOULD be taking note of though would be the following:
1) South African Weblog Of The Year 2) Most Humorous South African Weblog 3) Best Post On A South African Blog (we suggest
http://www.shaunoakes.com/charity-volunteers-are-evil.htm) 4) Best Original Writing On A South African Blog
I've made it really easy for you, simply CLICK
HERE and my details will automatically be added to the form.
You will need to add a reason WHY you've made the selection, but
just say that I told you to, and then click the submit button at
the bottom. Easy peasy.
Special mention can also go to a few other favourites, such as SLXS
as well as Baglett.
It was movie night at the Favourite Son household,
and that meant only one thing - we were going to watch a movie.
Not just any movie though, we were in the mood for a special effects
blockbuster, with digital surround sound to temporarily deafen us.
Naturally then, we decided on The Bucket List,
starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman.
The film centres around these two characters, (messrs Nicholson
and Freeman) who are thrown together when forced to share a hospital
room. They are both terminally ill, and thus decide to "go
out with a bang", by compiling a list of things to do before
they "kick the bucket". This includes
skydiving, climbing the Himalayas, and motorcycling atop the Great
Wall Of China. They are able to do this because Nicholson's character
is ludicrously wealthy, whilst Freeman's character is a bit of a
leach, who doesn't mind not having to pay his way.
Like the sub heading above suggests, it's a bit of a chick
flick, except it's aimed at old men. Not gay old
men, just old men in general. Mind you, gay old men WOULD probably
enjoy this as well, as it's fairly broad and could appeal to most
demographics. It's a decent feel-good little flick,
although a tad predictable and at times overly sentimental - you
will laugh with them, and you will most likely cry with them as
well.
Because they die in the end.
...Huh? What do you mean I spoilt it for you? They were both TERMINALLY
ill, that means there was no hope of recovery.
You could have seen that in the PREVIEW.
Don't be silly, I didn't spoil it for you...Come now, stop crying...
Okay, I was just kidding, really they don't die.
A scientist develops a cure at the end and they both survive.
Guys, Let's Be Honest Here - We Don't Look Good
In Skinny Jeans.
Especially You Over There. Yes I'm Talking
To You, Cut That Shit Out.
It was Tuesday, and to celebrate it, The Girlfriend and I decided
to exchange gifts. I got her a box of glass tumblers,
as she had been moaning for months about having to make guests drink
water straight from the tap, whilst she in turn gave me a pair of
grey skinny jeans.
This obviously didn't sit well with me, as there are very few things
I hate more than skinny jeans, especially grey ones.
"Why would you buy me this?", I demanded, and hurled it
back at her in an ungrateful manner. This obviously didn't sit well
with The Girlfriend - she hates it when I hurl things, as I throw
like a girl - and a domestic row soon began. Unfortunately,
I AGAIN underestimated how strong she is for such a petite woman,
and she soon had me in a vicious full
nelson neck hold, refusing to break it until I had apologised
for my outburst, given her my pin number, and eaten the week-old
chicken in the fridge.
Once I had finished throwing up, and taken my medication for the
salmonella poisoning, I sat down and stared at my latest piece of
clothing attire, trying to fathom the attraction these pants seem
to have.
Why HAVE skinny jeans become so popular these days? Isn't it meant
for women?
Skinny Jeans - Meant For Women?
As a red-blooded male, I can't think of anything worse than wearing
skin-tight denim, which merely serves to highlight your chicken
legs, as well as your overly large feet. Also,
isn't it tight on the package? How uncomfortable must THAT be?
Skinny Jeans - How Uncomfortable Must THAT Be?
Clearly it must be, as the latest trend is for guys to wear it really
low, basically hanging around their ankles. What's
this? Are the Orange Organics auditioning for a new member? Is it
Pugwall's turn to make an ironically fashionable comeback?
No, it's not quite time yet.
Guys, let's nip this skinny jeans thing in the bud. It's embarrassing,
and makes my tummy feel funny.
Cape Town masochists and other locals looking to get messed
around can now enjoy a new and exciting venue. Pepenero
Restaurant is a seafood eatery in Mouille Point, Cape Town
- that apparently strives to offer the WORSE customer service in
the city. Which to all those familiar with past
Cape Town experiences will agree, is no mean feat. These boys
are not to be messed with though, and they pull it off with aplomb.
The food is fairly bland, but this can be excused
as steak was ordered and they DO seem to be a seafood restaurant
after all.
Payment time however, is when Pepenero's staff and management REALLY
show their class.
It seems as if the restaurant policy is for the
waitress to take your card, go off into the downstairs cellar and
then begin writing out her 800 page memoir. Yes, this is how long
it will take before you get to see your plastic again.
When you eventually get hold of the waitress in question, and request
your card back, she will literally THROW it back at you.
Take in what I just wrote there... Sip on it slowly like a strong
Jameson on the rocks.
I kid you not, she will actually do this. She will take your card
and HURL it at you, like a javelin thrower, or a cavewoman hunting
with a crudely-made spear.
Understandably surprised at this peculiar turn of events,
you will look to the other waitrons and management for a reaction.
The other waitrons will then come over, telling you that "Shame.
She's actually having a tough time at the moment."
Oh, okay. That excuses everything. Of COURSE she can act like a
wild chimpanzee, she's "actually having a
tough time at the moment".
Shame.
To try and get some clarity out of this quite incredible
farce, you will seek out the manager on duty, who will
of course be on the phone. Although seeing you and realising that
you need to speak to her, she will carry on with her conversation,
and leave you standing there for several minutes, before your ego
taps you on the shoulder and tells you to leave.
Which you then do.
Seriously, what on EARTH is going on, Pepenero's? Are you running
a restaurant or a circus? Do you really expect people to come back
after being treated like that?
Shocking and pathetic, the behaviour of the waitress was quite unacceptable
- and needless to say - a certain bespectacled and ruggedly handsome
Capetonian shall not be dining there in future.
What: Pepenero Restaurant (www.pepenero.co.za ) Where: No. 1, Two Oceans Beaches, Bay Road, Mouille
Point How Much: + - R200 per person. If they act like
animals though, you can just leave without paying.
Shaun Notices A Strange New Con Artist Trick
In Cape Town Suburbs.
I normally fill up on petrol at the
Engen in Tokai, near the Blue Route Mall, as the
staff there basically have sex with my
car, such is their love and gentle touch, which makes the automobile
giddy and giggly like a little school girl.
The other day, whilst having my tyres checked, a shabbily
dressed man leaned into my window and tried to speak with
me. Instinctively, my finger reached for the window button, swiftly
jamming his head up against the roof of the car - a suitable punishment
for his act of insolence. He proved to be quite
a tenacious bugger though - the sharp pains in his neck didn't seem
to affect him - and he carried on speaking to me, his head firmly
wedged in by my electric window.
Basically he needed some change for petrol, he
was on his way to Fish Hoek, and had managed to run out of gas.
What difference my R5 would make in the greater scheme of things
was beyond me, but I was feeling in a charitable mood,
and so flung him some change as I pulled away, freeing him from
the vice like grip I had him in.
Shaun - In A Charitable Mood
I didn't think much of it at the time, as I had just consumed 17
beers at the Brass Bell, and was thus more concerned
with other pressing issues, such as where I lived, what my name
was, and why there was a Hispanic gentleman tied up in my boot.
I was reminded of this incident yesterday however, when ANOTHER
shabbily dressed man approached me at the SAME station, ALSO asking
for petrol money. I'm not sure if it was the same guy (these white
people all look the same) but I'm pretty sure that it was. I refused
on this occasion - as I was feeling bitter and mean-spirited - and
then watched as he shuffled back to his little Corsa,
and just chilled there, waiting around for the next car to pull
up.
Have our beggars evolved? Do they have cars now? I'm pretty sure
he was going to mill around there long after I had left. I would
imagine he could easily make a couple of hundred rant if
he spent the day there, collecting R2 and R5 coins from customers
feeling sorry for his sad little predicament.
I don't know if I am just being cynical, but I'm pretty sure this
is some kind of con.
After all, can people be so stupid that they run out of petrol?
Is Not So Eligible Anymore. Prestigious Title
Now Up For Grabs.
People Searching For The Gupster.
In news which will now doubt shock Cape Town to it's very core -
like a thunderous earthquake or a really loud bang - The Gupster
(Officially Cape Town's fifth most eligible bachelor)
has reportedly been spotted holding hands with someone, obviously
signifying a serious relationship, and has now
given up his much coveted title.
Of Cape Town's fifth most eligible bachelor. In case we weren't
clear.
This of course means those heady days of having sex with 19 women
at the same time are over. As are the heavy petting sessions
at Ignite's back bar which usually involved a young flossie
(floozie), her sister, their mother, as well as two members of their
extended family. We could also mention that little fling with a
certain blonde hotel heiress, but we won't go there.
The Gupster - Who Was That Blonde Hotel Heiress?
By the way, PLEASE refrain from asking about the first
four eligible bachelors as EVERYONE knows that they're
all rather inconsequential and speaking about them will make you
sound quite ignorant.
It was a tepidly warm Friday evening, and I was
knocking back copious amounts of chilled Ken
Forresters, as one is prone to do on tepidly warm Friday evenings.
The evening was going well - I later planned on consuming vast amounts
of Flings (baked, not fried), finishing another bottle of Chenin
Blanc, whilst watching a light hearted comedy - preferably one starring
the reliable actor Mark
Ruffalo.
Just then the lights
went out, leading to a great wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Moving swiftly with all the nimbleness of an elegant gazelle, I
managed to fend off the initial attack by The Girlfriend, who somewhat
irrationally accused me of not paying the electricity bill.
"But Eskom didn't advertise any load shedding," was her
bizarre reasoning, as if this had previously prevented the electricity
giant from pissing on our dreams.
With no power at The HQ, and The Girlfriend refusing to sleep with
me, we decided to head down to Long Street with
The Project Manager and Kim. Funnily enough, not much was happening
down there either, and so we moved from one disappointing venue
to the next, bamboozling poor bar staff who were now forced to work
out the price of four R12 beverages in their heads, obviously causing
it to explode.
Their heads. Not the beverages.
Things were looking desperate, we had just caused the death of our
third barman, and we were now rather bored with it all. Just then
we received an important phone call, as one often does at a critical
point in the movie plot, when things are looking dire.
News filtered through of a club armed with a generator - where music
and intelligent lighting awaited us - and so we quickly dashed into
the automobile, like hungry fat kids looking for a slice of chocolate
cake.
In a hazy blur of fast driving, sharp turns and knocking over a
pesky vagrant or two, we ended up at a strange warehouse. Staggering
up the stairs, I was greeted to a rather strange party consisting
of electro music, bad fashion and even worse dancing. The penny
dropped - this was an 80's party.
What You Might Wear At An 80's Party.
Content that this was MY scene, I jumped in with both feet, sending
a poor patron flying across the dancefloor with foot prints all
over her leopard-skinned ass.
Jamming to the likes of The Bangles and The
Pet Shop Boys, we spent the rest of the night at this club
called The Assembly, which apparently has many
a themed party. The venue is quite spacious for the Cape Town scene,
where most clubs are usually the size of a UK 10 shoe box.
At the Assembly, the large dancefloor easily allowed me to do my
famous chicken dancing routine, whilst the others hid in one of
the many dark corners of the club, pretending that they didn't know
me. To cut a medium-sized story short, the night sailed by, like
a drunken yachtsman taking his boat for a joyride through the Waterfront
harbour.
I eventually arrived home at an ungodly hour, felt my way to the
bedroom using Braille, and collapsed in an exhausted heap. I awoke
the next morning to find a bottle of Hansa Marzen Gold wedged in
my mouth, which merely confirmed the awesome night that was CLEARLY
had by all.
So next time you're in town, and Eskom decides to take a wee in
your glass of sparkling mineral water, thus COMPLETELY spoiling
it for you, pay a visit to The Assembly, which seems to be immune
to their evil ways.
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