They Just Are

The other day I lost a bet with The Girlfriend and so, rather than contently staring at the lounge wall whilst drinking shots of Jameson as I had planned to do, I found myself walking around Long Street in Cape Town instead. For those of you unfamiliar with Long Street, you may be surprised to know that it is in fact, a rather long street, approximately 1,2 km (+ – 1 mile, I think) in length, and filled with an assortment of stalls and stores.

There are of course also a wide range of poor people, con artists and various chancers who will ask you for money, but The Girlfriend’s pepper spray, together with my surly demeanor, happily kept them at bay.

It was whilst working our way up the street and going in and out of each store, that I realized why I don’t really go shopping anymore, and am usually spotted wearing clothes I stole from my dad, my brother or anyone foolish enough to leave something behind in my flat.

I tend to find shop assistants, especially the ones who are employed at trendy retail stores, to be deeply offensive. I don’t think it’s really their fault, and they are never outright rude to me, but their mere presence is enough to make me want to punch them in the mouth, before taking one of their fashionable white leather shoes, and hitting them over the head with it six or seven times, eight if they are wearing skinny jeans. Nine if they also have those puffy leather jackets on.

And those are just the females, with the guy shop assistants I would probably be far worse.

I think this loathing is down to a combination of various things –the clichéd trance / drum and bass that simply has to be played at these stores definitely being one of them. Apparently, you can’t be a trendy retail store if you don’t have Infected Mushroom on your play list. Playing anything besides relentless hard house music will immediately see your membership to the “trendy alternative shop club” revoked.

I suppose petty jealousy also comes into play. On most occasions, these young shop assistants are incredibly well-groomed, with every immaculate hair in place, and smelling like what a Greek god or goddess would no doubt smell like, were they to indulge in expensive cologne and perfume. I on the other hand, will tend to resemble a twenty-something man on the cusp of vagrancy, with dry unkempt hair, pasty complexion, irregular facial stubble, and just the faintest whiff of Jameson whiskey.

Their barely concealed smugness certainly plays a part in my feelings towards them though, especially when I desperately try and explain that I am usually a 34 waist, and it must be the store brand’s unique style and cut, that I am now forced to try on a 36 or – God forbid – a 38 instead.

Someone once suggested I should get a stylist, after I rocked up at a party wearing sandals with socks. Now in my defense, my feet were feeling rather tender after an ill-advised game of cricket, and it was a pretty nippy night to be wearing open toes, but it turns out that sandals and socks, whilst making complete sense from a comfort point of view, is a crime of fashion punishable by death, or at the very least, complete alienation by your peers.

Not that this phases me though, I don’t really mind being a fashion reprobate, but I do draw the line at ill-advised comments about my waist.

While I may generally be a pacifist with questionable style, if you hand me another 38 inch pants again, I will surely punch you in the stomach. Smug shop assistants, you have been warned.

Oakes signing off.

I Just Don’t

Now, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I have an uncontrollable fear of rats. Seeing a rat, especially the dirty brown ones that crawl around in sewers or inside Cavendish Square, fills me with an immense fear of dread, and will have me screaming like a young school girl who has just had her copy of Twilight taken away by her mom.

I don’t think I’ve ever really been attacked by a rat to be honest, but I’m pretty sure that running into one, much like running into a Great White Shark or the South African singer Danny K, would be an unpleasant experience not worth repeating.

Which makes me a hypocrite of the highest order, as I realized this week.

You see, we have a park across the road from us, where I will often be found running around in multi-coloured tanktops and ill-fitting shorts, desperately trying to lose the excess weight around my stomach and thighs, which currently has me resembling a large oven-baked potato. It is in this park, where I will regularly collapse to the ground – partly from exhaustion, but mostly due to a weak character, bitterly disappointed that it took only five minutes of jogging before my lungs decided to resign, and wondering whether I would be able to crawl back to the loving but judging arms of The Girlfriend.

It’s usually while compassionate passers by are calling the Netcare 911 guys to come and resuscitate me, that the squirrels will come along. These ones in particular are pretty ballsy, and will literally come to within a few inches of my puffy, clammy face, curious to see what the wheezing and incoherent curses are all about.

The thing is, I don’t really have an issue with it, as they are just squirrels after all, right? I mean, they are lovely and cuddly and friendly, and are often the supporting heroes in children’s cartoons or stories written by old women with cats, sometimes specifically for old women with cats.

But has anyone ever bothered looking closely at a squirrel?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but squirrels can be best described as having brown / grey fur, long snouts, beady eyes, and long elongated front teeth which often protrude from said snouts. Mmm, where have we seen that before?

Is it a squirrel... or is it a rat?

If I were a rat, I would be pretty disappointed with the double standards society has put in place here. On the face of it, two incredibly similar creatures are being positioned on completely opposite sides of the social spectrum. Sure, there are stories of rats being aggressive, biting people and generally spreading diseases, but are you saying there are no bad seeds in the squirrel camp?

You have to believe there are some arsehole squirrels out there, who will scratch through your rubbish, nibble on your toes and spread the plague if given half the chance. Yet these guys are still getting the plum roles on cartoons and other fictional stories. Rats on the other hand, are always depicted as the bad guys, the ones who will steal from the rabbits in Magic Forrest, or lie about the whereabouts of the little field mouse they have kidnapped.

I guess it’s a bit like Apartheid was in a way, where white people were put on a pedestal, and black people were given the poor treatment, despite the fact that we all looked similar, and are essentially one and the same.

I think the time has come to address this now though. Sure, rats and squirrels have some ideological differences, but they are both rodents at the end of the day. Let’s ditch our obvious prejudice, and treat them both equally from now on, one way or the other.

There is a rat who lives by himself downstairs where we keep all the bins. I’m going to go down there later and give him an acorn to nibble on. Will let you know how it goes.

Oakes signing off.

A Mini Rant

The beach. Where you will never find Shaun.

It’s Summer time at the moment in Cape Town, and apparently the beaches around here are packed. I say apparently, because I have no idea, I haven’t seen it for myself, nor do I intend to either.

Without wanting to sound too strong on the matter, I completely and utterly hate beaches. With a passion. Think of the one thing or person you hate, multiply that by your age, and you will get an understanding of how much I dislike the beach.

I just don’t see the point of spending hours lazing about on the shores of Camps Bay or Clifton, getting hundreds of sandy granules in your ears, nose and other crevices on your body, all the while artificially ageing yourself in the quest for the perfect tan.

I would rather get a colonoscopy then spend an entire day on the beach.

The whole concept of tanning also mystifies me. As far as I’m aware, it’s meant to make you more attractive to the opposite sex, whilst also promoting the fact that you are supposedly living a healthier lifestyle. I’ve never known biltong to look sexy however, and that’s exactly what the sun will eventually do to you, turning you into a dried piece of salted meat.

The sun ages us. Badly. A recent study at a local university showed that a three hour stint under the African sun, was the equivalent of smoking up to thirty cigarettes at a time, this being regardless of wearing sun screen.

Swimming at the beach is a pretty terrible idea as well. With the amount of germs and faecal (that’s right, faecal) matter you ingest during a swim in the sea, you may as well dunk your head into a public loo. A public loo which was just used by a fat man who had dodgy Indian curry the night before.

Besides that, there is of course also the threat of getting eaten by the vast number of Great White Sharks and other sea predators who frequent our shores. I’ve always been very skeptical about these marine experts who claim that sharks don’t enjoy eating humans.

Let’s face it, at the end of the day, everyone likes a bit of variety in their diet. No matter how much you may love seals and small fish, it’s always great to try something new, and I believe sharks are no different.

I can just imagine the husband shark coming home to his shark family after a long day of cruising with his mates in the Atlantic. “Christ, baby seal again???,” he will lament to his long suffering shark wife, “ I’m going to Fish Hoek beach to get some take away instead.”

Not that you can blame sharks for eating us though. For some bizarre reason, we insist on swimming on their turf, despite regularly having one of our numbers gobbled up by them. It’s a bit like a prime steak casually walking around my kitchen and frying pan, and then wondering why I have grabbed him by the rump and grilled him to succulent perfection.

No thanks, I will rather be sticking to pools and bathtubs of cold water this Summer. I may have milky grey thighs, but they are young-looking milky grey thighs. More importantly however, they are still attached to my young-looking milky grey bum, and by me staying off the beach, that’s exactly how they will stay.

Oakes signing off.

Dark Days Lie Ahead

So apparently, I will be undergoing a colonoscopy procedure sometime this year. I know this because The Girlfriend decreed that it would be so, and history has shown that it is far easier on my shins, ribs, and the softer regions of my body, to follow her orders to the letter.

Typically, having to undergo any form of punishment is usually down to an act of stupidity or gross negligence on my part, such as leaving the stove on, or drinking 17 shots of tequila at the local bar.

In this instance though, I can safely lay the full blame on my mother.

There I was, sitting outside at a family braai, contently chewing on a piece of burnt pork. Now, chewing on a piece of pork, even an admittedly burnt one, usually fills me with an immense sense of happiness, taking me to a imaginary place where I can sit in my cave and gorge on huge swathes of cured pig.

My mom – who I love by the way – decided to wrench me out of my cave, and chose to share the fascinating fact that our family and colon cancer were really good mates, and had a bit of a history together, dating all the way back to the 16th century, when my ancestors were running around in loin clothes and leaving poop under trees. Blood-stained poop as it turned out, as their colons were awry.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with colons, it’s basically the bit in the large intestine, which turns your processed waste into a semi solid substance, a substance which typically causes the birds outside your toilet window to pass up their gift of flying and instead hurl themselves four stories into the ground below.

Well at least in my household anyway.

The colon, due to it working incredibly hard and being greatly under appreciated, is thus prone to fall ill, and can develop issues such as inflamed tissue, ulcers and abnormal growth. I had an ulcer in my mouth once, and it was not a happy time in the Favourite Son household. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only thing worse than having an ulcer in your mouth, would be having an ulcer in your rectum. Colonoscopies are therefore carried out to identify these issues, and usually, are only performed on 50 year old patients who experience sore bums.

In my case however, due to there being what doctors call a “family history”, this unique rite of passage will now be moved forward about 25 years, on the insistence of The Girlfriend who, fearing my possible demise, doesn’t seem that keen on potentially having a new man spiking her drinks and feeling her up in her sleep.

Which is all well and good, except for the fact that it is my anus which will now be fully explored by a virtual stranger. Oh yes, I didn’t mention that, did I? The colonoscopy will involve a urologist inserting a large tube up my bum, upon which he will carefully navigate his way around my rectum, as the tube has a tiny camera the size of my self esteem. To make matters worse, it seems I will be fully aware of the arse exploration, save for what is described as a “light sedative” to “numb any potential pain”. I will be lying on my left side, and in some instances, may even be asked to move around a bit to give the camera inside my bum hole a better view of proceedings.

An alternative means of colonoscopy, but probably equally effective.

Finding out all of this has left me with an instinctive sense of fear, a paralyzing fear of the inevitable, especially once The Girlfriend gave me what is known by her enemies as The Look. Basically, once this facial expression has been utilized, fighting it is a bit like pissing in the wind, or watching an episode of Ugly Betty – ultimately pointless and more than a little silly.

So here we are then, I will now be psyching myself up over the next few months (I have managed to buy 6 months grace before having to bite the bullet) and will likely fill you all in on the details once the deed is done.

Suffice to say though, my mom and her stories will not be invited to any more braais for the time being. If I hear there is also prostate cancer in the family I may just combust.

Oakes signing off.

67 Years Old And Still Pumping

Jacob Zuma - A secret member of the X-Men?

I found yesterday’s news about Jacob Zuma having his 20th kid pretty awe inspiring. Not because I condone his behaviour – I don’t really – I think five wives is a bit of overkill and overly boastful.

It’s a bit like those guys you see at the Virgin Active gym, who will insist on walking up and down the change rooms completely starkers, on the basis that their winkies are the size of a grown man’s arm, thus making you feel deeply insecure about what you felt up to that point was a perfect and adequately sized member of your own.

We get it Jacob, you’re well into your sixties now and you’ve still got the goods, why don’t you just sit the next few plays out now?

No, what I am amazed about though, is how he manages to find the time to get his groove on. If the news reports are to be believed, this isn’t one of his five wives he has knocked up, but rather a 39 year old divorcee he has managed to wine and dine over the last 18 months. On top of all of this, he also has another woman he is engaged to, and plans on marrying shortly. So that’s approximately seven women he has to satisfy on a weekly basis, in addition to being fatherly to his 19 – and now 20 – kids.

I just can’t fathom having up to seven women to regularly please, whilst making sure the bin has been emptied, helping the kids with homework, and doing the odd-jobs around the house, like changing light bulbs, mowing the lawn etc.

On top of this, let’s not forget the small fact of Jacob Zuma being the president of South Africa, which I would imagine must take up a fair amount of his time.

Now, I’m not a president, but my work takes up a pretty decent chunk of my day. So much so that in many instances during the week, I just don’t have the time or energy to even feel up The Girlfriend, never mind wining and dining her.

Having just one version of The Girlfriend can be quite a handful, and the thought of having even two, let alone seven, is enough to make my testicles threaten strike action, and send a Labour lawyer to come and negotiate revised working hours and better pay over weekends.

Either Jacob Zuma is a mutant, with the unique ability to be in multiple places at the same time, or I am clearly taking the wrong vitamins.

Either way, a 67 year old man having consensual sex with a 39 year old woman deserves a round of applause, whether you agree with his actions or not.

Oakes signing off.

Yay or Nay.

So late last year a rather interesting crossword themed t-shirt managed to find it’s way into my wardrobe. Not quite sure what to make of it, some days I think I love it, other times I want to bury it in the back yard. Let’s put it to the public vote, after Some Other Guy kindly volunteered to model it for us.

The Crossword T-Shirt.

Oakes signing off.

From Me To You

Although The Girlfriend and my family don’t understand it, many people seem to find me funny, or at least mildly amusing, and will often comment how great it must be to meet me in person.

In many instances though, they seem to be disappointed, partly because I am much shorter and balder than what they expected, but also because I tend to be a quiet and humble soul, rather different to the image they had of me.

In the interests of transparency then, I thought it would be fitting to set the record straight here today. If you met me at a dinner party, braai, or wild orgy, and I came across as a rather quiet, introverted and slightly overweight young man, rest assured that it’s not because I am shy.

It’s simply because I am bored and am mentally plotting how I’m going to kill you.

That is all.

Oakes signing off.

People You Will Never Meet In Your Life

So, I think a while back I may have mentioned my Facebook Fan page and the fact that there is quite a bit of unique content there you wouldn’t see anywhere else?

Well, here is just a small taste of what you can find there – namely, amazing shots of famous celebrities rubbing shoulders with me, together with a brief write up of their vibe. Here with a small taste:

Shaun. Chilling With Obama.

Sharing a joke with Barack Obama, who is the president of the USA. He seems like a decent guy, although he totally stole a joke I told him about women with small feet, and then claimed it as his own.

Everyone in his entourage laughed when he told the joke, which kind of pissed me off, but I let him have his moment as he has been dealing with a lot of shit lately.

Shaun. At The Golden Globes With Angelina.

Chilling at the Golden Globes with Angelina Jolie. Didn’t really expect that to be honest. There I was, chilling on the red carpet, looking for The Girlfriend, who had spotted her crush, Javier Bardem, and had dashed off to speak to him.

Just as I was about to dissolve into a puddle of awkwardness, Angelina pops up at my side, and starts asking me about the orphans in South Africa, and how much she would need to pay for one.

Suddenly, dozens of photographers surrounded us and it felt like hundreds of pics were taken. Her husband Brad Pitt then showed up and he seemed pissed off. At first, I thought it was because he had a shit moustache (which he had to grow for Inglorious Basterds) but it turns out that Brad is quite a jealous guy, and the two started screaming at each other. Next thing you know, Angelina is telling him that she is through with him and he can go back to Jen (whoever that is)

Interesting night.

Shaun. Jamming With Mr Seagal. And His Shitty Band

Having a jam session with Steven Seagal, legendary action star of cult movies such as Above The Law and Under Siege.

Was a little bit disappointed with Steven to be honest. Thought he would be more of a badass and was hoping someone would pick a fight with him at the bar we were at. (Stones in Observatory)

Eventually I paid someone to go up to him and tell him that Under Siege 2 was shit, and Jean Claude Van Damme would kick his ass in a fight.

Expecting Seagal to narrow his eyes and break the dude’s neck, he instead invited him to come and listen to his folk band, where he sings about himself. He also gave him an autographed copy of his book, which he had on him for some reason. Strange vibe, that Steven Seagal.

Did you enjoy that? See more over here.

Oakes signing off.