Beluga Restaurant

I have long considered myself a "creative", a free spirit and someone who thinks outside the box. As a young impressionable chap, I remember scratching my head at the concept of "long play records" or "LP's" as we cool kids called them back in the 80's.

"These things are so impractical", I remember saying. "Surely they could come in a more compact disk?"

Then there was the time I was trying to watch German pornography on a poor quality VHS tape. "Bah humbug" I said aloud.

"Why can't this be displayed on a high quality disk which we would then call a DVD, for no apparent reason?"

Yes, these were just some of the many crazy and "out there" ideas I came up with whilst growing up.

As a creative, I enjoy mingling with other like-minded people, and so it came to pass that we arrived at Beluga, a rather trendy little spot at the Foundry, just off Somerset Road, Green Point, where many a creative can be found eating sushi or drinking beer.

Alex the manager seated us at a very exclusive spot upstairs, and The Girlfriend, Kurt The Rep and myself prepared to tuck into sushi, one of Beluga's specialties.

Although reasonably priced by Cape Town's standards, Beluga also offers great specials from 5-7pm every day. Or evening, if you really want to be pedantic about it.

This include massive discounts on their sushi dishes (up to 50% off), which I obviously took advantage of.

The restaurant has a great ambience, no overtly loud background music to speak of, but not uncomfortably quiet either. You can talk about your erection problems or your recent bout of halitosis without fear of anyone hearing you.

The food was to my rather high standard, the sushi was fresh, tight and compact, and the service by our deaf waiter was quite superb (he hovered around every 5 minutes or so without being overly annoying)

For dessert, The Girlfriend and I shared a chocolate truffle cake, a richly layered truffle cake with a sweet chocolate filling, which is probably why it is called a chocolate truffle cake.

Downstairs afterward, we skipped and pranced over to the bar, for a cognac and cigar. Regrettably there were no cigars, the cigarette vending machines were broken and the bar staff didn't want to hand out entjies (loose cigarettes) to Kurt The Rep, who desperately needed his nicotine fix. So that was the only down side then. No entjies at the bar.

Otherwise, it was all good though. Shaun recommends.

What: Beluga
Where: The Foundry, Prestwich Street, Green Point
How Much: + - R180 per person. (That includes a few stiff Jamesons)


[Page Link] [ | ]

Miserable Cape Town Weather

I hate Winter, we've never really been on speaking terms ever since I lent it money to buy a GHD Styler, and it never paid me back. I left it for a few months, assuming that it would feel morally obligated to repay me. Alas, not Winter.

Despite numerous hints, innuendo as well as physical threats, I still don't have my money.

Now it has a luxurious, well kept mane, whilst I am left with minced hair.


Minced Hair - In Need Of A GHD

Seriously, what's up with this weather? Winter in Cape Town normally involves a month of overcast to cloudy weather, before Summer comes and.... wait a minute... well would you look at that - it is actually hailing right now. This is becoming ridiculous. Huge chunks of ice are presently falling from the sky. This depresses me, I'm actually not going to write anymore.

Here are some pics I took from the News24 photo gallery, to prove that I''m not lying about the weather. I do lie about a lot of things, but not on this occasion.


I think this is Rosmead Avenue. Very wet. Very grey.


Cars driving in deep water, as they are of course designed to do.


Cars parked in deep water, as they are of course also designed to do.


Wang Tung, a sushi chef who works in Cape Town

The last image doesn't really have anything to do with the Cape Town weather, but I added it anyway, because he looks happy.

Our air conditioning is presently on strike, it's still hailing outside, and I've just wee'd little urine icicles which - although painful - left me feeling strangely satisfied and fulfilled as I watched it hitting the toilet bowl with great force and vigour.

I'm going to roll into a little ball, and try to not die now.

Till next time. Maybe.


[Page Link] [ | ]

The Great Billy Zane Mystery

Whilst browsing the net the other day, looking for naked pics of Patricia Lewis - as I'm prone to do whenever I have a spare moment, I'm convinced they're out there by the way - I paid a visit to Seth Rotherham's local site, where I stumbled across pics of hot British former television presenter Kelly Brook cavorting in the waves, as hot British former television presenters tend to do when presented with waves. They cavort. It's true, see for yourself next time you see one encountering a wave.

Anyhoo, Kelly Brook is currently having sex with Billy Zane. Obviously not at this very point, well maybe she is - but she's just as likely to be enjoying a cup of tea or having a tuna sandwich, the point is she's living and fornicating with Billy Zane, renowned actor of such blockbusters as Susan's Plan, Alien Agent and, lest we forget, Lest We Forget: The Video Collection.

He will of course also forever be known as having starred in the worst comic book movie of all time, namely The Phantom. Yes, I think we all remember that cinematic stinker, don't we? Let's put a still of that movie up, to jog your memory.


Billy Zane - The Phantom - The Lamest Comic Book Movie Ever Made

Remember now? The plot was slightly hazy, but I remember the purple spandex suit and the fact that he rode around on a horse. What self respecting super hero rides around on a horse?


Not Very Sneaky The Phantom - Those Guys Have Got The Drop On You. Turn Around The Phantom!

Yes, admittedly he did star in the biggest grossing movie of all time, Titanic, but what happened next? The highlight of his career thereafter was being told to shut up by Derek Zoolander just before Derek took on Hansel in the walk-off, which was judged by David Bowie. And which Derek lost.

Billy Zane has just wrapped up filming on a movie tentatively called "Fishtales", starring as Prof. Thomas Bradley, a professor by the name of Thomas Bradley, who falls in love with a mermaid. So again, admittedly, this role may well put him back among Hollywood's A-list shortly.

Apparently Kelly Brook used to date British action hero Jason Statham, who we are all rather fond of, as he rocks the shit out of any movie he is in. Any movie. He just does.

Bizarrely Jason Statham also happens to be the nickname I was given in pre-school (or "creche" as it was known back in the day) so I've always taken a liking to him.

Billy Zane however, is a chop.

Rather Fond Of: Jason Statham

A Chop: Billy Zane

Loves Chops: Kelly Brook

Billy Zane however, is a chop.

Huh? I said that already?

Oh.

Okay then, well done - you caught me out. I was actually just trying to end this off by saying something meaningful. I didn't want to end off with the three images above.

Okay then. You can all go now. I've said my piece.


[Page Link] [ | ]

Shaun Dislikes Glomail. Verimark Too.

The Girlfriend and I were having dinner whilst watching television the other day – two hobbies which we try to do on a daily basis – when she suddenly jumped up and shrieked in delight, the way she usually only does when dashing South African singer Kurt Darren appears on screen.

Half dead from the bottle of Jameson I had just consumed, I managed to stab her thigh with my fork, which she knows is a sign to get the smelling salts, as I am about to pass out.

Determined to see what all the hoopla was about, and hoping that my vision and sense of smell would slowly return once my blood pressure stabilised, I was also secretly excited to see the dapper Mr Darren, as I always admire the chutzpah of a white guy who thinks he can dance.

My vision was quickly restored though but alas, the Afrikaner nation’s answer to Robbie Williams was not on telly, and I was instead greeted by one of those dreadful Glomail infomercials, in which a spandex-clad B-grade actress excitedly extols the virtues of a German-developed exercise machine, telling you how worthless and inadequate your life would be without the groundbreaking equipment being promoted.

Although incredibly fit from all the cooking, cleaning and carrying me from room to room - I could still sense the yearning felt by the Girlfriend, and immediately began searching between the couch pillows for loose change, enough of which would enable me to purchase the product in question and allow me to sleep in the communal bed that night.

Disappointingly, the couch exploration only yielded a paltry R1,75, together with a Josh Groban DVD, three balls of used chewing gum, four unpaid traffic fines as well as my grandfather, who had seemingly managed to escape from the old age home weeks before, and had decided to make his home in the underside of my leather 4-seater ever since.

To cut a long story short, I quickly sent the old man packing (although I certainly didn't do this).

Regrettably, I couldn't come up with the dosh for the "Power Maxx" though, despite turning tricks in Sea Point Main Road, and was thus forced to sleep under the communal bed for a while, a cold, dark and unforgiving place full of dust particles and broken dreams and promises. This sad episode reminded me of my resentment toward infomercials, especially the ones promoting self improvement products.

For many years now, I've taken an intense disliking to Glomail and Verimark. I remember stealing and robbing countless kids on the playground at Catholic primary school, getting enough money together to buy the Energym Crunch, so that I too could have a six pack and pull beautiful soap opera actors like Hunter Tylo and Morgan Fairchild.

Yes, strange as it may sound today - I was a fat kid, and felt I needed the love and gentle touch of Taylor from Bold to make me a better man. Or at least ease the sexual tension which had begun haunting my adolescent years, causing me to spend countless hours in the bathroom "fixing up my hair".


Shaun - Once A Fat Kid. Amazing But True.

Alas, I was later to discover all was not as it seemed, as the amazing results shown on the telly would only become apparent if I followed the "eating plan" which consisted of tiny portions of lentils and bits of organic root, whilst jogging the equivalent of the Comrades marathon every second day.

Used to a daily diet of deep fried pork and strips of greasy fat, I understandably found the going hard, and the image of a naked and oiled Hunter Tylo caressing my sweaty feet slowly ebbed away.

With it, so did my love affair toward infomercials, and we have never rekindled things since.

Stop calling me, it's over. We're done.


[Page Link] [ | ]

Shocking Alcohol Genocide

The Gupster, Cape Town's fifth most eligible bachelor, is fond of sending me shocking images and photographs over this thing we call the "internet", using this thing we call "email".

This morning though he has really taken the cake. And eaten it. That's how bad it is. You know the saying your mom used to tell you, when you were greedy and wanted it all?

"You can't have your cake and eat it?"

Turns out mom was wrong. The Gupster has flipped the whole proverb on it's head. He has taken his cake. And eaten it.

The images below may shock and appall some of you. Be warned.



Let's Get This Party Started: Everything looks good thus far. A couple of guys in uniform spot a massive stash of booze. Shit, it's party time. What are the odds?



The Vultures Arrive: Like flies to shit, some other guys - not Some Other Guy, although we wouldn't be surprised if he had popped up - sniff out the stash. Dash it all. Alright, there's plenty more to share, although the guy in the denims looks like he can really put them away, having already consumed most of that bottle of Absolut Vodka. Hey, why does the guy in the background look like he's about to throw that bottle of wine on the ground?


Dietary Requirements Of Shaun: Two bottles of Red Square vodka, something Shaun has for breakfast when he's in a rush, and doesn't have time for a stiff Jameson or two.


No!!!!: A rather glib guy smashes the two bottles of Red Square vodka, something Shaun has for breakfast when he's in a rush, and doesn't have time for a stiff Jameson or two. To rub salt in the wounds, he goes and throws like a little nancy boy.


Bastards: Why are they doing this? Who knows? But it's pretty shocking and uncalled for. The place probably reeks of spirits and deep regret, a bit like what Steve O and Dangerous D smell like after another crazy night out.


The Aftermath: A lone beer mourns sadly in the desolate mud, as a big tractor thingie destroys the rest of his family. The lone beer's family. Not the big tractor thingie's family. I read it back now and realised that it may have sounded as if the big tractor thingie is destroying his OWN family. He isn't. He is destroying the lone beer's family. Just to clear that up.


Meltdown: Thousands of bottles of alcohol smolders in the flames.... can alcohol smolder? Yes, I believe it can. It's smoldering. Look at it smolder.

Then, whilst reading the news, I stumbled across this debacle. Oh bother.


[Page Link] [ | ]

A Bit Of A Tuesday Ramble

I stumbled across one of Cape Town's best kept secrets the other day. No, it wasn't the cell number of The Gupster (Officially Cape Town's fifth most eligible bachelor).

In fact, I'm just going to go off the topic a bit and put a recent photo of The Gupster up right now.


The Gupster - Cape Town's Fifth Most Eligible Bachelor

Anyhoo, back to the topic at hand, I had a heavy night at Mercury Lounge on Friday, watching the Dirty Skirts (also known as "die Vrot Rokke" by a witty Afrikaans friend of mine). I had previously never had the pleasure of seeing the Dirty Skirts before. I had heard good things from groupie friends of mine who had slept with some of them, and I was also familiar with one of their tracks ("What will I do? Ow, Ow") so I spent the early part of the evening getting suitably soaked on Jamesons whilst excitedly awaiting the band.


Not The Dirty Skirts - Although Their Outfits Seem To Suggest Otherwise

To summarise, the Dirty Skirts were pretty damn good, their music consisting of an eclectic blend of energetic indy rock and - dare I say it - a little bit of pop? Anyhoo, once their set ended we headed off downstairs to shake what our respective mommas gave us, and things escalated from there......

The next morning, I was understandably in a bit of a state, and so trundled out of The HQ looking for food and drink. After walking for what seemed like hours, but was in fact 5 minutes, I eventually stumbled - thanks to a dip in the road - across a lovely little establishment called "Arnolds" in Kloof Street.

There I was given a friendly greeting and a hearty breakfast. The hearty breakfast consisted of eggs, bacon, ostrich sausage, tomatoes, potato wedges, as well as copious amounts of toast, for only R16.

Yes, R16 - basically what you would pay for a stiff Jameson during a night out.

Not being very fond of parting with money, I found this to be very reasonable. So reasonable in fact, that this will now be my regular Saturday morning spot after a punishing Friday night.

Apparently if the rumours are to be believed, they also offer a R7 breakfast, although you would then need to be there at 7am, and I think that's pushing it just a little bit.

So to wrap up an admittedly slightly pointless story - in fact, no, it's not pointless. I'm promoting a great breakfast spot.

If you find yourself in Kloof Street one morning, and you're feeling like Ghandi's flip flops, be sure to check out Arnold's, ironically run by a guy called Arnold.

What are the odds of that?


[Page Link] [ | ]

Fighting With A Striking Nurse Is Bad News

This was originally written during the public wage strike a few weeks ago, but I never got around to publishing it and was getting ready to send it to the Recycle Bin. In lieu of the current private sector strike though, I thought I'd try and squeeze any possible relevance there may still be in it. Yes, I really had to squeeze.

If there is one thing I hate more than politicians, infomercials, hip hop music and little children, then it would be the rather new age activity that is walking. In this day and age, the thought of travelling anywhere by foot is about as pointless as a Danny K song.

Not being the outdoors type, I enjoy nothing more than to zip around behind the wheel of the fastest car in Cape Town, and am quite content to enjoy the city's picturesque landscapes and views from television images, photographs as well as the internet.

My idea of a perfect Saturday afternoon would be one spent in the lounge of The HQ - curtains drawn, lights dimmed, and armed with a formidable arsenal of alcoholic beverages and edibles - whilst watching action movies starring Bruce Willis or Tom Cruise.

The Girlfriend on the other hand, likes nothing more than walking and exploring Cape Town and it's vast underlying regions, marveling at the beautiful flora, stunning scenery, diverse cultures as well as the vast range of cheap trinkets and curios made by lazy, smelly hippies, who then proceed to ramble on about the impending social revolution taking place.

My Saturdays are thus often played out with the Girlfriend trying to drag me into the streets, whilst I defiantly repel her advances with my can of mace, putting on my Geraldine Fraser-Moleketi game face, and showing all the stubbornness and resolve of a government official during public wage negotiations. On this particular Saturday however, I was caught off guard, the Girlfriend sneaking up on me with a chloroform-soaked rag as I happily and obliviously poured myself another stiff Jameson.

I awoke several hours later, to find myself being dragged by a coarse rope through the mean and unforgiving streets of Kalk Bay, with the Girlfriend skipping along, merrily humming Frank Sinatra's "My Way". Showing all the determination of a cornered sewer rat, I managed to chew my way through the rope, jumped up, dusted myself off and immediately chastised her for further humiliating me as - in my comatose state - she had decided to dress me in a pair of purple tights, leg warmers as well as a black knitted top which hung off my shoulder a little too seductively for my liking.

Swallowing my pride with a huge gulp of whiskey from the flask I keep in my underpants, I trundled along behind her, ignoring the cat calls and wolf whistles from the middle-aged white men who drove by, whilst motioning to the many vagrants who reside in the streets to spit in the Girlfriend’s general direction.

One rather dirty-faced woman must have mistook this as a sign of my friendliness and philanthropy, as she came within five paces of me, thereby encroaching on my personal space and causing me to gag at the thought of any human interaction.

"Away, you homeless scallywag" I bellowed, tossing a shiny R2 coin toward her, in the feint hope that this would prevent me from having to make eye contact or listen to her particular sob story. She looked at me in astonishment, informing me in broken public-schooled English that she was in fact a rather dirty-faced nurse involved in the ongoing public service strike, which immediately lead to the two of us wrestling and grappling for the change, as I disliked nurses and now wanted cigarette money, whilst she needed to buy bread and milk for her twelve kids.

Her survival instincts to eat and provide for her family far outweighed my slight urge for a loose cigarette and, with a nimble and swift kick to my groin which belied her middle aged frame, was judged the victor by the group of onlookers who had gathered to watch the spectacle, and was thus avoided the spoils of war.

Lying in a crumbled heap, I received no sympathy from the rather embarrassed Girlfriend, who dug a steel capped boot into my knee for being an insensitive lout as well as a selfish and mediocre lover, which she knew wasn't really applicable to what had just happened but felt the need to throw it in all the same.

Mentally and physically battered, I staggered along, pretending to show an interest in the old plates and cups we looked at, whilst wondering how Fraser-Moleketi would manage to wear the strikers down. Those nurses certainly are a tough bunch.


[Page Link] [ | ]

Throwing Away Our Names At Tiger Tiger

A recent Saturday night adventure we had at Panchos in Observatory, followed by Tiger Tiger in Claremont, was certainly an eventful one. Drinks and edibles were consumed, reputations and good names sullied, and car keys and self respect were lost.

Just another Saturday night in Cape Town then.



Eish Joe, I'm Dancing Like A Whiiiiite Guyyyyyyy: Kim and Some Other Guy get into the spirit of things, as Claus and Paul smile nervously, not knowing what to do with their arms. In the background is a guy with spectacles. Next to him is another guy, who we dubbed Patrick Swayze, an ironic moniker as he could quite honestly have been the worst dancer in the world. The photo clearly shows him doing the infamous "Running Man" dance move, an offense which would have meant instant death if this were Argentina. But this is Cape Town, so he got away with it. Don't ever go to Argentina, Patrick Swayze - this is Cape Town - so you've gotten away with it.



Kim The Heartbreaker: Sometime during the course of the night, Kim got hit on by a giant bottle of Peroni. She laughed it off at first, but the bottle was a persistent bugger and started being obnoxious, following her around and telling her how great they would be together. Eventually she told him they were too different, thus breaking his heart as well as the rest of his body, as he was in fact a giant bottle of Peroni after all.


Gotcha: Claus tried kidnapping Belinda and holding her for a King's Ransom, but was caught in the act, and so had to return her safely.


Beauties And The Beast: Belinda and The Girlfriend pose seductively for the camera as Some Other Guy goes and wrecks a perfectly good photograph. In the background on the left are two guys making out, a common sight at Tiger Tiger - as well as Claremont for that matter - a suburb which must surely rank as one of the most gay-friendly night spots in Cape Town today.


One For The Record Books: Some Other Guy eventually calmed down and posed for a decent pic, only to then inadvertently show just how abnormally large his head is, in comparison to that of Belinda and The Girlfriend. In layman's terms, it's the size of a small suburb, and may well have it's own postal code.


Coming Or Going: After a few stiff Jamesons, Paul got lost and needed directions to the bar. A kind old woman and her cat Snuffles found him and directed him toward the Shooter Bar, where she first knocked back a few Jägermeisters with the thankful lad, then ate Snuffles, because she was so pissed. And that's why you don't often find too many old women at Tiger Tiger. Because after a few Jägermeisters, they always end up eating their cats.

Till next time then. Maybe.


[Page Link] [ | ]

The Problem I Have With Golf. Golf And Telkom.

I was at the local gym the other day, perspiring buckets of sweat on the treadmills in an effort to impress the big-bosomed redhead next to me, when I happened to look up at one of the many high definition televisions on display.

Expecting to see some adrenaline pumping viewing such as rugby, professional wrestling or the E News at 7, I was rather surprised to see a game of golf being shown. Even more surprising were the number of gym goers, loiterers and general free loaders who were actually watching this drivel taking place.

"Look at everyone watching this drivel taking place," said the seemingly psychic big-bosomed redhead in a rather baritone voice, who then also proceeded to enquire as to my dinner plans for later that night. Whipping on my pair of Clark Kent's and taking a closer look at her, I was startled to discover a 5 o’ clock shadow and an Adam's apple - attributes which didn't quite compliment the physique in question - and thus said my goodbyes, dashing off for a cold shower whilst trying to eradicate the image of that impressive cleavage out of my head, which I suspected would no doubt haunt my dreams for weeks.

Terence, who I later found out was the name of my treadmill neighbour and potential dinner date, did raise an excellent point though. Golf is drivel and I have never quite seen the attraction of it as a television spectacle. Watching hairy white men trying to hit a ball around a field is akin to watching a bad porn movie - it leaves you feeling unsatisfied, slightly guilty and wondering why you aren't out doing something more constructive with your time.

Sure, Tiger Woods may be one of the most highly paid sportsmen in the world, but at the end of the day - he spends his time stroking, caressing and yes - sometimes striking - his tiny balls. That doesn't sound like sport, it sounds like a lonely Friday evening at The HQ, when The Girlfriend is out on a Hen Night.

Many people I have spoken to have also claimed that the game of golf is similar to chess, and televised events will often play out in tension-filled drama. This particular argument however, has about as much substance as an episode of Three-Talk with Noeleen Maholwana Sanqu.

The fact is that golf is a leisurely past time, an event for cultivating and striking up business partnerships, or for stealing some time away when you really should be back at The HQ scrubbing the bathroom floor as The Girlfriend ordered you to.

It is not, however, a sport and should not be treated as such.

It has always fascinated me how Telkom have so glibly poured millions into sponsorship and broadcasting rights for an array of golfing events, yet failed to help me finance the 5-a-side mud wrestling world series I tried launching a few years back.

Without their backing, my venture understandably failed and since then, I've always harboured a deep seated resentment toward the telecommunications giant. So much so that I've refused to install a phone line or set up an internet connection at The HQ, making use of the time honoured tradition of smoke signals and word of mouth to communicate with friends and family.

True, I now regularly find bags of dog excrement on my doorstep from annoyed neighbours and the local firemen, but I have always been a man of principle and stubbornly refuse to pander to the whims of Telkom and their silly “feel good because we’re South African” television adverts.

Seeing a bunch of multiracial kids having fun together and not slitting one another’s throats on the playground, does not stir the heartstrings enough to make me want to get ADSL, broadband, WiFi or anything else which will make my pornography downloading any easier.

If I want to feel patriotic and South African I’ll go drink another Castle, thank you very much.


[Page Link] [ | ]

Getting The Ball Rolling

Another gem from Cyanide and Happiness. I love humourous cartoons. "But Shaun" I hear you ask, "isn't that an oxymoron? Shouldn't cartoons, by their very nature, be humourous?"

An interesting point, and certainly a valid one. Until you come across shit cartoon strips like "Peanuts" and " Fred Basset", where the jokes are so dry you would need 48 cartons of Durex Play, to get suitably lubed up. (Yes, I said 48. Nothing less)

Seeing these cartoons published in a variety of magazines and daily newspapers leaves a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth, which is most likely due to my chronic halitosis - but certainly adds to my unpleasant mood and breath nonetheless.

Another reason for my general feeling of unhappiness is that I'm currently suffering from a severe cold, and may very well die soon. Blowing my nose since Sunday, I must have generated enough snot in the last two days to fill the Steenbras Dam.

Slightly graphic and a tad disgusting? Perhaps. But not as disgusting as the weird object emitted from my nose about 20 minutes ago. Basically it's the size of a small dog, and it's been freaking the bejeezuz out of me since it popped out. I've left it lying in the corner of The HQ lounge, keeping a close eye whilst writing this, all the while carefully watching for any signs of movement and life.

I have my trusty knobkerrie at my side, which I normally use to ward off vagrants and Big Issue vendors, so I'm going over there now to poke this bloody thing.

Till next time.


[Page Link] [ | ]

Vodacom Funny Festival

Along with my driving, my computer skills and my gentle and considerate lovemaking abilities, comedy is probably one of my stronger points. As a young, impressionable youth, many a family event and function would feature a short and snappy stand up routine by myself, with my witty observational style endearing myself to friends and relatives alike. Sure, I would often have to deal with hecklers and personal insults (thanks Mom and Dad) but this merely helped me hone my craft.

Eventually, stand up comedy took a backseat as I embarked on my career as a successful captain of industry, but the passion remains, and so it came to pass that I found myself at the recent Vodacom Funny Festival, with Steve O - looking for laughs and possible material to steal.

Was it funny?

Did we laugh?

Some of the more notable points: (And from here I'l talk directly to the performers in question)

Stephen Grant, as the host and compere, you were nothing short of f**king hilarious. Seemingly coming on stage with no material whatsoever, you completely winged it, tearing into the unfortunate people who decided to get front row seats. Stephen, you are a legend. The way you ripped into Ted, the patronizing anaesthesiologist sitting in front, was a masterclass in general mockery.

Riaad Moosa, you come across as a boring plank on Mnet's "comedy" show, Laugh Out Loud. Your stand up act is pretty spectacular though. Riaad, you've won my respect. You're undoubtedly the funniest Muslim comedian / doctor in the world. And I've seen a few.

Martin Jonas, doing a couple of so-so impersonations of Afrikaaners and black people are not enough to get by anymore. You need to earn some laughs. There were long periods of silence during your set, with you chuckling to yourself. That's not good enough. You're not good enough. I think someone needs to give it up now. You sir, are boring.

Anyhoo, Steve O and I had a jolly good time. By the way, is this the same event as the Smirnoff Festival? Just with a different name? I don't know. Maybe someone can enlighten me. Steve O and I debated this for a while afterward, and it eventually ended up in fisticuffs, which I obviously won because I am such a badass, and a decorated street fighter of note.

Anyhoo, the Festival ends on the 8 July, so if you missed it, shame on you.


[Page Link] [ | ]

Tank Restaurant

I have always had a bit of a love affair with fish. It all started as a baby, when one of my cousins - envious of my ability to read John Grisham novels since birth - threw me into the dark abyss of the Indian ocean at Seaforth beach, Simonstown. Although I could devour a John Grisham novel with relative ease, I hadn't quite grasped the concept of walking. Or swimming.

"Oh dear" I thought, as the previous 8 months of my life began flashing by. "I guess I shall be signing off then."

I was sinking slowly to the bottom of the ocean floor, wondering if my financial affairs would be in order, when I suddenly felt a sharp nudge in the back. I turned around to find a school of Cape snoek who, upon seeing my predicament, got in underneath me as if a magic carpet, and guided me to the shallows - where my jubilant family awaited.

In gratitude, my dad immediately gutted the heroic fish and we had a lovely braai that evening, musing how intelligent and courageous the snoek were as we sunk our teeth into them. Ever since that day, I have loved fish, and so it was fitting then that we recently dined at Tank, a seafood and sushi restaurant at the Cape Quarter, in De Waterkant.

I was first to arrive, and immediately marvelled at the decor - which is very sleek and modern, very minimalist in fact. I ordered a Peroni from the rather perky waiter and waited for The Girlfriend. And waited. And waited. Christmas came and went, I turned 29, peace in the Middle East was finally realised, and still I waited. Eventually The Girlfriend rocked up, and nimbly evaded the fork I hurled at her in anger, expertly rolling, whipping out her pepper spray and then blinding me - in one, smooth motion.

Once I had stopped crying and regained the vision in my left eye, we decided to order. For starters we settled on prawn spring rolls in sweet corn and chilli sauce. This certainly appealed to our tastebuds so we had another. Then another. Eventually, prawn spring rolls in sweet corn and chilli sauce were coming out of my ears, which we then shared and ate as well. I cannot stress enough how good that was.

For our main meal we settled for the Rainbow Roll portions, a tasty and refreshing meal which left my mouth in ecstasy and me slightly aroused. Being a master with the chopsticks, I quickly and efficiently gobbled up mine, then made a dash for The Girlfriend's. A quick warning shot of pepper spray was enough to ward me off however, leaving me to whimper and lick my wounds in the corner.

After a long and satisfying burp, it was time for desert. While The Girlfriend settled on a chocolate mousse, I decided on a New York style cheese cake. The chocolate mousse was simply amazing, whilst the New York style cheese cake - once I found it hiding under a garnishing leaf, was pretty good too.

Besides the excellent cuisine on offer, the staff at Tank are pretty jacked up too. Once I had finished dining, I tried to make a dash for the door, leaving The Girlfriend to settle the bill. In a flash, my rather perky waiter was on hand, barring the entrance with his relatively large frame, and forcing me to return to my table, where The Girlfriend awaited with a vengeful dose of pepper spray again.

Besides that though, we had a good evening. For a good night out, be sure to check out Tank - I liked it, and I'm pretty sure you will like it too. Because I know what you like.

Yes, you over there. I know what you like. Don't pretend you don't know me.


[Page Link] [ | ]

It's Been A Long Time, We Shouldn't Have Left You

Hi all,

Yes, it's been a while - I've been naughty, hey? My absence can be explained though - I've been stuck in the queues at Home Affairs, whiling my hours away whilst waiting for the line to get shorter.

Rest assured though - updates will be forthcoming either today or tomorrow - this month promises to be helluva good - including the latest debauchery at Tiger Tiger, another smashing food review, a Token Black Guy sighting and a special tribute to a South African legend.

Stay tuned.


[Page Link] [ | ]

The Archives

- Back to Archives