It
was Saturday, and we had reached the time of the week when we needed
to eat something. Usually, this would mean hauling out the old gingerbread
house and waiting patiently for naive German kids to get
lost in the woods, but on this occasion we were in the mood for
pizza and so decided to go to Borruso's instead.
Naive German Kids, Lost In The Woods.
Borruso's has an interesting vibe, it has a very "homely"
type of atmosphere - with dim lights, rustic decor and the smell
of rich mahogany. You can either sit outside in the yard, which
is actually recommended, or inside, which is actually not recommended
as it can get ridiculously warm and stuffy inside - causing fat
people to shed buckets of perspiration, which of course can then
be bottled and sold at the Neighbourhood Market at the Old
Biscuit Mill.
Borruso's make pizza as well as pasta. I didn't try the pasta, because
I hate pasta, a hatred stemming from my days as a struggling
Hollywood actor in the late nineties, when all I could
afford to eat was Taglietteli coated with salt and pepper.
So it was pizza then, and yes, they certainly make a good one. I
had the one with bits of chicken and sun dried tomato, which was
was rather pleasant and left me feeling quite satisfied.
Borrusos - Leaves You Feeling Satisfied
The staff are friendly and decent-looking, the food is pretty good,
and it's well priced as well. They don't accept bookings though,
so if you're ever in Kenilworth, and you're buying booze at the
7-11 on the corner, make a stop at Borruso's and
get yourself a pizza.
You'll thank me later.
What: Borruso's Pizza and Pasta.
Where: On the corner of Kenilworth Main Road, next to the 7-11 (Where you can buy booze)
How Much: + - R65 per person.
It
was a Thursday evening, which meant it was time for some Thursday
evening loving. The Girlfriend seemed to disagree with
me on this issue however, as she kept spraying me with holy water
whenever I approached her on the communal bed. A priest had given
her a vial of the holy stuff during the recent Easter weekend, and
I found myself cursing Father Flanaghan as the liquid burnt my sinful
body, causing me to swear in tongues, and walk backwards on all
fours, in a weird and unnatural manner.
With my initial idea for the evening put on hold, we thus decided
to take a walk through Kloof Street instead, as
it was a beautiful late Summer's evening, and I couldn't really
remember where I parked my car. Even when the sun goes down, Kloof
Street is usually abuzz with activity, and tonight was certainly
no exception. We were kept fairly busy, as I found myself warding
off the drunken vagrants with my long limbs, drop kicking them several
metres back whenever they approached us for bread and milk, which
they were OBVIOUSLY going to barter for cheap spirits.
The Girlfriend meanwhile, was using her pepper spray to fend off
the various drug addicted white youngsters who
can be found wandering the streets at night, ALL claiming to live
in Fish Hoek, and ALL claiming to need R4 to get back home that
evening. Kloof Street is a bit like Long Street, except that it's
not as long, and doesn't suck half as much.
As we walked on, a musical montage suddenly started playing, showing
the various places we would often frequent. To the backdrop of Justin
Timberlake's "Sexy back", we looked back at the following
venues:
Kloof Street of course boasts the world famous Asoka,
one of our favourite watering holes. Many people may be familiar
with his mom Dharma, but Asoka has now also made quite a name for
himself, and I regularly seem to find myself at this establishment,
staring down an empty glass of Jameson, wondering how the f**k I
got there, and enquiring as to who would be sorting out the massive
drinks bill we had just amassed.
Arnold's is also another favourite of ours, a regular
pit stop on a Saturday or Sunday morning, when over indulgence from
the previous night means I can just about crawl there. The helpful
staff will then pick me up, dust me off, and feed me a breakfast
of fried eggs and bacon through an intravenous drip, helping me
feel like a new man whilst teaching me to speak coherently and walk
upright again.
The Lifestyle Centre is like a pretentious mall,
offering a Woolies, the Wellness Warehouse as well as the (not the
real) Labia theatre. Woolies is Woolies, for those days when I couldn't
be arsed to make food in the kitchen, and instead need the instant
gratification of a bottle of Ken Forresters, to make the world seem
like a friendlier place. The Wellness Warehouse is the place to
get high fibre grass muffins, organic mud masks, and other weird
hippy shit that cleanses my system, but then leaves me smelling
like a used diaper, causing strangers to throw rocks at me in the
street. The (not the real) Labia theatre normally offers off-beat
films that Mnet would usually show on a Monday or Wednesday night,
never over the weekends or as a Sunday premiere. Many a Marzan Gold
has been drunk in the theatre, the bottles also coming in handy
to hurl at the annoying guy who keeps commenting during the movie,
the same guy who wears flannel pyjama pants during the day, and
has a long term relationship with a styrofoam cup called Doris.
There's also a decent Nando's, a Kauai as well as two coffee spots
on either side of the road. (Vida and Seattle). The Kauai was the
scene of the first argument The Girlfriend and I ever had, when
she leapt across the table and put me in a vicious headlock after
I said that Jennifer Anniston was boring, overrated and probably
really crap in bed.
There are also various trendy clothing stores, as well as really
arb shops known to sell really arb things, like the luminous Marilyn
Monroe tog back I bought The Girlfriend for when she gyms, which
mysteriously caught alight and ended up in the street outside, before
she had a chance to use it.
Yes, Kloof Street is a lovely little stretch of road. There are
literally thousands of other places to talk about, but it's quite
late right now and I just don't give a f**k. I'm tired and I need
to sleep.
I was actually meaning to do a write up about Caramello's,
where we spent the evening, but I kind of went off on a tangent
a little bit.
I've been waiting for you for AGES! Didn't you say we were meeting
at that place?
I've been waiting here for the last 9 days now.
Do you know how long that is? It's f**king long, let me tell you.
In that time I've managed to grow a long beard, start a family and
plant a great and mighty orchard farm, which my kids will grow up
on and enjoy every day, once their homework and other daily chores
are complete.
Seriously, don't keep me waiting like that again, I had so much
to tell you about the recent long weekend, but now I'm fed up so
I won't.
...Alright, updates are coming shortly - just remember, the delay
wasn't my fault, it was YOURS.
... okay, Papa forgives you, come and give him a hug now. There
there, you mustn't be so naughty again.
Monday
mornings at dawn will usually find me doing one of three
things:
1) lying in bed in a deep slumber
2) having a warm shower
3) desperately trying to sober up for the upcoming work day.
It should NOT be spent in the middle of a punishing and
unforgiving gym routine, which is of course what I found
myself doing recently.
Shaun: Involved In A Punishing and Unforgiving Gym Routine.
“You look like a pregnant man. Doesn't this concern you?”
whined the Girlfriend the other day, interrupting my viewing of
Isidingo... The Need, and causing me to drop my
whiskey tumbler to the floor.
“Of course it does, but I’ll let you sort something
out” I said dismissively, whilst attempting to lick the spilt
Jameson off the floor. I was expecting her to buy tanning lotions
and the weight loss coffee we saw at Glomail, which
literally eats away your fat cells in an aggressive yet medically
safe manner.
The Girlfriend however, had grown tired of my chicken legs and under-developed
upper body, and instead of coffee, had arranged for us to join the
nearby Virgin Active, another brainchild of Richard
Branson, and the scourge of lazy and pigeon-chested fellows everywhere.
Bizarrely, given the ungodly time, we arrived to find the place
buzzing with activity, full of sweaty individuals risking heart
failure in the pursuit of a six-pack, and not the type you could
get in the backroom of the local 7-11 in Kenilworth either.
No, these men and women clearly meant business, and their naked
enthusiasm and ripped torsos NEARLY had me feeling motivated
and inspired, until I slumped down on one of the nearby
couches and let the moment pass.
The gym, although offering massively expensive fees, still boasted
an eclectic blend of people from different walks of life, with whites
and blacks exercising side by side in perfect racial harmony, much
like a Carling Black Label television advert, although
no one took me up on the offer to drink a crate of beer afterward.
My personal trainer eventually pitched up, armed with massive biceps
as huge as my ego, with an uber trendy name to match. Ryder was
the lad's name, no doubt given to him by hippy liberal parents
who smoked too much marijuana, drove a brightly coloured Beetle,
and were not to be trusted around items of value. I certainly
didn’t trust Ryder, watching in mild panic as he posed and
postured in front of The Girlfriend, who swooned at the sight of
his admittedly impressive frame.
Our personalised programs dictated that she would be sent to the
rowing machine for cardio work, whilst I was hauled to the weights
section, to be put on the upper body program specifically designed
for twelve year old boys. The pre-pubescent kids
of today seem to be living on protein and steroid juice, as I humiliated
myself trying to lift the dumbbells, much to the surprise of my
trainer, who I now regarded as a mortal enemy of mine.
Writing off the weights, it was off to the treadmills for some speed
training. The only sprinting I do is at the Table Mountain
nature reserve, where I am often forced to dash off to
evade the delinquent youths who try to mug and stab me. These regular
exertions clearly paid off though, as I managed to complete my sprinting
program without dying, in the process producing enough perspiration
to fill up the Olympic pool downstairs, which was ironically our
next destination.
I was now clad in a tight-fitting Speedo which
disappointingly was relatively bulge-free, OBVIOUSLY
due to the unpleasantly cold conditions, as I kept informing passers
by who seemed unconvinced.
Nevertheless, despite the freezing temperatures, I managed to doggy
paddle my way through two whole laps, earning the respect of the
crowd who had gathered to watch, and getting a great send off once
Ryder pulled me out of the pool with one of his tree trunk arms.
So that's been the gist of my first gym training session
in yonkers. My ego feels bruised, my entire body hurts, and I'm
walking around in a strange and peculiar manner.
It's like my first day at High School all over again.
Naming And Shaming Littering Wankers In Cape Town.
Because Shaun Can.
It was Sunday,
and The Girlfriend and I were vigorously walking around the "hood",
something we try and do regularly, as this prevents us from becoming
fat and sexually unattractive. We had just turned
the corner in Weltevreden street in Gardens, when she uttered her
often used line, "What the f**k?". This phrase usually
comes out her mouth whenever I do something moronic or disappointing,
like forgetting her at the airport or burning our bed with my GHD
hair styler.
On this occasion it was aimed at someone else though. She had just
witnessed a family in a black jeep-like vehicle who had pulled over
and thrown out their rubbish onto the pavement,
like a tik-addicted mother throwing her baby out with the bathwater.
The Girlfriend, a keen environmentalist, was understandably incensed
at the Pick n Pay doughnut box, Energade bottles and assorted bits
of paper that had just landed on the street, and sauntered over
to the car, with me in hot pursuit. Going over to the passenger
window, she was greeted by a youngish black woman, wearing designer
shades and a serious lack of moral ethics.
"Excuse me," enquired The Girlfriend, "did you just
throw this litter out your car?"
The woman, who appeared somewhat dumbfounded, stared
at us blankly for a few seconds, before composing herself and answering
in the affirmative, "Yes, I did."
"Why would you do that?" said I, somewhat perplexed by
her apparent ignorance. Blatant littering was like pissing on your
office pot plant, or spitting in the public library - it was socially
unacceptable. Her answer literally knocked me back, sending
me sprawling into the nearby security gate. "Because I can.",
she responded, in a manner which indicated she thought this to be
a witty and clever retort.
"Because you can?!?" said The Girlfriend, incredulously.
"Yes. I can," she emphasised arrogantly, before her soft-cock
of a husband decided that this was enough, and pulled away with
screeching tyres, just as The Girlfriend was about to launch herself
into the vehicle, and cut off their noses to spite their faces.
What was even more disturbing, besides the sheer audacity of this
littering cow, was that this was done in front
of her three young kids, who were seated at the back, and probably
thought this to be acceptable behaviour.
Let me just convey the message - this was NOT acceptable behaviour,
and this was NOT smart, especially when you're driving around with
personalised Cape Town number plates which are easy to remember,
Jimmy 1 - WP.
Yes, Jimmy 1 - WP, James or whatever your name is - you are a disgrace
and your wife / girlfriend seems to have as much intelligence as
a common garden slug. Maybe we should just invite members of the
public to dump their rubbish and unwanted shit on to YOUR property.
"Because they can".
In fact, I would suggest that everyone in Cape Town keeps on eye
out for Jimmy 1 - WP, it's a black jeep, a smaller model than the
usual 4x4, and let him know what a littering wanker he is.
Okay. Rant over.
Just needed to get that off my chest.
Let's get back to being nice and having fun again.
Back in
the heady days of crèche (pre-school), the teachers would
often make a point to highlight the major flaws
in my life.
"Oakes!" the teacher would shriek, whilst putting her
cigarette out on my arm, "there are three things you need to
work on in life, namely; your excessive dandruff problem, your weird
tendency to try and smell random strangers' feet, as well as your
sheer ineptitude in social situations. Sort that shit out, and fetch
me another beer."
Since then, my dry scalp dilemma has become a thing of the past,
thanks to Head & Shoulders and the wearing
of white-collared shirts, whilst the smelling of feet is... well...
ja, kept in check.
When it comes to certain social situations however,
I still occasionally find myself flailing, like a person who cannot
swim being tossed into the ocean by members of the Italian Mafioso.
I'm not an arsehole or anything like that. It's just a bit of a
tradition of mine to say and do things which puts me in an awkward
situation, like something straight out of a comedy starring Ricky
Gervais, except it isn't a comedy and no one is really laughing.
Even basic stuff like greeting someone you know at the gym baffles
me sometimes - I never greet anyone first, as I'm superstitious
and believe I'll turn into a pillar of salt if
I do this.
Normally I just pretend that I haven't seen the person. If I REALLY
want them to greet me, I will hover around their line of sight until
they come over.
"Yo Shaun," they will holla at me, the way gangsters holla
at their homeboys.
"Hiii!" I will say, pretending to be slightly startled,
"how long have you been here?"
"I've been here for a while hey, my friend said she saw you
looking this way, and from then on you kept hanging around our line
of sight."
"No I didn't. You friend is a f**king liar. And a whore,"
I will retort. Then I will feel bad and try to remedy the situation.
"Okay, to be fair - she isn't a whore, I can't really back
that claim up. But she certainly is a liar."
The damage will already have been done however, and before I know
it, I'll have a dumbbell wedged against my neck, an athletic
shoe up my ass, and my gym membership revoked.
If it's not that, then it's making small talk with people I haven't
seen in years. I HATE small talk, I hate it the way Andrew
Symonds hates streakers, except I can't shoulder block small
talk because it's so damn intangible. Like joy or the feeling of
happiness.
Basically I never know what to say, Whenever I tell them the truth
- that I'm a ludicrously successful bastard who literally pisses
excellence, which I then bottle and sell at the Neighbourhood
Market in Woodstock - it makes me sound boastful and they
begin to resent me. This then leads to them spitting in the coffee
or refreshing beverage I am usually holding in my hand, which annoys
me as my drink then tastes phlegmy, which gives me horrible headaches
as well as delusions of grandeur. Thus, I normally make a point
of being pretty vague and mysterious with what I've been up to.
"Ja, I've been doing this and that," I will say nonchalantly,
whilst polishing my monocle with the sleeve of my white-collared
shirt. So I then end up sounding like an evasive and unambitious
bum, although this approach does leave me to enjoy
my drink.
My preferred method of small talk is the one where we're both moving
passed one another at swift speed - usually at a mall or similar
shopping complex. This then give me the opportunity to use the classic
"Hey-how-you-doing-well-and-you-good-good" greeting, which
leaves you with nothing more to say to the person really. If they
DO decide to stop, I usually retort with a stiff karate
kick to the solar plexus, which will ensure that they NEVER
stop to talk to me again.
Then there are the occasions when I DO actually want to speak to
someone I know or haven't seen in years. Of course, my mind will
then blank out and I will obviously forget their names. When I'm
with The Girlfriend, I usually stroke my groin region
twice, which she now knows is the sign that she has to introduce
herself, allowing me to then catch the name of the person I am chatting
to. Occasionally she will try and humiliate me though, actually
asking ME to do the introduction. I normally respond by collapsing
on the floor and contorting my body into oddly fascinating shapes,
hoping this will distract the friend or family member into not realising
that I don't know their name.
Sometimes I just end up doing strange shit, like
last week when we had pizza at Primi (Piatti). There was a newspaper
on the table where we were to be seated, and as I picked it up,
the waitress came over, greeted us, and then put out her hand. "Well,
this is rather formal," I mused, and proceeded to put the paper
down and shake her hand, like an old gentleman
shaking the hand of his good friend Mr Lamberts, who he visits every
day to watch the horse races. As we shook hands, I embarrassingly
realised what she actually wanted, but the waitress - to her credit
- went with it, and so we carried on shaking one another's hands
in awkward silence for about 5-6 seconds, with The Girlfriend standing
to the left of the waitress silently mouthing "You f**king
weirdo" to me. Several times.
She shouldn't complain though, as the first time we made out was
also due to a social folly of mine. We had been
chatting for about 15 minutes at a night club, and I had just spiked
her drink, when she pulled me toward her. Instinctively, I dove
in and gave her a sensual kiss, which travelled through her loins
like a flaming hawk. Turns out she was actually pulling me out of
the way, as the drunken patron behind me was busy hurling out his
internal organs, and she would have felt bad if I ended up smelling
like raw kidney.
And the rest, as they say, is how the wind blows ever after.
So is this weird, or does anyone else have any stories to share?
As everyone knows, Stellenbosch is crawling with dangerous
criminals on a Saturday night. They usually tend to congregate
in venues around the town, drinking beer, playing pool and dancing
to crappy commercial music.
This of course is all done whilst plotting to hijack cars, rob the
local FNB, and illegally download the latest Kurt Darren album.
The South African Police Service were having none of that though,
and decided to flex
their muscles the past weekend.
The SAPS - Kicking Ass And Taking Names.
As is usualy the case these days, a video has surfaced,
showing the boys in blue in all their glory, shoving around the
hoodlums at a place called Bohemia.
Watch the bit round the 1min03 second mark, when our chubby and
defiant boy (who has been quietly sipping his beer while the shit
has been going down) decides he will NOT lie on the ground, and
casually sits on his chair. Watch him get dragged like a naughty
school boy and receive a five knuckle sandwhich for his effort.
It's a lazy Sunday at The HQ right now, I was busy going through
my stock portfolio earlier when a gang of six Hansa Marzen
Golds came out of nowhere and tried to knock me around.
Naturally, I was having none of that, and so knocked them all back.
After that little skirmish, I felt pretty sociable and thus decided
take a drive and find people to dice with on the highway, but was
stopped by a frenzied mob of cyclists who were furiously peddling
away on the M3. What those inconsiderate f**kers were doing there
is beyond me, someone mentioned something about a race,
but who races on a Sunday anyway?
Isn't it illegal to do that on the Sabbath? Like buying booze or
wearing grey shoes?
Anyhoo, as it's the month of March, I'm starting
to feel some of the Christmas spirit and so will share with you
some of the rather strange emails I regularly receive.
What was that? You're not interested?
F**k you then, I wasn't even talking to you, I was speaking to everyone
else. You were never invited anyway, I just spoke to you that one
night because I thought your friend was hot.
In any event, here are some of my recent favourites, which are all
entirely authentic, and in no way made up:
Name: D STRYDOM Email: duanes@********* Message:
Dear Pick & Pay Ballito,
I purchased some fresh items on Sunday for a get together at
my house which included chicken breasts and various "fresh"
vegeables. This was all good and well untill i opened the meat which
had the most horrific smell (all 4 packs of them), i had to dig
into my freezer and chnged the menu, moving on to your so called
fresh produce in the vegetable section it was yet another shocker!
My lettuce were accompanied by a snail, the prepacked tomatoes were
soggy as well as a pupl cucumber! I come from an fmcg background
where you were my biggest customer but sadly you lost this one.
In total i had to toss R456.47 in the dustbin, might seem small
to you but all these thigs add up and therefore you create inflation
n households!
Ex-PnP Shopper
D Strydom
Ballito (Simbithi)
Strong words there, D Strydom. I would probably be pretty pissed
at finding a snail in my lettuce as well. Not that I have anything
AGAINST snails mind you... some of my best friends are snails...
Seriously, I just don't like them with my lettuce, that's all.
A Liberal: Some Of Shaun's Closest Friends Are In Fact, Snails.
Why D Strydom sent this to me, Jesus Hernandez only knows. It could
have been because of the piece on Pick n Pay I wrote
a while back, but you honestly never know with these people
from Ballito. They're a bunch of strange birds.
Name: Mrs C Van Wyngaardt
Email: ****@dwergieland.co.za
Message:
I need somebody to help me with my home telephone line which
is out of order since 22 November 2007, no response, the cable is
lying in my backyard, I need the telephone urgently
My home number is (***) *** ****
My contact details (***) *** ****
Thank you
The most intriguing thing about this, besides the fact that
Mrs Van Wyngaardt thinks I work for Telkom, is her email address.
Yes, it says "dwergieland", which loosely
translates to "Land Of Midgets". This
is just another example of an Afrikaans name sounding more appealing
than it's English translation - I can't imagine the residents of
Kokstad
ever wanting their town's name referred to as "Dick
City", but that's really what it boils down to at
the end of the day.
A Resident Of Dick City, Looking Annoyed.
The Dwergieland website doesn't appear to be up yet, but I've been
checking regularly for the last few weeks and can't wait to see
what this will be all about, it keeps me up at night thinking in
anticipation.
Name: Steven
Email: ******@hotmail.com
Message:
Shaun your a fat ugly f**k !!
This site sucks !!!
Oh..and in your pic u look like a heavy masturbator porn downloading
freak
Sure you spend all your time writing this k*k cause u cant get a
chick...LOSER !!!!!!!
Publish this is you have the balls..or are you only brave when it
comes to slaggin other things off...typical
social commentating coward
I look forward to meeting you one day.
Steven
I notice that this type of message appears in my Inbox whenever
I make a comment about the mediocrity of local singer Danny
K. Judging by the descriptive style of writing (you fat
ugly f**k), the choice of adjectives used to describe me (porn downloading
freak) and the use of exclamations marks after the word "loser"
(I count seven) leads me to believe that the author is either Danny
K himself, or my mom.
... Wow, I've just read over all this again. Pretty weak effort,
Mr Oakes. We really DID scrape the barrel today. I think I know
someone who needs to up his game.
Until next time then. Take care of yourself, aaaand each other.
Shaun Has Had Quite Enough Of This Heatwave.
Quite Enough.
I was planning to write a nostalgic piece
about my days as an international backup dancer,
but at the moment it's just too hot for me to think back to those
lazy, hazy, crazy days of Summer.
Those days of soda, and pretzels, and beer.
How crazy is the weather? For those of you not in Cape Town, this
is what we're currently dealing with:
Cape Town - What We're Currently Dealing
With.
I know it's considered cool to talk about how great the weather
is in Cape Town, but I have had quite enough. Things are becoming
QUITE ridiculous at the moment.
I stepped outside earlier on to buy some tampons, and literally
melted on the pavement, turning into a puddle of
uninspired liquid goo.
Luckily The Girlfriend had a bucket in her handbag - it's as if
she just knew - and managed to scoop me up and pop me in the freezer,
until I managed to chill out a bit.
Which brings us to the next item on our agenda - I see we (you and
I) have been nominated for a couple of categories on the SA
Blog Awards. This caught me off guard a little bit, until
it was brought to my attention that I actually ASKED all of you
to do this for me a while back. So thanks for that. I forget about
these things sometimes. That's why you're here for me, we complement
one another - I am the Double Toffee Frozen yoghurt, you are the
sweaty obese woman.
Now of course, you will be expected to make sure that I win, otherwise
this whole experience would have been like a Danny K song
- utterly pointless.
To vote, just click on the image below:
Shaun - Pointing To The Awards
If you do this, it automatically selects me, and then you can
just mozy down and type in your email address and the number they
give to make sure you are human.
BUT WAIT! The next part is tricky. Once you click
"Submit" that isn't the end of it. They send you an email with a
link that you need to copy and paste in your browser and ONLY
THEN is the voting procedure complete, so don't be caught
out.
If I win the blog of the year award I will in all likelihood to
throw a massive party with lots of cheap liquor and easy women.
And some easy men as well. But mostly easy women. So get cracking
and cast those votes.
Shaun Is Left Feeling Bitter Over His Abnormally
Long Arms.
I enjoy wearing clothes. It makes me feel happy
and I think it makes other people feel happy too.
As I'm quite a hairy - yet ludicrously handsome - devil, I've noticed
that the public generally seem to be more pleasant toward
me when I'm wearing something, as opposed to when I'm NOT wearing
something, which usually occurs on hot summer days, or every third
Wednesday.
Shaun: Hairy - Yet Ludicrously Handsome
- Devil
It is quite ironic then, that I regularly struggle to find clothing
attire to suit my chiselled Adonis-like body.
The problem you see, lies with my arms. I have really long arms,
it fact they're freakishly long, like Mr Fantastic from the Fantastic
Four - I'm actually able to drive my car from the back
seat, I find it comfortable and it relaxes me as I can rest my head
on the back of the front seat and take miniature power naps whilst
the traffic lights are red.
Growing up, I used to drag them along the ground next to me, together
with my shadow and my imaginary friend Seamus, and so was understandably
mocked by school kids as well as my parents. I've since
grown into them a little better, but it's still near impossible
to find a decent jacket to suit my needs.
Yes, that was a deliberate pun. I used the word "suit"
whilst talking about jackets. Read it again, see how clever I am.
What I used to do was just roll the jacket sleeves up, but that
was back in the 80's and when Miami Vice got cancelled,
it kind of killed that vibe. When I DO manage to find jacket sleeves
long enough, the jacket itself tends to be big enough for me to
live in and start a family, so I don't particularly dig that vibe
either.
Miami Vice - Getting Cancelled Killed The
Rolled Up Sleeve Vibe.
So what's up with male fashion these days? Why
are they only making clothes for sickeningly thin men with short
arms and no upper body definition? The other day I was at YDE
and tried on an XL t-shirt. The t-shirt apparently seemed to be
a midriff top, as that was where it ended - just above my midriff,
where my belly button normally chills.
"Rameez!" barked Shaun at the YDE shop assistant with
the abnormally spiked hair, "What the f**k am I doing with
a midriff top? Has this become fashionable again?"
Rameez looked slightly bewildered, as if I had just taken a poo
on his white crocodile leather shoes, "My
name isn't Rameez, it's" - "It doesn't MATTER what your
name is!" I interjected, and gave him a karate kick in the
solar plexus for trying to correct me. "Get your little ass
back to the Weird Willy aisle, and find me something that fits nicely".
Turns out there was nothing there that fitted nicely, forcing me
to walk off with three slightly homo-erotic t-shirts.
Then at Urban, I came across a range of jackets
that were fairly decent - sure, they DID end just passed my elbows,
but if I hunched my back and contorted my shoulder blades just right,
I was able to look fairly normal. A nervous looking sales assistant
pulled me aside however, and talked me out of it.
"You shouldn't have to put up with this," he said with
a defiant glint in his eye. It was then that I noticed his 2
metre long forearms, carefully nestled around his ankles,
he was one of us. "A storm is coming, and soon people are going
to have to take sides," he continued somewhat dramatically.
My attention was diverted though, by the voluptuous sales
assistant with the low cut top, who had just bent down
to pick up the white linen pants I had deliberately tossed into
her path, hoping for a classic cleavage shot.
Seemingly out of nowhere, 3 men in black suits jumped out of an
unmarked van which appeared outside the store.
How they managed to get the van into the Canal Walk mall itself
was beyond me, but there they were, grabbing my nervous sales assistant,
knocking him out with a chloroform-soaked rag,
and bundling him into the van, which then sped off through the mall.
Amazing stuff.
Clearly there is some sort of conspiracy going on that I don't know
of. Many questions remain, and some answers still need to be found:
1) Where can one find fitted jackets in Cape Town?
2) Are tailors a viable option?
3) Where does one actually find a good tailor in 2008?
4) What was Rameez's real name?
These are just some of the things keeping me up at night, the others
of course being the mosquito gang in my bedroom as well as The Girlfriend's
incessant snoring.
If anyone can help me with answers though, give me a shout.
I once knew a guy by the name of Eric*, who ran in the same circles
as I did a few years back, in the days when meat was cheap, and
gang banging was the only life we knew.
At the risk of sounding shallow, Eric was a rather strange-looking
chap, with a bent nose, pig-like eyes, and a lack of any
discernable facial hair. He also had a nose ring inserted, strangely
enough, in his nose, like those red-eyed bulls you see in morning
cartoons.
Despite all these setbacks though, women found him to be incredibly
attractive, and he would regularly sleep with hundreds of them on
a daily basis, although none of them would actually own up to it
afterward. The fact was, despite Eric looking like a pierced mole-pig-man,
he had something, which made him highly desirable to the opposite
sex. They were queuing up to sleep with him, albeit incognito, as
they were slightly embarrassed by it all. These weren't unattractive
women or the skanks you might find at Tin Roof
either, these were quality, level-headed women.
Which brings us to Amy Winehouse.
Sure, she isn't conventionally good-looking, gives
off quite a trashy vibe, and looks as if she has the potential to
smell a bit off, but am I the only one nursing a bit of a semi at
the thought of her?
Amy Winehouse - Giving You A Semi?
I have a feeling I'm not, and many other guys probably feel the
same way. It's what's become known as the Winehouse Effect,
and in layman's terms, it's when you're attracted to someone who
you REALLY shouldn't be attracted to, and you're actually quite
ashamed to admit to it.
It could be because they're incredibly trashy, slightly strange,
any reason really - it can't be explained, you just want to put
them over your knee and give them a bloody good hiding.
So, does anyone else feel the same way about Amy? Is it really that
weird?
Subscribe To The Blog
