The World’s Coolest Sandpit…

Being a big kid at heart means I am always up for a bit of playtime. That’s why I jumped at the opportunity to spend 3 nights visiting the lads in Dubai on my way to La Londres. A couple of big nights, a serious case of sunglasses tan and a spot of indoor snowboarding later and I was out of there. It went so quickly. Whoever came up with the saying, “time flies when you’re having fun” was not talking shit.
The city of Dubai is an absolute phenomenon. It’s as if there is a group of rockstars sitting in a room trying to think of the coolest shit to build and do and then someone does it. Almost every building has a crane on top of it and the skyline is dominated by what will be, upon completion, the tallest building in the world. It is also being built with the capacity for add ons so if another building claims the the title it can be made higher. Some other architectural and engineering marvels include the world’s tallest hotel, the palm tree shaped islands and the currently under construction world islands. Every now and then, however, you are reminded that you are in the desert as you drive past a plot of undeveloped sand.

The population is divided in a 70-30 expat-arab split which means that while you still get exposure to a different culture and religion, there is a certain degree of familiarity and comfort in this decidedly westernized society and you don’t get the impression that you’re going to have your knob amputated for looking at an angel’s lady lumps.

In essence, the Sheik is trying to create a Utopian society… A truly beautiful city where there is no income tax, you get deported if you test positive for HIV and those in power really look out for their people. A few years ago, the ruling Sheik underwent a triple bypass, survived and recovered from this major surgery. He was evidently rather pleased with this outcome because he subsequently paid off every citizen’s debt. Moral of the story: Next time the Sheik goes in for surgery, rack up one hell of a credit card bill and then pray that he survives.

The Joooly round 6…

The reason for this extremely late report back on one of the Durban social scene’s finest outings can be gleaned from the previous article. The Vodacom Durban “Joooly” as it has affectionately become known once again didn’t disappoint. Fears that the event wouldn’t deliver due to the fact that after parties at the track would be shut down at 9:30 and patrons would have to move to Panama Room or the Millers/Tilt/Reel Productions (I can’t keep track) tent at the cycle track abounded. However, festivities continued well after the advertised cut off time and when we did eventually move on, there was just as much fun to be had… The usual highlights were there…friends with picnic sites and tents, angels looking their absolute best with cleavage as far as the eye could see…Things just don’t get better. I decided not to take part in the naked race this year. After my near win and consequent R500 bar tab at Tiger in 2005, I can’t seem to summon the commitment again.

I involved myself in the betting aspect of the day more than in previous years, partly due to the fact that this is the first time I haven’t attended a 21st the night before and hence arrived at the event before 3. I finished the day having lost money. Not a lot but it’s the principle of ending down, a position I am not used to. The interesting thing is that I am not the only one to blame. Who else would be the cause of my misfortune? None other than my domestic worker, the ironically named, Happy. You see, 10 years ago Happy had a vision. She told my parents to put everything they had down on a certain horse. They humoured her and said they would but when the time came they obviously didn’t go through with it. The horse ended up winning the race. Happy told me this story to weeks before this year’s event and I told her that she was to inform me of any subsequent visions. Sure enough, as I was about to head down to Durban for some Kings Park (I still refuse to call it the ABSA stadium) rugby, my little brother slipped me a piece of paper which simply said “1 and 13 swinger”. This was the oracle’s vision. She knew about swingers. Amazing! What about trifectors and place accumulators? Was she really a clairvoyant or simply a race punter keen to get back in on the action? I had my doubts.

After a Sharks victory and a bit of a catch up with some of the Aspen housemates on the Friday night, we made our way to Greyville. I had butterflies in my stomach I was so excited. This excitement however was stunted when I perused the race card and realized that the chances of number 13 getting a place were somewhere in the region of 99-1. I busied myself with some other bets and decided to put just a small amount down on “the dream.” Now this is the freaky part. Horses 1 and 13 came in 1st and 2nd in the race 6 but neither placed in race 7, the main race. So close and yet so far. I was not the only victim of this misfortune as many others had heard the story and, wanting to be part of an incredible tale, had put money down themselves.

Anyway, no use crying over spilt milk. I nearly found myself crying over a lost phone though. This years Joooly seemed to be home to as much criminal activity as the Zimbabwean parliament. One girl had her purse and phone stolen in two separate incidents and the bouncer at the Millers tent was shot after a minor scuffle earlier in the day. Extreme. Back to my story. I was walking through the thick crowd from one tent to another when a guy tapped me on the shoulder and accused me of bumping into him a few metres back. I protested my innocence and attempted to walk off. He tapped me again and said I should be more careful then he grabbed me by the shoulder and the belt and said I could get into a fight. I pushed him away and started to walk off but as I dropped my hand back to my side it brushed my pocket and I realized my phone was gone. I knew it was this little fucker straight away so politely asked if I could have my phone back as I looked down and saw it in his hand. Cheeky bastard. He apologized as if he’d stood on my toe or something and just handed it back before beginning to stroll, not run, off. I couldn’t believe the audacity so delivered an extremely cheap but thoroughly deserved right to the back of his head. I can only imagine that the ring I wear on that hand had something of a knuckleduster effect as he dropped the floor. I glanced around for security but saw none so I walked off, bumping into a group of girls as I turned who looked at me as though I had just been involved in an unprovoked racist beating.

All in all, another eventful Joooly from which I eventually left in a taxi with four 20 year old girls. Lovely…

Comeback Tour…

It would be impossible to ignore as stirring a call to arms as delivered by my colleague in the piece “Where is my Docstar?” Yes, my posts have been about as absent as condoms in Jacob Zuma's wallet over the past while.

I will offer just one simple excuse…Maritzburg has no internet. Ok, not 100% true but there were information superhighway issues. I basically had access to a potholed information farm road. The main thing is that I am back and now doing my writing from London Town. Yes I have made the big move to little South Africa. You, dear readers can look forward to many angry outbursts reminiscent of the great “how did you break your ankle?” profanity-ridden post of 2006. So here begins my comeback tour. I am the Eagles, I am Depeche Mode…

Monday madame...


How much longer until summer?

The World on A String : Part 1

Travelling the world on a shoestring budget requires, among other things, a strong stomach, patience, and imagination. You've got to roll with the thai curries, 8 hour train rides and paper thin mattresses. In return you get killer sunsets, great weather, the Beach and gorgeous women.

While you can't be here with me, spreading my good looks, charm and general rockstar-ishness I'll do my best to keep you updated. Expect natural wonders, un-natural wonders and no doubt some deep insights.

For now I'll leave you with this classic t-shirt, spotted hanging in in a Chiang Mai night market.

"If being cool was easy, everyone would be line me"

It is that time of year again...


Please STOP asking...!

This is just a tribute: Where is my Docstar...!

Last time I saw him he took cutie for a ride in his death cab down the road to mandalay but then he left on a jet plane never to be seen again. Where is my docstar?

I must thank him (and them) for being our taxidriver, but he will never be my gymclass hero...

We miss you brother in arms and the life without you is starting to look dire. We will hold you a parade if you come back now but it will be a black parade if you choose not to and pursue this chemical romance of yours, and I am not so sure if your memory will carry on...

Come right now D-star and I will fetch you in my silversun pickup, it'll be like driving to another universe except not in my volkswagen.

I know you are having the time of your life and you may think I am crazy but when you're out there we are out of touch and I'll smile like I mean it mr docside if you come back now; or I'll lose my mind and turn into your killer, man.

Don't go back to dalston Doc, even if you know a girl there with a golden touch rather stay up all night and come back to us. Take the subways if you have to or the train from jupiter but leaving in a fast car won't stop my speeding cars from chasing you, even without their headlights on the dark road.

Cape Town is burning Doc and by August...Ana will be taking back your best sunday sofa. It's all a mess...

We will wait with arms wide open if you promise to return or even use our rockstar postal service but if you're lying to me soldier I won't panic at our disco, even if there is sex on the dance floor, cause even sophie knows it is the best fun a girl can have...with her clothes on...

Don't come back in anger, I hear you say and I do agree but do it for all the widows in paradise, they know a good man is hard to find. I am not trying to be misunderstood, I just don't know what to do with myself, where is my mind, where is my docstar..!

Martes Hombre...



We like you! It's true. You usually hear us explaining how we hate so many people and things and I suppose it could gnaw at your inner insecurities and make you wonder if we like you.

It's true though. We do like you. And since 'feelings' can only be portrayed through physical manifestations we want you to enjoy the hottest girl in the world. We didn't title her; some internet gimp did, and he seems to have done a fair job. Yay!

We do like you. I promise.

The Golden Rules (Rockstar etiquette abroad)

When visiting the pristine environmental conservation sanctuaries across our tourist friendly homeland I once received esteemed advice from arguably the best man in the ecotourism industry.

Young and bashful Boyd Varty was maneuvering his Landcruiser down the acacia clad avenues of eastern Mpumalanga with the skill and finesse of Lewis Hamilton when he spoke this truism. He spat out the grass seedling that perpetually sat on his bottom lip, lowered the brim of his leather hat to deflect the eye-squintingly bright setting African sun, glanced over his taught yoga sculptured shoulder and spoke; "Gavin my man, when you come here, you take nothing but photos and you leave nothing but footprints..."

It is highly likely that I will never be able to emulate this great man's achievements or oratory skill but maybe I can pass on some advice as I learnt it.

Golden Rule #1:

Coming from the economic mighty mouse our beloved tip of southern Africa you travel with the knowledge that our Rand is as strong in international markets as an under-poured cocktail and sometimes just as ineffective.

Assuming then that you haven't traded in our lifestyle of hot climates and hot girls to chase queens or dead presidents in places where the only thing colder than their summer is their female population you are faced with two travel options:

1.) Go 'baller' it for exactly one night in a place where even police transport is made up of murcielagos and the culinary aspect of the included meal in the hotel room price is spawned from Caspian see sturgeon fish, or

2.) You can spread out the power of your buffalo bills across a more economically suitable country. A country like Thailand...

Now after numerous fact finding mission, accompanied by my rockstar editor&chief and his blonde ladyboy travel companion, we came up with some interesting price conversions.

Okay my rudimentary excel table isn't going to headline any major presentations but it shows the facts. The night club mark up on the price of beer is 500% whereas on a bottle of something it is less than 100%. However, if you are going to drink singles or doubles all night you will end up paying (30 shots in a bottle) 4500 baht for the bottle which is 4 times the wholesale price. If you choose to drink beer all night you will be slotting 5 ice cold green ones for every bottle of whiskey your dance companion drinks...

The prices above apply to foreign brands (smironoff and johnny blue or red) in a club that caters for locals. The two variants are the establishment and the brand. The local brands are far cheaper, except drinking thai rice whiskey all night may find you waking up bleeding from your eyes, and in places that cater for the foreign market the prices are even higher, like 250baht a beer...

Thanks sweetheart, and while you're there grab us a bucket of ice!

I fear running the risk of sounding like one of those guys that advocate only drinking cane all night and then posing for a photo with it but in truth there isn't really a choice: When in Thonglor do as the Thonglorians and buy yourself a bottle...

Golden Rule #2:

When imbibing large amounts of social faculty restricting liquids you must remain mindful of the fact that you aren't swaggering around your home town. This is an away game for you from the start, and as the visiting team must adhere to the local rules.

The obvious advantage of not knowing anyone there allows you to approach the dance-floor with less inhibition than a thai street lady approaches a taxi door but the more glaring disadvantage is that when you get surrounded by all on duty security personnel and managements undercover henchmen you're in trouble.


My previously celebrated traveling partner got placed under suspicion of carrying a concealed weapon whilst preening himself in the men's bathroom. He will staunchly claim that his accuser witnessed him to unloading and reloading his 'guns' in the mirror, (yes he does that) whereas retrospection makes me think he was just returning his fro-comb into his back pocket.

So what can I tell you when 8 guys accuse you of carrying a knife in a club, in a country infamous for a swift death sentence and a city renowned for kangaroo punishment? Plead innocence like the virgin mary and then agree to be escorted to a safe-zone for the required knife search by the manager and the manger alone.

Play your cards right and you might turn the situation in him buying you guilt drinks for the rest of your stay.

Golden Rule #3:

This one is very straightforward. That genre of movies that Taratino is so fond of that portrays every short asian person as being equipped with lethal fighting skills from any one variety of martial arts is not far from the truth.

If someone wants to fight? Let them; just make sure you're not the opponent. We witnessed some intra-local bloodshed outside one night. Unless you're the real life character on which Blade was based it wasn't pretty.

Our chaperone that night had a friend involved and later told us that the fight continued in the parking lot of the local hospital where it flared up again later. Eventually the police broke it up with warning shots.

The stuff you learnt in Roeland street 3 afternoons a week is for the ring at Cape Town glam fighting events...nothing else.

There are various other rules pertaining to taxi rides, bar fines, bar girls, street food and ugly foreign backpacking girls from Europe but if you don't learn those yourselves traveling wouldn't be any fun...

Guess the rockstar...

It is that time of the week again when we urge you to try and guess who quoted the passage below. The banter that arrived when we posted the last one was so interesting we've decided to keep with the theme.



First prize: 2 tickets to the RWC 07 Final, if and only if, the Springboks play in it.

Second prize: 2 tickets to the RWC 07 Semi-Final, if and only if, the Springboks play in it.

"For me, in the rules it is fairly clear, really clear about what you are allowed to do and what you aren't allowed to do."

"Different referees will allow you to do different things. I talk to them before every game. First of all at a breakdown some call 'hands off' and some call 'ruck formed'. And I say to them that I am going to listen to that as much as possible."

[As an aside, we did promise a looming article with some pre-RWC 07 banter and predictions but we're waiting for all the squads to be finalised, and since Jake had to send his to be rubber stamped by his government it might take a while. Nice job, coaching a team you can't choose]

Rockstars of the Moment...

This news may be a few days old for most of you but if you just came off a desolate island after spending a week getting lost there it is pretty fuckin' exceptional. However, the revelation of hearing the news mustn’t outweigh the achievement because this is fuckin’ hardcore…

The story is a triptych of rugby triumph and just like “Goin’ to State’ was so important for the small town of Permian, West Texas achieving these heights for an admittedly small time rugby school like Michaelhouse is rockstarish.

The first part in our triple is an early season string of impressive results for the proud little school that goes up and down through phases of good and bad 1st Teams like the rolling hills of midland KZN. Since the glorious Punchbowl touch days of 2000-2001 the School hadn’t achieved 'the expected much, after so much was given…'

The second part was the mass selection of six MHS 1st XV players to a very competitive KZN u18 A Craven Week side, plus players to the other KZN rep sides, with 3 in the Academy sides and 2 in the u16 side.


The third and crowning rockstar achievement was the selection of Patrick Lambie to the SA Schools side and of Ross Cronje to the SA Academy side. I know these guys realize the magnitude of their achievement but I doubt they fully register the width of it.

Angels are clapping in heaven boys, and showstoppers are rejoicing your rockstardom…

Unfortunately both these players will be on national duty (the Schools side always plays the Academy side, this year as a curtain raiser to Bulls v WP) and forego the amazing feeling of running out onto that dry Maritzburg bowling wicket to play College on 21 July, but they both should be back in the hallowed Hoops for the massive games against the formidable Westville Boys First team (28th July) and Hilton/MHS (4th August).

Clear eyes, full hearts…

[And if any of you are looking to express your rugby talent next year at Club level whilst being pursued by rampant hot UCT first years we can put you in touch with the coach down there…]

Monday Girl ...

Puss in Boots

The Ugly Duckling ...

Hot the heels of a British uproar as to whether "Gingerism is as bad as Racism?" (um, No) I'd like to present for your perusal Lily Cole.

Many supermodels claim that they were awkward looking growing-up and that people made fun of them for wearing geeky glasses, having silly haircuts and having one leg shorter than the other. Maybe not the last part. Most of the time nobody actually believes them.

When, however, one of the world's highest paid supermodels looks like ET wearing an ill-fitting ginger wig I'd be inclined to believe she had a hard time as a kid. I'm sure she'll eventually grow out of it. Maybe not the ginger hair part. In fact, if I had to have sex with a redhead it'd probably be April O'Neill. And only because she knew the Ninja Turtles.

The man behind the mask...


We had a winner this week that chose to veil himself in anonymity. Now that gracious but unfair, the public wanted us to reveal who the man with all the talent was who won the competition. Thankfully ladies, he did just that...

The problem with being shy, introverted and sporting a stutter is that it's hard to hide yourself from the public especially when you are the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. He wrote to us in earnst (and in confidence...sorry pal) revealing himself as the heroic first on the buzzer brain behind our celebrity quote quiz this week but asked us to upkeep in anonymity.

"I am a shy guy so didn't want to let the ladies know of my intelligence. I am having enough troubles with them already, not that I would not block one or two who were interested in my intelligence."

As important as you remaining Cape Town's best kept secret is to us pal, the needs and desires of all the ladies out there are more so. Congratulations big guy...

[Sorry banger, winning silver is like losing first...]

Offsides?

We don't always agree with what the ref says. John Macenroe made sure that he questioned the umpires every move. From your comfortable recliner at home you've no doubt questioned the man in the teesav's upbringing, eyesight and and what colour his underwear is.

Luckily, one selfless soul has set out to answer at least the last of these questions. And the answer? None ...

News.com reports that

"Soccer lineswoman Ana Paula de Oliveira has sparked uproar in football-crazy Brazil by agreeing to appear naked in the Brazilian edition of Playboy."

Rest of the photos can apparently be found here ...

Laaaddduuuummmaa!!!!

Running with Spanimals ...

When Ernest Hemingway wrote in Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises that "They're only dangerous when they're alone, or only two or three of them together" I'm not sure if he was talking about the Bulls at Pamplona or the Spanimals.

Well known for the Running of the Bulls, Pamps, as I'll affectionately refer to it, is a pretty insubstantial town in the north of Spain. Landing on Saturday morning, drinking through the night and running fearlessly away from 3-ton flesh-eating herbivores requires a strong constitution not to mention a gratuitous use of hyberole.

Running with (or away as the case may be) from these maddened cattle while exhilirating doesn't match actually wrestling their (only slightly smaller) siblings in the rings. Ultimately, however, it's a no-win contest, as the bulls alway going to run over/through you resulting in some rather difficult-to-explain facial scarring.

Going out in 'Pamps' the night before is the truly terrifying part of the experience though. Having to deal with the multitude of drunken Spanimals (half Spanish - half mullet) downing such amounts of sangria that, and I have this on good authority, would terrify a Cracksoc President and throwing glass bottles up into the air to celebrate requires rather more balls than running very quickly away from an essentially peaceful animal.

Mullets: Terrifying - Boobs: Not So Terrifying

Knowing that you've made it through the Running of the Bulls provides a sense of achievement. Knowing that you've made it through the Running of the Spanimals provides you with a sense of divine protection - making staying up all night to drunkenly stumble ahead of the seemingly tame herbivores seem the easy option.

As Hemingway said "The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta."

And the winner is...



Anonymous got his(her?) answer into the comments section faster than Graham Henry can spell 13 and Banger came in a close 2nd with an email answer. So Anonymous it is then! Well done, dude(tte?) free drinks all night on friday at Q bar Soi 11. See you there...

Patient Who..?

Sick guy: Hi, I need...I would like to see a doctor?

Pretty Receptionist: Okay sir, what is wrong with you?

- pause...

Sick guy: I was hoping the doctor would be able to tell me..?




Receptionist: mmm...may I have your patient card, sir!

Sick guy: Patient card? I don't have a patient card, what patient card?

- pause...

Haughty Receptionist: I am sorry sir, but we only admit patients with valid patient cards.

Sick guy: But this is my first time here...

Bitchy Receptionist: Sorry sir. it's policy. If you don't have a patient card I cannot permit you to see a doctor.

Sick guy: Well then how do I get a bloddy patient card...?

Dumb Receptionist: You have to see a doctor first sir.

Sick guy: Great!

We will always have Parys...

The Californian Justice system really has something going if it now does breast enlargments free of charge for all who are serving their sentence. Were her boobs that big when she went in?

I know if I spent time in the chuckie I would come out benching like twice what I do now, so at least 450 pounds. However, I doubt Paris spent time in the workout yard with the Yamaal and LeShauns of the world.

I stole her photo from wwtdd.com (what you going to put me in jail for it? I'll come out looking like Ronnie Coleman and squash you) and just loved the fishnet and billboard boobs...

Guess the rockstar..!

In a recent state of 'stay at home with unknown tropical disease' boredom I have been surfing the net with more proficiency than Laird Hamilton does Pipeline. What I have come up with is a great little multiply choice game we can all play!

At first the thought of a 'Dr Greg House'-style online cross diagnosis of my perculiar symptoms to gauge what precisely it is that I have but then I fell across this quote regarding Johnny Wilkinson. So what we're (me and my symptons) are going to do is post this quote and give you 24 hours to guess the person who said it. Results available tomorrow.


First prize is free drinks all night this friday at a bar of my choice, and the runner-up gets to take me to the hospital tomorrow...or the mortuary, depending on the lethalness of said tropical disease...

"He has been working hard to be the best he can be and he has been extremely unlucky with injuries but I'm pretty confident he can get back into his rhythm sooner or later. Jonny is definitely as good as me and he is still finding his feet coming back into the game. At his best he was world-class and I would probably say he was a bit better than me in 2003."

Monday


I scoured the internet for a picture of a blonde girl. I couldn't find one, apparently they are no longer in vogue... fair enough.

RSLJ Article 17 The yellow jersey

I have never envied guys that have to actively go out and search for the attentions of members of the opposite sex. You empathize with them and as true as fuck recognized how blessed you are that you aren’t like them…

-Third from the left. You might as well bullzeye her as the one to avoid..!

The abject souls that don’t, by virtue of how they were constructed, attract females naturally have to pursue other means to do so and we're lucky bastards that we don’t have to employ such tactics.

We don’t have to dress in outrageous attention attracting clothing, we don’t need to read self-help pick up books, join online underground chat rooms to share social deficits with like programmed individuals or carry material in our back pocket to rapid fire predetermined lines on unsuspecting girls.

I have never thought I would have chosen to have this power any other way, and I am sure you are just as proud of being given this gift we so rightly deserve but I have learnt two crucial things that go hand in hand with this power. And I need to share them with you.

1. With great power comes great responsibility.

It’s funny how some clichés say what you mean so succinctly. If you have the power, you learn soon after discovering its’ existence how dangerous it can be and how it loses strength when you abuse it. But I am not going to pronounce to you how to use your power as that would be beyond my scope; instead I want to move onto crucial thing 2.

2. You can’t turn it off.

Humour me. The following body language dialogue might better elucidate my point.

[Seeking refuge from DJ Buddha’s blaring hip-hop beats our subject, Dan, ascends the glass staircase to enjoy his Heineken from the upstairs section overlooking the D-floor.]

[Enter petite blinged-up girl in black cocktail dress]

[The Turtle element of our Dan's entourage whispers into the ear of Dan that the girl is ‘known for her horizontal aspirations’ whilst petite girl, Suzie the floozy, detaches from her own trail of followers and approaches Dan]

[body conversation ensues, translation in bold]

Suzie: Feet agape hips forward, shoulders back she arches her neck like a cat and flings her hair around like an Omaha dust devil, cocks her head to one side, flashes a small pink tongue across JIK white teeth and drives her eyes into poor Dan’s retinas.
T: I am here to fuck you.

Dan: Hold gaze for fraction of a second, slow Tim Riggins sip of green bottle and turn back to converse with entourage.
T: I can see that, and by the look of you, a lovely time we would certainly have. Unfortunately however my ear is close to the ground of the social scene in which we act and apparently your less than admirable reputation precedes you! I see two options: I can be the better man and refuse to add my name to your long list of sexual exploits, or continue imbibing my Holland-made lager and hopefully douse the flames of my conscious and forget what was just whispered into my ear.

S: Churn out impressive routine of Pussy Cat Dolls dance moves with sexy group of whore-friends, seductively throwing fuck me spears after every pirouette…and girl-giggling at every eye contact.
T: Look how good I look when I move. Imagine me in my porn costumes dancing this repertoire out on your bare chest. I reek of sex appeal.

D: The bemused look of blank male interest, eyebrows raised, pupils dilating like a concentric egg in an microwave, subsequently followed by the classic snap out of it brow furrowing squint of skepticism.
T: Yes you do look good but in a fantasy kind of way and in reality it would be prudent of me to point out that if this was St Petersburg, Russian in the late 18th century Fyodor would insist you carry a ‘yellow card’ with you to signify your profession. You reek of sexual liaisons with more men than Helen launched boats and hence have no appeal to me.

S: Standing right in front of her prey seductively sucking on the end of her index finger whilst dancing up and down a hypothetical pole.
T: Look at me, fucking me will be fun…

D: Looks of disinterest, despite surreptitious glances of captivation and appreciation.
T: You’re like the Garden of Eden’s tree snake! Look sweetheart, you’re a sight to behold and I love these shows but I'm used to paying to watch them from the safety of a bouncer protected leather booth. I am sure partaking in hedonistic gymnastics with you would be fun but you understand my reticence as I doubt 4 months of urinating accompanied with a searing burn sensations is worth having that fun!

S: Backs her booty shaky and ‘oh-so’ tight rear end right into our poor defense-less rockstar whilst rocking her head from side to side with every ‘this is why’ ‘this is why’ ‘this is why’ I am hot.
T: Theatrics aside, I have intentions with you. They are sexual. And I want you to know.

D: The big Joe Rokocoko left foot swirl and away. Shut the gate, and turn away seeking comfort in the depth of the entourage.
T: Scared, frightened, helpless and way too cute for his own good, like a baby ocelot at a petting zoo, I can’t play this game with you slut bag.

It is at this point it is useful to interject and outline the problem faced by naturals. Most girls are so indignant at not getting the attention, usually thrown on them by men of lesser means, they think you are playing hard to get, so up their attempt at ‘getting’. I suppose we are the victim of the Cat-String Theory. It is worthy to employ this against girls you fancy, but the corollary is that when you truly are trying to avoid the girls you don’t want you fall victim to your own ploy. Woe is us…

S: The classic ‘find a reason to brush past’ tactic, walk past and brush a lingering limp hand against Dan’s rock hard ab-inductors.
T: Are you shy? Or are you only playing hard to get? Well I am prepared to come get the hard that I want…

D: Standing his ground. Refusing to be chased around the club like this is a perverse neon night time no pool game of marco polo.
T: Okay, that’s twice girl. Touch me again and I am going to start popping ARVs.

Unperturbed by a lack of concert with her advances she ups her game. Gold star for effort, but black mark for annoyance. I shouldn’t have flexed when she hand dragged by abs muses Dan.

S: Drapes arms around stringy looking fellow standing next to Dan.
T: Look how hot and available I am, I can flirt easily with any guy, he wants me. He is hitting on me. Everyone here wants me. I can have anyone here.

D: Sneaky peak over left shoulder to confirm club coordinates of slutty stalker.
T: Oh god she is such trash. I bet she thinks everyone here wants her, but doubt she realizes it is because they all know they can have her. Hey, my beer needs replacing!

Departure towards upstairs bar. Arrival at upstairs bar.

D: Eye-contact with cute bar lady in hot pants, eyes to empty bottle, cute 'my beer is empty and I am sad look' so fetch me one hot pants!

S: Giggling, spluttering, glossed over with street bought maybelline, with a nose-tweaking pungent flower smells rising of her scalp she sidles up next to me batting fake eyelashes. She smells like the change room at a transvestite competition would smell I suppose.
T: I smell nice. Want to taste how nice I taste?

D: The ‘questioning eyes’?
T: What precisely is it I can assist you with powder puff? I can see now how you bed so many guys with those puppy eyes...!

S: The classic cocky up-down your frame then glances over herself look! Tongue pushed out slightly between teeth waiting for an answer!
T: This is it big boy, I want you, you must want me, now are you going to take me or not?

D: Blank retarded glassy look.
T: God, Heineken tastes good. God, she is still here. I hope Heinkie van der Merwe gets a run on Saturday. He was really impressive in the super 14. Anchor of the Lions scrum.

S: Disbelief!
T: Disbelief.

D: The coach Taylor narrow gaze with tight mouth and angry cheeks.
T: Why are you still here?

It was maybe at this point that we realize being ridiculously good looking has a downside.

S: Stretches out the little paw of a thousand hand-jobs and grabs Dan’s wenis.
T: I want sex.

D: A combination of slashing, bashing, pushing, reeling, covering and turning.
T: Armageddon, fuck hell you little whore you touched my wenis. You horrible hoe. Back the fuck away. I must respectfully decline your generous offer but there is no way in Hades that I am going to even consider testing the strong rumour that you carry more infectious diseases than the quarantined Petri dish laboratory at the local medical research university’s centre for infectious diseases. Now leave…me…alone.

I impart with this life knowledge to you because I am sure many of you out there share this problem and will be faced with a situation where that 'no feeling' runs through your veins like a kitten in an open field...

In the armour..?

Thanks for sending this in Jamie..