For anyone's sake...

Lately I have been having 'one of those days' intermittently reoccuring during my normal week. At best I probably have 'one of them' every month but of late these have been more common than a patchwork leather jacket at an Egoli cast autobiography signing session.

I love the term 'one of those days'! It rolls off the tongue with such ease but more importantly it brings abrupt closure to the lips of the nosey ass person that just asked you how things are going? You don't like them, they don't like you, besides their most recent ex-girlfriend you've shared nothing in common yet here the fool is asking how you are? Bingo. "One of those days"!

It is basically the most underutilised yet most devastatingly effective social tool you can employ to get rid of someone. It's the ultimate coup de grace:

Anon: "Hi Jake, how you doing?"
Jake: "Fuck off Luke, You're fat and shorter than your sleeves. I'm not picking you! Bingo!"

You could have just said, "I'm having one of those days..!"

The reason for the cure-idiot-in-your-presence affect is that no one wants to know another persons problems so they'll piss off quicker than Graeme Smith gets back into the changeroom just so they don't have to hear what is crap in your life...

However, with this in mind. I didn't get this here little post off with my acclaimation so you would stop reading. Oh not at all. Instead I want you to read this, cause it is for your benefit. Bingo.


It all started last tuesday night when I found myself at a "Farewell party" at Tiger. A good mates girlfriend left for Europe that morning so we were celebrating her farewell. Things were going just fine and dandy when this retard dressed in his school uniform knocked my Heineken off a ledge and onto some fat girl on the dance floor.

Now Heineken's are replaceable as are, unfortunately so, fat girls but what really got my eyes brows elevated was the fact that this aforementioned retard was sporting his Diep River High school kit. I was then informed that you forego 60% of the R30 door charge if you dress up to the Back2School theme.

What the fuck is that? A CNA advert. Are you kidding. Fuckwit, that provision is there on the entrance advertisement to encourage little blonde girls to dress up in knee length stockings, short skirts, red bras and high-heeled barter toughies (clear heels if a fishhoek girl) to fulfill our peadophilic sexual tendancies, not so some spanner head like yourself can wear khaki shorts and a tie.

Good God. I'd pay you 20 bucks to go back to your car and change. Fuck I would pay you forty bucks to stop licking my spillaged heineken off that plump tart's boobs. Aaaaahhhhh...

Honestly however my 'one of those days' feeling preceded that night when I strangely fell upon something and was led to the corresponding internet site. Thankfully I fell on it figuritively not physically. Go check out http://www.femmeplus.co.za/! It might shed some weird light onto how fucked up some people are. It's basically a urinary funnel that allows women to urinate standing up. I can't talk about this anymore. Please go check it...


Moving along. My 'one of those days' sentiment was compounded over the weekend and culminated in me having a conversation with this guy out in Paarl.

The u20 team of rugby rockstars I coach had a fixture out in Paarl. Cape Town league, opposition in Paarl, you can sympathesis with my averment. Fuck, it would have been easier to fly to Kimberly and drive there than having gone on the N1.

Anyway we get out into the Boland, Free State, Angola, where ever the fuck it is and we aren't scheduled to play at the Rugby Stadium but rather at the municipal soccer fields. Flat patch of grass, four lines, four posts...I am fine with that. We came for rugby not a fashion show.

Trevor (prnounced Tray-ver) the rotund Head Coach of the famous Paarl under20 division comes to greet me whilst I am out on the pitch doing that Matthew Hayden psyche up thing. We were scheduled to kick off at 14h45 but the curtain raiser was a few fixtures between surrounding Platteland school sides that obviously don't have the facilities at their respective schools.

Now I don't use the term Platteland school loosely. It's used in a very tight and very specific manner. Basically we have four school teams of Boland vinyard-hand's male offspring enjoying some footie and close on a hundred papsak swirling screaming supporters. Yes, they are all coloured people, but all rugby enthusiasts.

This prick Trevor who looks like a Weber braai advert (not the guy in the advert, literally the advert) comes and apologises to me for having to play at a venue with these people...

These people? Are you Ashton Kutcher? I freaked. I went berserk. I couldn't believe him. I have these people and other "people" in my team. Don't you dare for a fuckin nano second group me into your laager of closet racism you fat anachronistic dutchmen! I put him firmly in his place and told him we would see him on the 'veld'. My little band of spartan's then drubbed his blue bull-esque pack and big protein fuelled centres 5 tries to 0. And four of my sides tries came from players of colour.

I am incredulous that people with that mentality roam the hinterland. They should be shipped off to the Netherlands or something. Bingo!