Oh please no...

I used to have so much free time on sunday evenings (after making a mockery of my touch colleagues the whole day) that I would kick around the apartment and do arb stuff. You know arb stuff right?

Tabulate, index and cross reference my Men's Health collection (sundays are religious afterall), teach the cat how to use it's right paw, phone the sibling to touch base, chat up the new tenant upstairs, recalibrate the sights on my airrifle, try set another highest score fur Burnout 2...you know arb stuff.

However I was never, and I am not friggan joking...never inclined to turn on MNET to watch that camp american show with the 'pseudo-queer eye for a queerer guy' host that knocks down poverty stricken family abodes to built mansions in the projects!

Home-wreckers or whatever it's called encourages me to ambidexterise my pets but whats coming now to that time slot is going to make me do arb stuff like superglue my eye-lids shut and pogo downstairs backward.

I don't want to get too cynical about the advent of Survivor SA, but let's be brutally honest. Idols SA? I rest my case. But since we're proudly South Africa here at RSLJ we are going to run our own subsidiary competition to SSAP. (Survivor SA, Panama...wow...it even has a dutch acronym) Yes you guessed it! Which girl are we backing.

Disappointingly it's a one horse race, since only one chick is a belter so we pick her. Who said we weren't (insert an antonym of shallow)!

This you might enjoy. Whilst scrolling down the names of the contestants to click on the female names to recruit for your competition, I inadvertly clicked on this bloke:

---------------------------Still cut up after losing 5-3 in the last rubber!

Forgive me, but carrying a name like Sam, and you're friggan assured of being mistaken as a girl. That aside the interesting thing about this phedracut moron is that he is Mr MH 2005. (it makes sense now that MHs is a religion cause it is flawed) You might vaguely remember a reference to the guy in dec 05 on this site because he cheats at touch. Don't forget that....

Monday call girl...

Peter Doherty is officially the best role model for little boys across the world! The best role model for why not the get addicted to heroin. He goes out with Kate Moss, but hires this crackwhore as a $500 call girl for a night. He passed out and was unable to best use his 5 dead presidents but that doesn't change the fact that this is fairly uncouth...

The Real Monday Girl...

It's time you left him Kate and came and join myself and my girlfriend in a trilationship..!

Ugly people flirting. Act 2, Scene 1:

(Cue Jaws theme music)

Oh God, I think there is some sort of epidemic spreading. All are in danger. You never know when your time will come. Your time to witness the atrocity of (dun dun daaaa) ugly people flirting...

I seem to have been cursed by the Gods (some form of Karma perhaps) as the other day I witnessed my second bout of ugly people flirting in a week. This time, the act could've been a scene from Brokeback Mountain because the "girl" role was played by a Heath Ledger lookalike and the guy looked like Jake Gyllenhaal's ass.

Ok, you can do this. Just take a deep breath and tell everyone what happened...
They had clearly taken a break from the front row of the Finance Honours lecture to commit this heinous act. I was perfectly placed to witness the whole thing...

Jake's Ass: So what did you get up to this weekend (fart fart)?
Heath: I had so much fun. I worked all weekend
Jake's Ass: That sounds (fart) awesome. You have really nice eyes
Heath: Thank you. The size of your forehead indicates to me that you have an impressive frontal lobe

(he..I mean she. Oh fuck it. Heath goes in for the kiss)

Why me?

A house to make a home in...

Last Thursday I was dragged (not too hard) to House of Rasputin (H.O.R.), the new gentlemen's club, by GH#12 and Mr G. It was one of those spontaneous outings that turns a planned night of work and an early bedtime into a Millers-fuelled evening spent in the company of naked and gyrating Bulgarian and Russian angels. True, there were one or two less appealing locals. For example HF Verwoerds daughter with the fake tits who thought that we would actually enjoy it if she stuck Mr G's glasses in her underwear. I don't think he saw as much of Milla's (stop it!)table dance as GH#12 and I did because his spectacles were a bit steamed up. Other than Milla's (stop it!) bum, the two highlights of the evening were:

1) The Eastern Bloc stripper who was sitting on my lap feeling an sms vibrate in my pocket, making some filthy comment, and then proceeding to attempt to read out loud an invitation to a braai and drinks the following night. A heavily accented stripper trying to say "Come for a jol at 5 Harcourt Avenue, Claremont" is nothing short of hilarious.

2) The dirty wH.O.R.e stripper who adopted us for the evening and actually turned out to be a nice girl who doesn't do drugs, only approves of stripping if it is in an effort to make a better life for yourself or your loved ones, and pays her 13 year old sister's school fees introduced us to word of the week when she referred to Verwoerd's daughter as "rather uncouth." Rather uncouth? Sweetheart, despite your aspirations of being a UN goodwill ambassador and South Africa's first female president, you have just taken all your clothes off on stage during which time my two friends and I, as well as the 30 middle aged dudes, were privy to the fact that you have two nipple rings. Uncouth!?!

3) After being asked if I was old enough to be there (Fuck sorry if I don't grow facial hair like Boyd Varty), convincing the entire work force that it was in fact my 18th birthday. Lesson learnt - strippers are gullible.

It was nice to finally meet some of the girls who live in my girlfriends old house in Camp Ground road. I think I might stop in and pretend that I'm looking for a shirt I left there once...

Monday Doll...


In reference to the last post. Thanks for keeping us rotating...

Things that make the world go round...

Up until very recently I wasn’t familiar with the name Lily Allen. My position in this regard was altered over the weekend when her name came up during the ‘celeb gossip’ insert on the radio news. It turned out young Lily is not shy to pass judgement on famous people and to do so public.

--------------------Drinking like a bergie and pregnant tops accentuates women!

The news spot was about how Ms Allen had spoken out about the onstage antics of the girl group ‘The Pussycat Dolls’. We here at Rockstar embraces the idea that everyone is entitled to their own opinion but sometimes we also embrace the opportunity to platform our own opinion on those held by others.

Allen had this to say. ‘They [the PCDs] are bad role models for young girls as they project the image that girls must be skinny, must wear revealing clothes, they never say anything of value and that womanising is acceptable’.

As pointed out, Lily, you are entitled to your opinion and we can’t take it away from you. We would like to point out however that skinny girls wearing revealing outfits could very possibly be one of the geophysical reasons that the earth rotates on an axis and would a stop to such behaviour would make our geoid home stationary and the abruptness of such a stop would probably fling us off the surface so far that people admiring skinny girls in revealing bikinis in Croatia would end up lying face down in a lunar crater.

As for the womanising part, this is simply a reaction to skinny chicks in very little attire and such attention is necessary to invite aforementioned scantily clad women to continue dressing like so, hence perpetuating the motion of the earth.

As for purporting the idea that women don’t say anything of value! We agree that they should stop perpetuating such a stigma if you do to…

Guess who?

I have a thing for Guess? girls and as much of an angel as she is, I'm not referring to Anastasia in the Cavendish branch but rather to the countless models who have appeared in the Guess adverts that adorn their shopping bags and stores. Cast your eyes friends...

Double header...

Yes folks, today is a rockstar birthday double header. In addition, both birthday boys happen to be digs mates in Wonderland (all strippers from across the road are welcome to the party tonight).

Best wishes from RSJ to Charles aka Kenrick Brown and Gregory Bastard. In many ways, these men are on opposite ends of the spectrum. Kenrick is known as by far the fittest man in Western Province whereas Greg enjoys the odd binge and sent me this (albeit inadvertently) yesterday:

"Wonderland, I apologise for over-consumption of the alcoholic beverage. I will no longer consume as from Sunday the 20th August. Henceforth in writing."

Excuse me for stating the obvious but today is before Sunday the 20th and so most punters are expecting an epic performance, hopefully from both men.

May your days be blessed with chicken burgers and your nights with swedish lingerie model twin threesomes...

Rockstar of the Moment...

We wanted to reinstate the importance of this award so started getting stingy with throwing it around. Also rockstar is overseas selling prefab condominiums to any retired grandmothers above the poverty line so hasn't been able to focus.

There is no doubt today that the awardee is very deserving of his free chicken burger. I hope you didn't infer from the Tiger article below that some good things don't come out of Tiger Tiger, because last tuesday something good came out and she went straight to Dboy's place.

We're going to use the CIA highliter on this one cause some details are so personal they are better left unmentioned but lets just say coming right (what a euphemism) with number 2 a variety of times in a variety of positions means this is quite possibly the last time I will ever speak to you.

Dave our friendship is over, but you're now my hero...

Ugly People Flirting: Act 1 Scene 1...


(It was a dark and stormy Cape Town winters day and the UCT Commerce Computer Labs were full. Enter the two lead characters from right of stage...)

Fat, Balding, Spectacled Guy (FBSG): Let's open g-mail accounts together

(unwittingly or not initiating a bout of flirty banter as graceful as the Bolshoi Ballet)

Afrikaans Red-haired Girl with Hairlip (ARGH - see what I did there): But I are not knowing how

FBSG: Thats ok I will guide you through it

ARGH: What must I put my address as?

FBSG: Whatever you want

ARGH: Do I have to make it my name?

FBSG: Whatever you want


(She gets worked up, unleashing a barrage of questions at the unassuming FBSG and seeming as though her red hair is about to catch on fire for real)

ARGH: Do I have to put my surname as well? Should I put a dot between my name and surname because I've seen lots of people with that. Why's it not working?

(He pays her a compliment in a blatant attempt to sweet talk her into bed)

FBSG: You're a clever girl, I'm sure you can work it out

ARGH: Dankie. I like your boep. Let's go naai.

(They exit the stage to the right, leaving the only audience member nauseous)

Easy Tiger...

I love how things in Cape Town are so hot right now one minute and then like Jaco van der Westhuzyn the next. I guess it is natural that things fluctuate between popular and detested but night clubs take it to the exteme.

Tiger filled a niche in the market with better timing than a Tiger Woods down stroke. Someone with a liquor licence could have opened a breadbin with a muncipality regulation firescape, used a half filled Ipod shuffle of contemporary dance hits plugged into an amp and charged R50 entrance and still become a super club in Claremont.

Tiger went a step further than my example. They got a really big breadbin, used an Ipod mini and had the odd student night and wham bam thank you ma'am became the night spot destination of choice of the southern suburbs (for the people of the northen suburbs too, unfortunately) for 4 nights of the week. Easy hey! The owner must be printing money.

However, success when wrongly channeled can lead to complacency and that is where the big 'striped kitty' finds itself now. Tiger has developed a reputation that is far from laudable and people are already boycotting it as a result.

This new found stigma emanates from two very real Tiger related scenarios. The first is the suspicious hangover some people are starting to wake up with, coupled with severe memory loss, a soon to develop and very justified LC and a very strange coppery flunitrazepam after taste in their mouths.

Drink spiking used to be an urban myth associated with clubs in town and Wynberg girls house parties but a recent spate of incident at Tiger has some serious rumours flying:

Rumour 1: There is some wild maniac drink spiker on the loose targeting ugly girls and guys!
Rumour 2: The Tiger management or barladies wash their glassware in pure alcohol.
Rumour 3: They buy the MyKINDA spirits brand and syphon the contents into the bottles of respectable labels.


Lets evaluate these. R3 is probably the most plausible. It is a sneaky way of selling cheap ass township liquor at premium prices, but this doesnt't explain the black outs suffered by the more northern suburb patrons as they were brought up on this KINDA low grade tipple so have a tolerance to it. R2 is also plausible as one can't detect the addition of pure alcohol in a double cane as it is masked but then I did hear it from a girl so that rules it out. R1 is a goodie and makes more sense when you think about that weirdo that walks around cavendish dressed like Bjork listening to his ipod and doing things with his hands that indicates he probably thinks he is one of those girls from Triplie Trax. The problem with this is that why the hell then does no one see the fucker? He obviously does it as a prank (no guy would otherwise to do it to ugly girls and guys) but surely since it happens so often someone will see him?

The second scenario panned out like this:

At 23h55 young Jon has been standing outside at the front of the non-moving queue for 45min. Two inebriated ugly girls (possibly prank spiked) are begging the NBA looking bouncer to allow them urgent re-entry so they can find the girl that is their lift home. Had it been a guy they were requesting entrance to find Jon wouldn't have been so sympathetic but luckily it wasn't.

The guy from "The Air Up There" (you knew you recognised him) is a steadfast as Madagascar in the Indian Ocean and won't budge. The girls are very adament and their constant begging and pleading is unheard. Eventually they resort to higher channels and request to see the Manager. The spear-looking bouncer tells them to 'Fuck Off'!

The girls then explode in a rant of non-repeatable expletives that really shouldn't come from the mouth of ladies but given the circumstances (and their slightly butch disposition) they are forgiven. The big man is more silent than a totem pole and only a touch taller.

One girl then tries to push past him to get her chubby face inside to request assitance and High Tower throws her a Butch James stiff arm and roughly shoves both girls back a large distance. Jonny's private school upbringing reminds him that never should a man physically attack a women so stands in and confronts the bouncer.

[At this point, Jonny has not really been party to the proceedings but definitely was on the girls side just cause letting them in would solve the irritating annoyance of their complaints that were ruining his already wonderful night out]

Jon: Hey Pal. That's really not necessary. They are just girls. Your excessive use of force is hardly commensurate to the problem you are faced with. I think your immediate apology is in order and that you should go to all lengths necessary to assist these young ladies.
Flagpole: What you say?
Jon: Do you speak English?
Treetop: What you say?
Jon: Can I see your passport?
Topfloor: What you say?
Jon: Work visa? Immigrant status? National ID document? Letter from the Congo Embassy? Maybe a Ghanain football shirt? Can you prove you are allowed to live and work in this country?
Jack's Beanstalk: Shut up.
Jon: You're an asshole man...

Jon then got an overhand right and a life ban...

You might be a roomy establishment with ample parking lots of bars and big crowds, but if you don't sort out your security issues you are going to have people sticking flyers on cars saying "boycott Tiger"...

Monday girl...


Stop it!!!

Thumb, th-thum-thumb, thumb...

The 13th of August came and went for many of you out there like any lazy end of winter sunday should. A nice little breakie here, and a spot of gym there. Maybe a round of golf or any past time soaking up the Cape Town winter sun before settling into reruns of Desperate Housewives and CSI.


That is how you spent the day. However, half the female population of the Cape was not so laid back and carefree. Instead many women stalked around exchanging shifty glares and knowing looks. The day meant something to them, and it made them tingle inside.

You see yesterday was the birthday of a man that changed the face of drunken night frolics with single women. The advent of his masterful technique meant no longer would one of these late night trysts leave the man satisfied and the obliging lady unfulfilled.

When the hallowed holy man Vatsyayana heard about the technique he said, "Dean my boy, you've done well!"

Happy Birthday big guy, where ever you are...

Happy happy birthday...


We seem to be going through rockstar birthdays of late like this man went through university credits, slow at first and then with surprisingly regularity. Yes the 8th of the 8th is not just normally the day on which we celebrate Women's day but it is also the day of the Gav.

Now had it been my birthday this would have been little no coincidence. After all, what better way for women to celebrate their day than with me...okay who am I kidding, he is probably the better gift.

Young, rich, successful and always scheming he bears stark resemblence to the other famous jewish guy and he could even be immortal too. Who knows though cause today he is only 23. Your age has finally surpassed your gold handicap...

Here is to another 23 pal...

Aaargh you aware that its Monday...


It isn't often that a girl makes the monday page on more than one occasion but I am feeling cut-throat. Keira, stop it!

Stage by Stage...

As with most things in life falling head over heels in love with a stripper doesn't just happen. No no fools, before you rush in and believe that 'love at first sight crap', you must remember that it doesn't apply to ladies that earn their wares by taking off their underwear. Falling for a pole dancer is like a quadruped moving forward, it involves 4 steps.

Lucky for you who is perched in the lotus position in the hotspot of the local Mug & Bean surfing the net that you have stumbled upon the very site that will reveal these, first to be documented, 4 steps. You see apart from being incredibly well educated, groomed, hung, spoken and read we here at Rockstar Journals are also extremely well traveled...

To find out and study this love phenomenon I had to travel deep into South East Asia so I could first hand witness the goings on at the very coal face of the art that is table-top gyration. Yes I did come back with other interesting tit bits like how pathetic anyone in Africa doing Muay Thai is cause there are some Thai boxing students that aren't old enough to cross the road alone that will whip your glam-fighting ass like you are the Springboks in Brisbane and never wash kao pad moo down with cheap beer but you don't want to hear that. Lean in closer for the real stuff!


Step 1: You stride into the dimly lit smoky room battling to hold your breath and the urge to display a frantic display of end zone fist pumping. [I am no Waldon Pyre, so writing it how I saw it. Bear with me here, plus keep those fists ready cause you can unleash the sky boxing shortly] You get ushered to your comfy perch in the amphitheatre seating by the brutish mama san's torch and before your gluts have hit the vinyl a bitterly cold green bottle is thrust into your hand and the condensation drips down your sweaty grip. You motion the Heineken rim to your lips and as you lift your head back to let the ice cold liquid make love to your dust coated tonsils, your eyes draw level to the stage and the sight of her hits you harder than tonight's kao pad moo.

Step 2: So step 1 is similar to love at first sight, but here is where it changes. Before you is a meat marker of girls dancing shoulder to shoulder wearing very little but lace and leather. They’re like the All Blacks defense at ruck time except pretty, and wearing less. A lot prettier and a lot less. In amongst the stage full of clones stands out one that is so superior to the rest you don’t notice the others. You force a smile from your frozen body and from behind her dark brown eyes slides a sneaky wink, a graceful hair toss and just like that she is gone…

Step 3: She pops up next to you like Tyler Durden, where did she come from? In the following 10 minutes you have bought her a shot glass of fanta that cost 4 times the Heinekens you keep getting handed and after a conversation in broken English she has firmly wrapped your heart around her little finger. Quick as her ninja powers allow she is gone from your side and back on stage gyrating to the somewhat inappropriate melody of Fat Bottomed Girls.

Step 4: This is where your head orbits your heels quicker than a Bangkok taxi weaves through traffic! You wake up and beat down your hangover with questions that are unfortunately synonymous with falling in love with a stripper. Why is such a nice girl in such a horrible place? Surely she can find an easier way to pay for university? She is so good for someone who has only done it for 3 weeks? I can’t believe she was so into me and paid such good attention to me? I wonder if she will let me pay for her studies? I wonder if she wants to come study back home? Should I ask her when I go back tonight?

Such is life. And such is falling in love with a stripper…

Turf wars...

Do you have one of those friends in your little pseudo clickie group that takes huge pleasure in finding opportunities where he is better versed on a topic than the rest of you and makes outrageous diversions from the truth to 'wow the crowd' with his superior knowledge because he knows you know just as little as he does on the topic so you won't call him on the validity of his recklessness statements? [fuckin long question I know but 'long' is a theme here at RSLJ]

You know what I mean though? The guy who goes sightseeing in Dordrecht with his parents over the holidays and comes back saying shit like 'the average girl in Dordrecht is so hot she makes Minki look like that Zuraide Jardine'! He is the authority on the subject so you can't accuse him on talking crap. Anyway, we in the pseudo online enthusiast group have a friend like that! And he throws around 'facts' with such abandon he makes a Stephan Glass article looks like the Gospel of Job.

Well stand down big guy. I am calling it. We have a policy here of non-disclosure. It keeps us on the moral high ground and purveys qualities that women find attractive like loyalty and integrity. Good thing my looks surpass my other qualities sufficiently to let it slip that the site I talk of has something to do with 'dual large expanses of salt water.com'. [For our readership that falls into the 'I am not smart but can lift heavy things' category think; it rhymes with 2motionstribe]

They posted an article at the end of July advocating (and advertising) very possibly the best breakfast place in Cape Town. We are pissed off that attention has so brazenly been brought upon the place as the number of patrons is heavily affecting the once subdued and private atmosphere and slowing the food queue down even more.

Lucky for the loud mouth braggart that let the cat out the bag that it was very recently disbanded as the RSLJ Sunday morning breakfast headquarters (the bat cave is now complete so we went home) otherwise we would be placarding outside his camps bay flat with Hezbollah style tactics and paying Mavis persuadingly to urinate in his balsamic vinegar.

To correct the two factual inadequacies of the article: The initial launch price of the early bird breakfast was not a few months ago but closer to 2 years ago now and there aren't four hosts, just two. Mike and Phil are possibly the best guys in the business but to a little fellow we can understand that there appeared to be 4 of them.

Moving along. Now that the secret is out the bag I'll give you the truth about Arnolds. It was the best kept secret Town had to offer. The service was friendly but tired. On the Roy Ferguson service rating guide they got a shocking 4 out of 10. They go through waitrons like Jake White goes through flyhalves. However what they lack in common sense, aesthetic appeal and efficiency they make up for in their pleasant and laid back demeanor.

The food actually comes out incredibly slowly and you can't make variations to the standard form but you've seen the Amstel Theory. Excellence is worth waiting for, and the man in charge of the spatula knows how to make an egg. As breakfast experiences go, it doesn't get better. Just now we might have to wait longer for a table.

Actually, whom I kidding, we get table preference whenever we go. You should have listened to Robbie Williams when he said the beauty about Cape Town is very few people know about it! Next time we'll remove those tortoise shell channels and shoot egg in your face, from a Lebanese barrel.

Girl on the street...

Now I know we have Monday girl to brighten up our week and turn those Monday blues into red hot passion but I feel this young lady is worthy of publication. Hell, "Girl on the Street" may even become a regular feature. A friend of mine who is currently strengthening diplomatic ties in Fort Lauderdale in the US spotted her as he stepped out of the office to grab some lunch. He says he grabbed a camera from the car and a few minutes later he was 3 blocks away with a full camera and an empty stomach. Personally, I'd go hungry. In fact, I'd go on a hunger strike for her... Join me friends