New best friends...

Why is it that because I'm in a cast with a broken ankle, everyone thinks that they are my new best friend because they have at some time in their pathetic lives broken a bone which means that we now have a deep emotional connection.





















Don't get me wrong. I'm all for a bit of sympathy. I like sympathy from my girlfriend. I wouldn't mind sympathy from Jessica Alba. I'd love sympathy from my girlfriend and Jessica Alba at the same time. Sorry, I digress..





















Back to the point. Yesterday I was asked "What happened to your leg?" more times than Richard Ince is going to have beers at Forries on Saturday. These random muppets (the people asking about my leg, not Ince) I can deal with but its when people feel the need to start up a conversation that I really start to lose it. Can you tell I'm bitter? I feel bitter.

The cake was taken (and in the one girls case eaten) by two characters. The first accosted me as I was scaling a flight of stairs, not a easy feat when on crutches. "Hi...Hello...You...Crutches boy" she whined. Crutches boy? Who the fuck are you. If we were labelling people by their looks, physical attributes or things that they used out of necessity you would be known as ugly, one leg shorter than the other, shouldn't wear a skirt if you weigh more than 70, vibrator girl. Anyway, she asked what happened and then decided that rugby was not a good enough story so advised that I should tell people I was attacked by a shark (yes because that breaks your ankle rather than ripping the flesh off your bones you stupid skank). However, she also noted that it may be difficult to remember such an elaborate story when I'm drunk (Difficult for a cretin like you maybe. Are you drunk right now? What the fuck). Her final pearl of wisdom was that I should paint my toenails to make fibreglass encased foot pretty (You should paint your face but even that wouldn't make it pretty).


















The next pearler came very near the end of the day, just when I thought I was safe. This time I was crutching down stairs when I heard the priceless, "Ha. Right leg. Only bone I haven't broken." (Oh god, I'm guessing you've had your nose broken repeatedly.) "Ankle" I corrected. "Would I be stupid to ask how it happened?" (Apparently you don't need to ask that to seem stupid, moron). "Rugby" I answered with one word again. In retrospect this was a mistake as it opened me up to the rugby conversation..."What position do you play? Oh you're tall for a flyhalf. What team do you play for?" After more one word mumbled answers, we parted ways but not before he left me with this beauty..."Ah. I wish I could go back. Think I'm a bit small to still play flank though." Amazing. Go back where? Standard 5? Under 9 Cs? A bit small, you're the size of my bicep (which I must say are getting bigger from the crutching but are still far from sizable).

I feel so much better after that rant. Its good to get things out sometimes children. Thank you for indulging me.

Poll...


We are faced with a dilemma and need our loyal readership to give us an indication of which path is the better of two to take. The referendum works like this; Email us if you wouldn't sleep with this girl..!

Burn us at the stake...

Some things are so despicable that only the good grace of a pious deity is able to grant forgiven, that and loads and loads of apologetic material. Well, we made a rockstar faux pas and don't deserve repetance but will load you with apologies anyway...

We forgot to build up the kick off of the 2006/7 NFL season. Sorry.

Monday Girl...


Because older women are cool!

RSLJ Article 12: They must be afraid of failing...

Here at rockstar journals we make preparations for the regular occurrence of human stupidity and offer various platforms from which to highlight, examine and then ridicule such occurrences.

The ‘Hate Mail’ section and the newly launched ‘docking’ section tender an impressive platform from which we can snapshot the antithesis of rockstar behaviour, read in awe how some guys are like that and hopefully instil a growing trend in the readership to sway from making comments, wearing outfits, and performing certain acts that would remove any of the doubt of whether you are a world class douchebag.

The flipside of this stick approach is the carrot approach of the ‘rockstar of the moment award’ and viola you are now getting an idea from what is expected of you to prevent you living out the rest of your life looking like more of an idiot than Luke Watson at flyhalf. No vision, no options, no skill and no success, just one stupid looking “I’ve-got-a-barfridge-under-each-arm” swagger. So read and learn.

I have frequently stumbled upon a series of incidents; which are so severe in abhorrent nature that neither the ‘hate mail’ nor ‘docking’ options I have before me do justice in successfully attacking them. So I have gone for the big gun! Hence, we’re writing an article.

I have summed up the situation and through cogent reasoning have unmasked what I purport is the reason behind this specific behaviour. The most unscrupulous vice a man can have is being so pathetically unable to hold his own in any arena that he accepts failure from the outset. These guys walk out to the middle of life’s batting crease expecting to get trapped LBW first ball.

---------------------------Should have stayed in the changeroom...
But here is the kicker. These guys know they are going to fail to such a degree that they go out to the crease without their bat, so when they do get the umpire’s index finger they have something to blame.

If I am talking past you, then let me translate this away from the cricket metaphor. Take the scenario of a guy hitting on a chick who is straw-pedoing away her night at the bar at Tiger. Now make the addition of the element that the guy knows this particular girl has a boyfriend. I assert that this guy has the knowledge that he is more out of his depth than a fat girl at a swimwear shoot and so what does he do? He finds a reason to fail before he starts!


It makes sense does it not? If one of the aforementioned brutal fruit glugging girl’s boyfriendless friends were to be approached by our subject he would undoubtedly fail worse than ‘Do Not Touch’ signs written in Braille. However, when this happens he will be shown to be useless. So what he does is he hits on the one with the boyfriend? This way, getting bat gives him the excuse:

‘she was so into me, if she didn’t have a boyfriend I would definitely tap that shit’

Funny how this guys idiocy is pronounced by his use of ‘tap that shit’ when referring to coming right, just when you thought the guy couldn’t get any worse! Before you know it he will be wearing a sleeveless shirt to campus and calling his equally dim-witted friends dawgs…

Truth be told this argument despite being coherent and bereft of nonsense it is also bereft of fact and is more accepted for its plausibility than it’s factual content. Nevertheless its plausibility is supported by the fact that if such actions continue he will find himself lying in the local medi-clinic trying to explain to the doctor, how the jagerbomb he was nursing hit the linked chain around his neck with such force it ignited, engulfing his face and charring him beyond recognition, by way of a white story board and ink markers…

The way I see it is since no man wants to eat his food through a feeder tube for 8months he must be overwhelmingly scared of something else, and that something else must be terrible. Hence, he prefers not finding out that he is a total and utter loser. Sorry for you but when the nurses hear how you wind up with a hotel stay courteous discovery health they will be thinking it anyway…

Monday Girl...


Don't lie. Now that you have seen her you know she is worth the wait...Oh and since you have waited so patiently she is ready to take your order!

You heard it here first...

A confidential source has leaked to us that Snow Patrol will be coming out to do a concert early next year. If this is true, you heard it here first. If not we accept no responsibility for unnecessary excitement.

Eddie's got a gun...


To judge a man by his calves would be an injustice merely because gangstas exist likeEddo 'frikkan bullet' Lepine. The man shot his first fist of fury in standard 9 in the parking lot of Wanders Club late one saturday evening. His aim was sweeter than his cat and to this day that poor Jeppe boy will tell you, a bullet from that gun comes at serious velocity...


Thankfully Eddie grew out of his hardass jozi exterior and into the soft cape town lover he is today. Another thing he is today is 23. And if you knew him, thats 3 times older than he acts.

Love you brother. [in that I want to marry your sister way]

Girls are forever...


One of our most valued readers Clarkie is currently thrashing the head advertising exec for De Beers. He sent this stuff in to us. I think he stole it from her laptop, along with her..erm..heart?

AEQUITAS...


Every man worth his salt loved Boondock Saints. Yes it is cool to walk around in black half length trenchcoats and recite latin phrases at will but it is friggan cool to take it upon yourself to eradicate bad people vigilante style.

Well, we've taken it upon ourselves to create a continuum in such thought and stamp out idiocy vigilante style.

Target 1: Acquired.


Walked onto my small campus early this morning to find a guy (who was an idiot before this social indiscretion) sporting a puppy to campus. Added to this, he was standing at the end of the coffee queue. For those of you who don't understand the significance of where he positioned himself, the coffee table is akin to the watercooler in gym.

Puppies belong at home. The reason guys bring puppies to varsity (or anywhere) is not so poor Friddel doesn't get lonely at home but because he needs a way to get chicks attentions.

You might as well bring a baby elephant (pachyderms are cute too you know) and stray paint on it in bring orange, "I use infantile animals as bait..." Now watch the girls come running.

Monday Dream...

Good morning loyal followers. If you have ever lingered on FTV's midnight hot whilst surfing DSTV late at night you might recognise this pretty young thing. I am feeling particularly unmotivated what with my newly broken ankle and all but Elena Santarelli will get me through the week...

Heroes and villains…

The name Gayton McKenzie should (assuming you are of a rockstar disposition like myself) conjure in your mind a Philadelphia Eagles linebacker or a hardened coloured Stormers support standing on the ramparts of Newlands.

The first vision would actually be rather plausible however the latter is actually not far from the truth. The bit that is far from the truth is the reference to the sport, team and stadium, whereas the rest is actually close to the truth. However despite its closeness to the truth it is not nearly close enough to encapsulating the entire truth.

I could try put the truth in a nutshell but would fail dismally…

If you want the truth go read ‘The Choice: The Gayton McKenzie Story’. I can open your eyes to part of what is in this abbreviated biography of a great man’s life but I wouldn’t get near summarising his greatness. In fact his greatness is too big to be summarised.

If you had asked me when I was a 10 years old prep school boy who my hero was you would have got a figure that was an amalgamation of Pete Mitchell (the maverick part not the Tom part) and James Small.

If you had asked the same question when I was 15 years old you would have got Christian Cullen morphed with Maurice Green.

If you had asked me two days ago it would have been Dave Denbury, Tyler Durden and Robbie Williams rolled into one.

Ask me now and you’d still get those 3 (okay maybe without dave) but Gayton McKenzie would definitely be part of that hero equation.

The simple truth is that his life was the exact opposite to mine. He was dirt poor. Lived in a terrible segregated settlement in serious poverty. He was exposed to abhorrent crimes when he was very young. He took the life choice of pursuing a life of crime…

He lived that life. He was successful at it. And he paid for it with 15 years in Grootvlei prison.

His book tells the story of a little boy that had nothing, went into crime, became a successful ganster, went into hell, and came back a better man. People appreciate movies or books that portray character development. This book does it better than any other because it is the truth.

McKenzie’s story is told frankly without shying from the truth. The good, the bad, the ugly is all told without remorse. The man has nothing to hide. You step back from the book wondering why nothing else has provoked such thought in you before.

You want a reason to take some introspection and survey your life so far? Read this book. You’ll throw away every hero you have ever had before and find yourself staring at the face of a man you wish you could mimic in terms of what he has overcome.

Rockstars that can tell stories like his from the first person are few and far between…

Monday girl...

In the absence of GH#12, I have been given the honour of choosing this weeks Monday girl. I think I've done rather well. I give you Alessandra Ambrosio. I do love Brazilians...

New competition...

The hilarity of watching Survivor SA cough and splutter it's way to the pathetic hall of fame dispated sooner than I thought. I really anticipated been able to watch atleast 4 episodes laughing 'at' it before the novelity would wear off and I'd have to go back to laughing at other substandard SA productions, like the currie cup.

This was not the case, in fact the novelty wore off during the pre-credits but I stomached my bile and watched all 50 minutes of it. I came to a two conclusions.

The girl we were backing is deceptively portrayed in her photo and on screen sans the airbrush she is one huge bitch. Also realised her name is not Bridget, but Brigeeeet. I'm guessing her great relatives drove oxendrawn wagons.

The second conclusions gives rise to my new competition:

(drum roll) Who between Sam - the camp ripped energiser keen bean gay biker - or the presenter will be the first to die after a fellow contestant, or viewer at home, places one of the rare, venomous, indigenous tree frogs in their rice bowl?

I am not sure how the viewer at home will pull such a moment of skullduggery off but as soon as I realise that you will see either Sam the fag or Gareth Cliff's older brother frothing at the mouth while palpitating on the deck of a panama boat ambulance.

Hope you appreciate the Gareth Cliff's older brother thing! The guy is a spitting image and talks the same amount of crap. Did you hear the symbology quote? For fuck sakes, Willem Dafoe would do his nut, 'I believe the word you are looking for is sym-bo-lism....'

Miller M o n d a y . . .


It's Marissa Miller time!

A star was born...


They say Michaelangelo's David is the perfectly proportioned male figure. I am not too sure about that since The Makers second worst punishment after red hair is curly hair but I'll give the statue two things:
A- He is cut to shit and could probably crack a walnut in those abs; and
B- He has Adriana Lima in his crotch.

How this relates to this, the second day of Spring, also being the birthday of our favourite rockstar I am not sure. Maybe it is cause he is also pretty ripped, and because the only way he'll ever have Lima in his crotch his through my help.

Happy birthday big guy. Bring back your gap-year paycheck so you can buy us a round.

Correction...


The clouds were held at bay in the southern suburbs and the Atlantic was hotter than girl in the green bikini. (Girl in green bikini not pictured. If you came you would have my mental image)

Spring into summer...

The first day of spring was meant to be a sorching 27 degrees in Cape Town and I had a wonderful post planned rubbing it in to people who live in less comfortable climates that spring in CT is like summer everywhere else.



Unfortunately the clouds have rolled in with my idea and ruined it. So lets just enjoy summer the only way we can...

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..!