As you all are no doubt aware, I've been writing for the Sports Leader website, a subsidiary of the Mail & Guardian. My latest column has been published, here with an extract:
"The European football championships ended on Sunday in typically spectacular fashion, as the Spanish flummoxed and beguiled the workmanlike Germans to take the cup, ending decades of frustration and disappointment for their weary fans, while giving them bragging rights for the next four years. It capped off an amazing tournament, offering the kind of exhilaration and excitement that would usually require extensive foreplay with some cuddling thereafter."Read More.
Have a read through, and don't be shy to drop a comment.
Monday evenings are usually spent chasing The Girlfriend around the lounge, trying to seduce her with sweet nothings in her ear, and tranquilizers in her thigh.
Round about twenty past seven though, the fun and games usually come to an abrupt end.
With a swift kick to the groin, The Girlfriend will leave me curled up in the foetal position, desperately trying not to cough up my testicles, whilst she settles down for the weather report.
"But Shaun,"
I hear you ask, "why is she so keen on the weather report? Surely frolicking with you is a helluva lot more fun than knowing what the swells in Richard's Bay and Durban are going to be?" You would think so, dear readers, but this is surprisingly NOT the case.
I haven't been able to prove it yet, but I think it has something to do with E-TV's new weatherman, Derek Van Dam. Whenever Derek is on, her eyes glaze over, like a fat kid who has just seen a chocolate doughnut at the Pick n Pay counter, and tries to gobble it up when the baker lady turns her back to fetch some more fresh pies out the oven.
The Girlfriend will then
go off into this weird trance, listening to Derek and his American accent massacre the likes of "Polokwane" and "Vredendal". Apparently she isn't the only one who loves the wee man - he is apparently 3 feet tall - many other guys I've spoken to have told me similar tales of kicks in the groin and general apathy by their girlfriends for those 15 minutes that Van Dam is on every night.
Worst of all, The Girlfriend isn't even able to tell me what the temperature will be the next day, which invariably leaves me prancing around in sleeveless vests and shorts when it's pissing with rain outside. This OBVIOUSLY happens because I can't judge the weather just by looking outside.
If I could, I would be a f**king weatherman.
I don't think I like Derek Van Dam. He seems slightly creepy, the kind of of guy who will fart in the lift and then not own up, letting the old woman or the little kid with the runny nose take the fall instead. His voice also annoys me, the type of high pitch that I had when I was 15, during those heady days of Catholic School Choir - before my voice broke and I was then able to cause Earth tremors and panties to drop with my deep baritone.
Seriously, why do women love him? Is it the accent? The boy band hairstyle?
I'm at a loss here, and I can't handle another kick in the gonads.
"Honey, I'm home," I squealed excitedly, as I stumbled into the doorway of The HQ. I had experienced a long, stressful Sunday at church choir, and the thought of The Girlfriend rubbing my feet with Arnica oil left me feeling giddy like a young school girl.
It was then that I realised I hadn't fumbled my way in using the keys as is usually the case, because firstly, I wasn't drunk on this occasion, but more importantly, the door was already open. I also noticed that my beloved leather couch seemed to have been moved from it's usual spot. I knew this because as I hurled myself down, my head didn't meet the soft bovine leather I had anticipated, but rather the cold unforgiving floor.
"How strange," I thought aloud, shaking off the effects of the mild concussion whilst picking up bits of my chipped teeth. I was pretty convinced that this WAS The HQ, my photos on the wall suggested that I was in the right place, unless my neighbours completely adored me, which I was a little skeptical about seeing as I regularly found the tyres of my car slashed, and poisonous snakes in my mailbox.
"Well, what do you think!," screamed The Girlfriend, who had quietly crept up on me, before leaping up to my left ear. She had taken it upon herself to redecorate our lair, which annoyed me as most of the things thrown out were invariably mine.
This included my Dr Alban albums, as well as my collection of bomber jackets, but thankfully I realised that she didn't manage to throw my name away. I did a pretty good job with that myself on Thursday night, which was totally awesome by the way, and something we will talk about later this week.
Right now I have to see a man about a boat, so we will chat a bit later.
It's the last Thursday of June, which of course means it's time to go on a wicked bender through the mean streets of Claremont.
Some of the Claremont night spots we will be hitting will of course include the following:
Stones - Ah, the perfect place to play a game of pool, whilst at the same time trying to hit on the flossies who think they're better than Tin Roof, but frustratingly can't get into Wadda or Tiger Tiger, thus chilling in limbo at the purgatory that is Stones, whilst waiting for their lift to fetch them at 12pm outside McDonalds. A typical conversation heard: "What's that? Your brother is here to fetch you now?"
"Okay, goodbye sweetie, thanks again for the bl*wjob outside."
"Of course I'll call you. Huh? No, I've got your number in my head. I don't need to save it on my phone."
Tin Roof (Tinners) - An exotic blend of vomit and beer can only mean one thing - you have just stepped into Tin Roof, home to pretty but skanky girls and brash yet insecure guys. Tin Roof, where you will never hear a song by Timbaland or Britney Spears.
"Hey you."
"Oh, you're introducing yourself to me again? We HAVE actually met - we made out about an hour ago at the barrel"
"No, don't be embarrassed. You made out with my friend earlier as well, but it's fine. No, seriously."
"You want to go to my car now? Okay, let me just finish my beer first. I just bought it and I don't really want to waste it."
"Stand outside and wait for me so long, I'll be another ten minutes. Go now, I'm talking to my friend."
Tiger Tiger - The location for many wild adventures back in the day, Tiger should be pumping tonight, especially with the whole student night vibe going on.
"Hey? You want to kiss me?"
"No, it's fine thanks. I just saw you hurling outside when I came in. You can rather go buy me another Amstel. Quickly though, this one is almost finished."
Wadda Bar - Is Wadda open on a Thursday? We will soon find out. I've been to Wadda once or twice, maybe even three times, and I honesty can't remember any of those occasions, so I guess that's a pretty glowing endorsement?
Springboks - The last time I went to Springboks I was this tall (points to his waist). They closed for a while, then opened up as Vertigo for a few months, before becoming known as Springboks again.
Is the place still so f*cking vuil?
Are the beers there still cheap?
Does that pole-dancing midget still hang out there?
All those questions will be answered tonight. With a traveling party of about 20, it should be quite the night, so don't be shy to buy me a drink if I happen to stumble into you. Especially if I fall over. Because that's just good manners.
NB: Everyone will have fun, but of course there will be no real shenanigans, or irresponsible behaviour like drinking and driving because:
A) The Girlfriend would cut my other foot off, and I need that one for walking and dancing. And karate kicks.
B) We are responsible gentlemen and will of course be traveling by taxi.
Whilst wrestling with The Girlfriend last night, I managed to strain 17 different muscle groups, so I'm not going to be able to write anything of substance today. I thought this would be a good opportunity to highlight some of my earlier masterpieces however, masterpieces which you may have missed.
Look, I know the Archives section can be daunting, but it's really worth the effort. Take breaks in between though, because the sheer brilliance of it all will literally make your head explode. Otherwise, be sure to have a look at the following. This is what we call mandatory reading, as my History teacher used to say, before completely f*cking with us and setting the paper on the OTHER Shakespeare play, the one you never read and then fell asleep during the movie because you were out the previous night at Club Vibe in Lansdowne? (Yeah, I've been around)
Anyhoo, have a gander at these crackers, they might make you shit yourself in awe, so best wear a nappy while you read them:
My latest Sports Leader column is up. Just like last time, it's another
staggeringly brilliant read. Here with an extract:
"Watching the Springboks take on Italy this past weekend was about as enjoyable
as having my car stolen, or breaking a leg. The atrocious weather conditions
certainly played a part - with Francois Steyn almost swimming his way over for the
first try of the match - but the Italians should really shoulder most of the blame, having
arrived on the field intent on keeping the score down. On attack, they looked about as threatening as a common garden slug, turning the match into a bit of a farce, as garden slugs are not renowned for their attacking prowess."Read More.
As you would have noticed, I changed the name of the column, as "Tackling from Behind" sounded a bit gay.
So this weekend we decided to watch the new Incredible Hulk film. Many of you would have remembered the earlier Hulk film, made about 5 years back, starring Eric Bana and directed by Ang Lee. You would have remembered it because the film was so incredibly devoid of action, causing many viewers to die through sheer boredom, which I think pissed off many people. Seriously, it was like The Ring - people were dropping like flies - so much so that the movie studios decided to make a new one as a "Sorry we f*cked up" gesture. This incarnation, starring the always reliable Edward Norton, goes a long way toward actually doing that.
This film will literally rock you. The action has been cranked way up, Hulk doesn't look like he glows in the dark anymore, and this movie also has a worthwhile bad guy to fight. (The first one had Nick Nolte and his dogs. Lame)
Let's look at the plot - this film doesn't serve as a introduction to how Bruce Banner became the Hulk, everything is nicely summarised for you in the first 5 minutes. Basically, an experiment goes wrong, he is exposed to gamma rays, and now - when he gets too angry - Bruce Banner turns into the super strong green monster known as the Hulk.
This movie picks up in Brazil, where Banner (Norton) works at a bottling factory whilst training himself to calm the f*ck down. He is tracked by William Hurt's character, General Ross, who is the father of Betty Ross, who is Banner's love interest, and is played by Liv Tyler. There is also Tim Roth, who helps track Banner down, and who eventually becomes the main bad guy, after conducting some experiments of his own. Basically what that means is that he also becomes a monster, and the climax to the movie is obviously then a kick ass fight scene between the two beasts.
The movie works because the actors all pull their weight, although Liv Tyler seemed a bit too pretty to be taken seriously as a scientist. I mean, I'm sure there are pretty scientists out there, but I still get a bit sceptical when I see one in a movie. It's like when you see a good-looking cop who lives in a penthouse, bangs a supermodel and drives a sportscar. That shit doesn't really fly in real life.
The special effects are right up there - the Hulk is CGI (that means he isn't actually real) but in interaction with the characters on camera it seems as if he is in fact real. Which is awesome.
My one criticism? The movie really was loud, I'm not joking when I say that it will quite easily unblock the wax from your ears, which annoyed me slightly as I was saving those for some candles I wanted to make. Also, when he does turn into the Hulk, he doesn't look like Edward Norton and has a mushroom hairstyle, which I thought was slightly strange.
Nevertheless, for an entertaining movie romp, go and see The Incredible Hulk. It scores a Steve-O rating of 3.5.
As my mom keeps telling me - I tend to be quite a bitter individual, and deeply resent the success of others. I hold special contempt for professional sportmen and other elite athletes, as I can barely catch a cold, let alone a hard piece of pig-skin hurtling toward me at 150km/h. I blame my high school coach, Mr Le Grange, who never saw my vast, untapped potential and instead, made me the 14th man in cricket, and made me clean and polish the rugby boots for our first team.
I am thus deeply envious that the likes of Ronaldo, Dan Carter and Lewis Hamilton can earn in excess of $2.5 million a year, whilst I only pull in about $1.5 million (and that's BEFORE tax. BEFORE!).
It's fitting then that I will now be writing a regular column for Sports Leader, the sporting section of the Mail & Guardian Online. There, I will be sharing my unique insight on football, rugby and other sporting codes on a regular basis, and it should make for riveting reading. I'm not sure how Some Other Guy got his pic up there instead of mine, but he's quite sneaky that way.
My first column has just been posted, and already it's making waves. I just got an angry phone call from someone called Joel Santana, and I keep getting "Please Call Me's" from a number I've traced to Safa (South African Football Association). Here is an extract:
Our national football team, Bafana Bafana, have always taken great pride in humiliating their long suffering fans, with this past Saturday’s performance proving to be no exception. In losing to Sierra Leone, a country comprising of 253 people, 14 dogs and a large tree stump, Bafana merely upheld a tradition of limp performances when playing away from home, and now face the very real prospect of failing to qualify for the 2010 African Cup of Nations.
Friday has arrived unannounced, like the bastard love child you fathered when you slept with that 18 year old flossie, back when you were in that pop/rock band and you toured Mossel Bay that one year. Yeah, you thought you were very clever giving her a fake name and number, but Mossel Bay flossies are clever birds, and she swiped your drivers license when you were passed out in the bathroom, the license you thought you lost on the bus?
Anyhoo, enough of that. Let's enjoy this week's jam - "Eternal Fame" by none other than The Bangles.
Great song - great group. As a tenacious 8 year old, I always fancied the younger lead singer and used to write to the Bangles every week (we didn't have email then, we had actual letters that you had to write. With a pen and paper. And then put it in this red box called a "Postbox". Weird, I know).
Eventually my mom put a stop to it, as she thought it was strange for a little boy to be writing to grown women, and sent me outside to go play with the other kids instead.
A Pole Dancer. Not To Be Confused With A Poll Dancer.
So Monday was National Youth Day, a public holiday held in South Africa. Much of my day was spent trying to pin The Girlfriend down onto the communal bed, a task which proved difficult as she is quite elusive, like an nippy little gemsbok, and kept jabbing me in the eye whenever I approached. This disappointed me, as she knows I only have one good eye left, after previously forcing me to stare into the sun a few months back. Why would she go for the eye? Is she TRYING to blind me? Not cool. Not cool.
Anyhoo, what did Youth Day actually mean to you? I don't feel like writing anything of substance today, and a poll seems like a good way to pass the time, so be a good sport and fill it in. I'm off to the optometrist.
A Post Office Worker. Casually Going Through Your Mail.
In the "news" today, it was announced that Amazon have refused to deliver packages through the Post Office anymore, due to rampant theft by the South African parastatal. From iol.co.za:
Rampant theft by Post Office workers has infuriated internet retailing giant Amazon so much that it will no longer send goods to South Africa by post, Business Day has reported.
Anyone wanting to order directly from the US-based website must now pay for a private courier service adding about R420 to the price of a DVD.
No one from the Post Office would comment.
No other African country's postal service had been blacklisted by Amazon, Business Day said.
Basically what that means is that I can no longer purchase my collection of risque magazines, movies or my special orthopedic shoes (I have a hammer toe) through them anymore, without forking out an additional R420 rarnt.
Which is 2 lap dances at Mavericks. Or one and a half songs at House of Rasputin. Or a whole afternoon's fun at The Cage. Is The Cage still open? I dunno, I'm waffling now.
Throw A Few Phrases Together, Call Yourself A Poet
Big Wank.
A Typical Poet. Taking Shit.
If the world of writing could be described as a conventional human body, blogging would probably be the armpits. Just like blogging, you have compete freedom when it comes to armpits, you can choose to shave, not shave, trim, use deodorant, use anti-perspirant or use nothing at all. Your decisions will either leave you smelling like a bed of roses, or reeking like the weird kid in High School, who everyone avoided but was nice to at the same time, for fear of him coming to the classroom one day and shooting off chunks of everyone with his Uncle's shotgun.
Why am I going off on a tangent? I don't really know. I've had a few stiff Jamesons, The Girlfriend is refusing to touch my feet, and now I'm feeling a little emotional.
What I really want to talk about today though, is how little regard I have for poets. Specifically, the ones that go up on stage during open mic nights and recite phrases which make absolutely no sense. You know the ones, they're usually these plump women who were either drug addicts or who were smacked around by their boyfriends. They now appear to have some sort of neo-feminist agenda, and may end of waffling vaguely about women's rights or the immense power a woman possesses.
It may sound something like the following:
Woman, strong, powerful mother;
Birth giver, life liver, soul receiver;
Powerful spirit and body;
Passion like a deep blue ocean;
Blue, true, new, you;
I am one with my feminist other.
Impressed? I literally came up with that in about 55 seconds. It's this type of pretentious waffle that really grates my cheese. People actually seem to make a living out of this, appearing on stage during cultural events, concerts and other live entertainment shows. It's even on our television screens now, there is a Sasol campaign currently flighting which consists of about 4 or 5 different adverts, all featuring these "poets" reciting their verses for about 15 seconds before the advert ends. What does it all mean?
F**k knows, but it's somehow connected to Sasol. Shame on you Sasol, what were you thinking?
It reminds me of that Golf advert last year, when the guy interrupts a group of hip hop freestylers, and begins rapping badly, throwing together any words that may rhyme, but he's respected anyway, because he drives a Golf and, as the payoff line goes, "street cred comes standard". These poets are just as bad as that guy, but they don't drive Golfs, so they can't pull it off.
Seriously, let's put a stop to this now, you're all just embarrassing yourselves.
Sevruga Restaurant. Seating 350 People. Or 200 really fat people. Maybe even 500 really thin people, I'm not too sure.
It's Monday, and what better way to spend it than to look at photos we took a few days earlier, when we checked out Sevruga restaurant in the V&A Waterfront? Sevruga promises to be the newest hangout spot for models, celebrities and hangers on like Danny K, and is situated where Cantina Tequila used to be. You know, Cantina - the place you occasionally went to on a Saturday night, where you got pissed and hit on by drunk foreign older women? Yeah, that place. Good times.
... Whoa there, I just re-read that last bit, I don't mean the drunk foreign older women actually pissed on you, I mean you GOT pissed and then they HIT on you... just thought I'd clear that up.
What was I saying?
Oh yes,
Sevruga have taken over and have done quite the redecorating job. Offering a fine dining experience - think duck, goat's cheese and sushi rather than nachos and hot chips. It has a bit of a Beluga vibe, which is no surprise seeing as it's owned by the same guy.
Anyhoo, enough with the banter, here with some random pics taken from the evening.
The Entrance: This is the covered entrance to Sevruga. A few bottles of wine later, I would do a seductive pole dance for The Girlfriend over here, before I was ushered away.
Cracking The Whip: We kept the waitrons and staff busy, with drinks, food orders and other special requests throughout the evening, as we're quite bossy that way, and it made us feel rather good about ourselves. To his credit, our waiter was pretty jacked up, and even performed the Macarena when we asked him to, which amazed us as that dance died out in the mid-nineties, and there are only 79 people left in the world who can still do the Macarena, 1 of which was at Sevruga that night.
The Bathrooms: Which look like celebrity dressing rooms. Nice.
Hey Look: As previously mentioned, Sevruga is a great spot to see celebrities, models, and other beautiful and famous people. Here, Bobby flips out at the sight of his idol, SABC 3 continuity presenter Jason. His joy was short lived however, as he realised that it wasn't Jason but was actually a large wooden plank, something which is commonly mistaken for the SABC 3 continuity presenter.
Hey Look (Part Deux): As we have just touched on, Sevruga is a great spot to bump into well-known entertainment and business figures. Here, Some Other Guy looks on excitedly at the news that Kurt Darren has just taken a seat at the bar. His dream of meeting the Afrikaans pop sensation were dashed though, when he realised that the "Kurt Darren" at the bar, was actually just an investment banker from Vredehoek.
The Girlfriend: A couple of older gentlemen kept staring at her during dinner and taking sneaky photographs with their cellphones, until I pointed out to them that she wasn't reality television star Kim Kardashian, it was actually just The Girlfriend, showing a bit of cleavage.
Fine Dining: As one would expect, the hostesses are all spectacularly hot. Here, Some Other Guy's attention wanders from his sashimi dish to the absolute belter in the low cut dress.
The Stock Pot: The stock pot in the kitchen is arguably the biggest stock pot in the world, with the capacity to hold several thousand litres. Apparently, the pot will also be used for anyone who tries to "dine and dash", or for someone who doesn't tip appropriately, so be warned.
In summary, an enjoyable night was had by all. A night at Sevruga offers the finest cuisine, great wine, and good times. It officially opens to the public this week so confirm how trendy and cool you are and pay them a visit.
Call them at 021 421 5134.
What: Sevruga
Where: Shop 4, Quay 5, Waterfront (Where Cantina Tequila used to be)
How Much: + - R180 per person. (That includes a few stiff Jamesons)
The Loose Change In Your Pocket. If You Listen To Shaun.
Everyone has been complaining recently about this "interest rate" thing and how it affects something called the "Economy". Basically what it seems to mean is that food prices are on the increase. Thus, seeing as we're in June (the month of giving) I've decided to share some of my money-saving tips with you - tips I live by, tips which ensure I am never short of a R5 or two.
Read on and be amazed by my financial and fiscal wisdom:
1) Never Pay For Lunch
Whenever I'm feeling peckish and need a bite to eat, I'll pop over to the nearest Pick n Pay for a custard doughnut or Danish pastry. I'll usually collect it from Tasniema, who works at the bakery, mozy on over to the stationery section, and casually snack on my treat whilst browsing for HB pencils and cellotape. The trick is to be very nonchalant about the whole thing, most people won't give you a second glance if you give off the right vibe. I usually have pastries or pies for lunch but will occasionally request some hot chips or chicken as well. That is a bit tricky though, as ideally you need to be sitting down to eat that meal, which is hard as there are no real sitting area in the store. It can be done, but we will leave that for another chapter, so stick to the easy-to-eat meals for now. This of course also applies to soft-drinks, although I tend to stick to drinking yoghurts.
2) Eat Out Often
And by "eat out", I mean at "friends and family", and by "often", I mean "every day". I regularly make unscheduled visits to my mom and dad, uncles, aunts and extended family round about dinner time, which is usually at about 6pm give or take. Family members will usually be too polite to tell you to leave and so will invite you to share their meal, if somewhat reluctantly. Friends don't really feel that genetic obligation and theoretically may ask you to leave, but South Africans are generally pretty afraid of confrontation so if you're slightly aggressive, you shouldn't really have any problems with them either. What they may try and do is prolong the serving of dinner until you leave. They will try and make you leave through the clever use of boring small talk and the refusal to engage in conversation with you, which will result in long periods of silence. Although a clever ploy on their part, the secret is to remain patient and stick it out, as their resolve tends to be pretty fragile and they will eventually break and offer you some chicken and beans.
3) Never Pay For The Bill
If you do find yourself dining at a restaurant, don't panic. Depending on who you're dining with, you have two options. If it's a spouse or loved one, NEVER ask for the bill, let them do it, the waitron is trained to deliver the bill to the person who has requested it, always remember that. Once the bill is on the table, put on your Thabo Mbeki demeanour and deny it's existence, carry on with the mundane conversation you were having about your fascination with your teeth and the names you have given them. Eventually, the spouse will be threatening harakiri and will gladly get the bill in order to leave. If you're dining with a group of friends, again, NEVER ask for the bill. Once it has arrived though and they start calculating the costs, announce in a breezy fashion that you are going to the men's room. Then leave. NB - This last approach may lead to a lack of future invites from this particular group of friends but if you're on Facebook, you will know that there are hundreds of other friends you can dine with.
Sticking to these principles, one can easily save hundreds - if not thousands - of rarnt every week, meaning that when Tito Mobweni decided to "raise the interest rates" again, you can just blithely look up from your newspaper and go, "meh".
Iron Man. Throwing Around Luxury 4x4's. Just For Shit.
I was in two minds when I walked into the cinema to watch Iron Man. Firstly,
because The Girlfriend threatened to inject pepper spray into my eyeballs if the movie sucked, as she wanted to watch Sex and The City instead. Secondly, I remember the cartoon series from the nineties being pretty shitty, with other superhero cartoons like Spiderman and X-Men kicking it squarely in the balls. And thirdly, I noted that the movie was directed by Jon Favreau, best known for directing the kids' film Zathura, which I never watched, but understood to be pretty mediocre.
It was thus with great joy and relieved corneas then, that I can say that Iron Man is QUITE the enjoyable flick. Robert Downey Jnr is pretty f*cking good with his portrayal of the hero Tony Stark, who starts out being an immoral (but still likeable) shit, selling weapons of mass destruction and sleeping with lots of skanky women. During a demonstration in the Afghanistan, he is kidnapped by terrorists and is forced to build a metallic suit to break out of his prison, and from there the movie really takes off.
The rest of the cast are all pretty solid, with Gwyneth Paltrow, Terence Howard and Jeff Daniels ably supporting Downey Jnr. Apparently this film will be the first of a planned trilogy like Spiderman, and after smashing the box office in the States (it's currently well on it's way to making $300 million) I'm sure they will roll out the next film pretty quickly.
I'm not going to give away the rest of the plot, partly because I don't really want to spoil anything, but more importantly, because I've had a few Jamesons and can't really remember it now. I might remember it tomorrow morning when I wake up, but I'm not going to feel like rewriting this then. Take it from me, if you enjoyed the X-Men trilogy, thought Spiderman was okay, and thought The Incredible Hulk (with Eric Bana) was incredibly shit, then you will very likely enjoy Iron Man.
The cool thing about these films are that the special effects keep getting better and better. I was literally sitting there with a semi through the entire film, which I think made The Girlfriend, as well as the old woman sitting on my left, rather uncomfortable.
In summary, a good entertaining blockbuster to watch on the big screen. I'm now going to take this opportunity to introduce my new ranking system for movies. Called the Steve-O's, named after Steve-O, who is always such a happy go lucky guy.
Steve-O. A Happy Go Lucky Kind Of Guy.
Basically a Steve-O will be used as a unit of enjoyment I derived from a film. 5 Steve-O's is the absolute maximum though, I think it's fair to say that no one can ever be THAT impressed by something.
Thus, having explained that, I think Iron Man deserves a Steve-O rating of 4.
It's Friday, which means it's time for our regular Friday Feel Good Jam and today we have - huh? What was that you just said? I haven't done this in months?
Well, maybe we weren't feeling good for a while. Maybe we were on anti-depressants and didn't want to bother with Youtube clips of popular music videos. Ever think of that? No, I thought not.
Insensitive prick.
Anyhoo, today we feature Charles and Eddie, with that perrenial favourite "Would I Lie To You (Oh Yeah)". Charles and Eddie were a pop group consisted of two guys named, funnily enough, "Charles" and "Eddie".
Charles and Eddie. Who Were In A Pop Group Called Charles and Eddie. That's Irony.
How cool are these guys. I love the white guy's little bit of facial hair he has going on just below his bottom lip. I've tried growing mine for ages but it's difficult getting the length right because my hair grows so quickly. In fact, in the time I've written this I've already had to shave twice. True story.
Anyhoo, let's get down and groove to this Friday's Feel Good Jam:
That was awesome. So what happened to these cats? Well apparently the black guy died a few years back, so that kind of derailed their plans for global stardom.
It was a wet and cold Wednesday evening in Cape Town, with a biting North Westerly wind that rattled the teeth, and shriveled the penis. It was in these awkward conditions, that I found myself tearing down the M3 towards town, as I was late for dinner again, and the thought of The Girlfriend setting fire to my clothes held little appeal to me.
I had just forced an Uno off the road, and was hurtling around Hospital Bend, when the horribly banal sounds of Michael Buble suddenly entered my ears, causing them to fall off and start violently convulsing.
Let's be very clear on this - the only thing worse than listening to a Michael Buble song, is listening to two Michael Buble songs. He has this incredible knack of sucking the life out of every little ballad he covers / samples, like an insecure child strangling his pet gerbil because he's just found out his parents are getting divorced.
He's been described on various news wires as a "singing sensation" but what's so f**king sensational about doing bad karaoke versions of other people's songs? Besides that, his lazy, jazzy, broody style and image really pisses me off, if I ever met him in the street I'd be like "Dude, I can't believe I just met you in the street? What a cliche.", then I'd compose myself and shake him a couple of times to get some sort of reaction out of him.
Michael Buble: Jazzy. Broody. Chop.
What grates me even more is the incredible publicity machine he must have behind him, who have inexplicably managed to brainwash people into buying his crap. Amazingly, he has managed to sell more than 10 million albums worldwide. Ten Million! To put it into perspective, ten million is more or less how many blind vagrants we have in Cape Town - you know, the ones you will see chilling at EVERY single traffic light in the southern suburbs.
Older people especially just seem to think he's pretty cool, my Old Man being one of them. Whenever I visit the Old Man to try and get some money or alcohol out of him, he puts on one of his Buble albums, causing me to gag and head for the exit door, which my mom normally has waiting open for me.
How can one best describe his music?
Well, the other day I was jogging in the rain, in an attempt to stop being a fat bastard, when I tripped over my hanging stomach and fell in a nearby puddle of mud, drenching me and causing my hair to mince quite ferociously. Eventually I made it back to The HQ where I was greeted by The Girlfriend, who had our industrial cooling fan pointed at me on full power. I suspected she was trying to give me pneumonia and kill me again, but I was thankful all the same, as this experience best summed up what it must be like listening to a full album of Michael Buble - it's like sitting in wet clothes, with a cold fan blowing on you.
Seriously, what is the attraction? Do people just ENJOY hearing someone yawn through an old pop song? Is it because he is Canadian? Do I just have shitty taste in music?
Help me out here. Why do you like Michael Buble? Why do you like Michael Buble? Why do you like Michael Buble? Why do you like Michael Buble?
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