The road to glory...

I just watched Glory Road. It didn’t inspire me to jump up to take an active role correcting past racial injustices and ameliorate the position of people faced with inequalities but I certainly enjoyed the movie.

For those of you that spend your hours in lightless rooms it is about the Texas Western College basketball championship season of 1966 and that fact that they were the first team ever to start 5 black players in a NCAA championship game.

I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to say about the movie but was certainly moved enough to put finger to keyboard. However when I googled the film name to get a picture for my post (many posts start out picture first) I stumbled across this dude’s review of the movie and it certainly made me want to write something.

I am not going to give him the pleasure of revealing his site name as you will know that even bad publicity is good publicity but instead I’ll steal the opportunity to berate his berating of the film without him being able to rebut my points hence ensuring me the victory. Okay so Glory Road might not have inspired me but it has taught me sneaky ways to win.

So who is your daddy?

This nameless film critic is an absolute pounce and it wouldn’t surprise me if he was Barry Ronge’s gayer son or at the very least the equally queer son of Michael Moore. He wrote this long piece that turned into a polemic about how Jerry Bruckheimer (GR producer) was just being a typical white bigot by trying to cleanse himself of racial guilt and attach the “I’m a white guy that cares and detested racism” name to his.

Now I am not going to try justify that because I have lived my whole life in one of the few countries that has succeeded in discarding the evil white robe of racism I have the authority to write on such things. But since I am one that has lived in the generation after these injustices, making me part and parcel to the healing process, I can say that the prick on the other end of the film critique is an utter wanker.

It is the attitude like the one he has that retards the process of any progression toward the goal of getting over such an abhorrent history and moving toward a cohesive and successful future. Unlucky for him it also makes him the guy that doesn’t get over the girlfriend that dumps him so he will spend the rest of his life phoning her at 4am with a bottle of MY KINDA cane in him professing his, literally, undying love. Wanker…

Good News Anchor...

Okay so our posts of late haven't been filled with reams and reams of interesting textual content which you as the reader craves to scour over and extrapolate interesting and insightful hidden deeper meanings from but give us a break we aren't in a happy place right now...

One contributor is slaving away trying to break into London's picky adult entertainment industry (with little success or atleast less than his gf), one is away in the transkei trying to understand the value of life whilst adhering to his vow of silence so as to better understand the meaning of a whisper and I am suffering from serious post-traumatic exam stress and trying to pack my bags for my 3 week stint to thailand.

I do feel our collective excuses for only posting things with visual content will fall on deaf ears once you check out this little angel...

Monday Soccer Girls...

If Showers Could Cure AIDs ...

The Beautiful Game
(A Brief Guide to Britains ASBO Generation)

A week into the most watched sporting event in history, and there have been few surprises. Aside from a couple of unexpected draws (the mafia-sponsored Italy - US match springs to mind), things are proceeding much as one would expect. Rascist neo-nazis have threatened minority groups and warned them to stay away from certain towns, hookers have flooded the cities looking for business, and thousands of chav's have been spotted in and around stadiums.

When meeting the parents becomes incredibly awkward

For those of you unfamiliar with the above terminology - your folks probably wouldn't be blown away were you to bring home a working girl, slightly less so were they to prove to be a violently pro-aryan, swastika-carrying skinhead - but were you to bring home a chav (or chavette) they would be hard-pressed not to disown you.

Chav's are a completely British invention, although they are distant relatives of the Irish pikey and Johannesburg Ghei. Though they are someone difficult to define, they tend to exhibit loutish, anti-social behaviour and can often be heard shouting football chants and involved in street brawls. Aside form behaviourial traits the chav can be identified by it's strong tribal affiliation - manifested by a slavish devotion to brand names, jewellery and sports wear.

Your average chav is between 14-24 and will usually be found in a combination of Burberry clothing (a chav staple) and sports wear, have at least 1 diamond/hoop earing and be wearing either a hoodie or a baseball-cap to hide their identity from London's many CCTV cameras. In the wild, the chav will cover in groups - all the better to mob unsuspecting innocents and be accompanied by a chavette who will exhibit much the same characteristics and will generally expose both stomach and legs, and have far too much make-up on. If encountered they should be avoided at all costs, unless of course you like that sort of thing - in which case you should.

What’s your flavour…?

I really thought the race for the award of the most annoying aural entity right now was so far gone we had a closed list. In the skimpy outfit and the equine-nose we had Nicole Fox as the leading contender; not just her semetic-esque nasal drain is friggan annoying but also the frivolous content of what she finds as a quality radio entertainment.

Contrary to popular belief crass sexual jokes, the latest in fashion indiscretions and any information about celebrity eating habits is not interesting stuff to hear. Nicole is definitely starting to stamp her name all over the title but for the surprise challenge from the music coordinator of Virgin Active

I’ve never seen him but just know him for what comes out of the speakers above the rowing machines. You know what I’m talking about? Take nothing away from him as I am sure his mixing board skills are right up there with Carl Cox as it must be difficult to take a pretty decent Coldplay song and overlay it on one of those songs from one of those CDs that gets advertised during currie cup halftime ad slots when the Pumas play the Griffons. Doof doof doof Let’s Taaaalk doof doof and then the concertina cuts in for a solo.

However, recent events have caused concern for both Nicole and DJ Roodepoort as neither is secured the silver, let alone the gold, medal. What is amazing is the origin of this aural irritation as it comes from a brand that has a reputation for being funny, impressive and pertinent.

Now they have a radio ad that is so possibly nauseating it rivals the wave that hit me when England won the 2003 World Cup and they sung ‘Sweet Chariots’ and so irritating it rivals the gentleman of African decent that used to announce awaiting phone calls to other students in res during first-year.


If I ever have to hear the words, ‘Nandoes Flavour chicken’ in that exasperating voice again I will tear the speakers our of my car fill them with rancid chicken livers and hide them in the air-conditioning duct of the abhorrent advertising agency that made the ad. Not only is the jingle lank stupid but they use this arrays of voices that would make any sane person book a week holiday in Valkenberg as opposed to the Sheraton. The main voice sounds like a garbled amalgamation of the Portuguese chapter of the chipmunks and the guy who does the voiceover for those Michael Naicker inserts.

I must admit I detest the ad but do have the power to switch off the radio however the friggan idiots who step out of their car and then hum this jingle to the outside world (in the words of Garfield) need to be “dragged out into the street and shot…”

Into the wilderness...

After so recently joining the Rockstar Journals, I have decided to take a sabbatical in an attempt to find myself. I will be in a location so remote that i won't even have cellphone reception let alone access to the internet. Fear not though loyal followers, it is only a seafood and alcohol binge week in the Transkei and its not as if my posting has been prolific anyway. I do plan to come back with a bang however so prepare yourselves.

Monday Rocks...



A girl sent this to us, suggesting Kendra should be our monday girl! This girl? A very pretty girl! A very sexy girl! A very clever girl! A very very very nice girl! We like this girl. We would put a photo of the girl sending the image up but then I would have to share her with you. I'm not very sharing...

Lie about this...

Someone should write a piece about why they hate people who lie! I hate people who lie to me cause it creates inside me an impression of something that is fallacious and it pisses me off. On Friday I was lied to…



The newspapers were saying the whole week that Carlos Spencer would be starting for the World XV when they appeared against a pseudo-Western Province Currie Cup team to play in Corne Krige’s benefit game. I hate Corne Krige but that’s a different story. The bottom line is I only paid to go watch because the World XV gloated a star studded line-up.

Needless to say those ticket scalping bitches that advertised the starting 15 and the game, lied in that Spencer didn’t start and more so he never was going to. He only played the last 26 minutes…



As I said the WXV was sporting a star studded lineup and I would have gone even if Spencer was only benching but the point is they instilled in me the belief that I was going to witness 80minutes of the Carlos show. Do build things up and then have them anticlimax. That’s like a girl inviting you back to her place to play hide the toy soldier and instead you play monopoly. Not cool hey.

Thankfully Sebastien Chabal (also down to start but benched) came on early cause Toutai Kefu has got so fat his shadow is twice what his normal self used to be. (I think that it is how the euphemism is meant to work) Anyway Chabal has to be the mainest (maniest?) guy playing in any loose trio right now.



He came on and immediately broke off the base and steamrolled over Corne Krige. Not sure how that was too his benefit but whatever I was there for Spencer and now Chabal. The guy is phenomenal. Bernard Laporte would be a fool to omit him from his French squad. He is only 30 next year but if you saw the 60m try he scored, the massive hits he put in and the crap he took on the chin literally from bonehead Dutchmen like Pietie Ferreira you would have no doubt over his age.

Oh and he was man of the match against the Springboks last week. He wife must be the physically unluckiest girl in the world... I hope all the people responsible for the little media charade about the starting fifteen wake up in pain every morning for the rest of their lives feeling like Mrs Chabal after a passionate night with Sebastien....

Tall, Dark & good-looking ...


Well, 2 out of 3 ain't bad.

As befits every true Rockstar - a christening. A baptism into the world of sex, rock n' roll and well, more sex. An initiation into Tom Wolfe's 'true brotherhood' and a sign of the Right Stuff. Though his occassional dalliances with women from the other side of the track would have scarred the reputation of a lesser being, they slide off the big man's shoulders and add to the air of mystery the twinkle toed, lion-hunting DocStar.

So, when he's not out wooing the ladies, saving the lesser spotted Mac1 from fights and scoring doubles on (and off) the field where can this elusive figure be found? Right here at the Rockstar Journals ladies. Ready to answer all your questions with a gentle bedside manner and a soothing guitar solo.

He burst onto the scene 23 years ago to the day, and they say he has a grown a foot for each one. Personally I've only seen about 6'4" of those, but if you're a goof-lookin' broad, and up for a good time, I'm sure he'll show you the rest.

Welcome to the world DocStar.

Tribute to a rockstarlet...

Now I'm not big into woman's liberation, feminism or female rights but some members of the opposite sex deserve credit and I am one for giving credit where credit is due. Today is the 23rd birthday of a girl who is smart, beautiful and athletic. Being the girlfriend of a founder of the Rockstar Journals doesn't hurt either. Recently awarded a degree in actuarial science, she is by no means a geek and could on occasion be seen storming the dj box at caprice or corrupting other rockstars' girlfriends before moving to the greyer pastures of London Town. Cheers to the Lynnuar...

Hate mail 3...

William from the greatest club on earth... "I hate the sideline commentator. The guy who arrives and actively participates at every internal league rugby game irrespective of who is playing. He heckles the ref and shouts instructions to players like it was Rugby 2006 and his voice was the playstation control. Go wide, skip him, early ball, hold the line, look blind, hit him, ruck, fuck sakes man! Are you Bill Maclaren’s son? The thing I don’t understand is you shout instructions to both sides! Who are you? You are not a fan; otherwise you would be supporting only one team. You are certainly not a player, cause you wouldn’t be sideline in those siff snakeskin loafers, (Which aren’t very practical I might add, the sidelines are notoriously muddy so stop bitching; dressing like its Sunday night and you are going salsa dancing at Buena Vista is your own fault) and besides you can’t weigh more than 62kgs. If you are Graham Henry’s prodigy who is on an SA fact-finding mission in borrowed shoes I forgive you, but you’re not. You’re a friggan idiot who talks about rugby like he writes for the back page of the Cape Times and you need to be forcibly removed. Hell closes in 10 minutes, hurry you can still make it…"

[Not sure what you meant by greatest club on earth Will but loved the loafers bite! Oh and we know who you talking about, except if he is anyones son he is probably Huge Bladen's.]

What is this world coming too?

I had some free time to kill so I decided to spend it searching the internet for tasteful pictures of scantily clad women. Now hold on, don't assume this was for a sordid personal purpose, it had the altruistic purpose of finding a nice little angel to be our Monday girl for next week. You see my weekend is busy and I was thinking about you… (if you believed this excuse you are no better than JZ judge, cause its no better than, ‘she wanted it honour, look how she was dressed!’)

So I typed “hot new famous nude babe” into a very well respected search engine and I was happy to see I got 4526007 hits. (Apparently if I mention the sites name I could be held liable so it seems it would be google, sorry I mean frugal, to omit the name) How horrified was I when 4526006 of these were all of a totally sordid, disgusting, degrading, despicable depictions of what can only be described as the worst case of child pornography ever heard of. (the other picture was of this Albanian guy and a horse but lets not go there) I was horrified. You search for the softest of softcore tasteful entertainment of an adult nature and get this:

What is this world coming too? This from a tool that is meant to spread education to the entire world and revolutionize communication. Those dirty fuckers in Silicone valley should be ashamed…

I was expecting this:

06-06-06...

This is just fucking weird. I spent (wasted) a good 30 minutes of my day in traffic today and to add insult to injury my ipod was void of charge and I had to put up with Gareth Cliff making a whole song and dance about the fact that the date is 06/06/06.

Crumbs if the lotto numbers this weekend were going to be 060606 that would be a big deal but since I was feeling left out by not sharing their enthusiasm I decided to google this little numerical coincidence when I got home.

-----------------------------Joe's National Slayer Day!

Pretty fucking interesting to say the least. Today happened to be the National Day of Slayer. I thought awesome my mate Joe has got his own website about his conquests with the other sex and better yet his own National Day, but it didnt take long to realize there are some pretty creepiy people out there.

Slayer is actually this band in America that makes you want to hire Freddie Kruger to look after your kids. They make that kid dressed in black who always arrives late and sits in the back of the lecture theatre with the waist-length gothic hair and the oversized headphones that he never removes look like that cute podgy kid in Two and a Half Men. God they freaky. (redundant I guess since being omnipotent allows you to know this already)

They have this little manifesto think of how to celebrate the day. Read it and draw your own conclusions.

· Taking that participation to a problematic level
- Stage a "Slay-out." Don't go to work. Listen to Slayer.
- Have a huge block party that clogs up a street in your neighborhood. Blast Slayer albums all evening. Get police cruisers and helicopters on the scene. Finish with a full-scale riot.
- Spray paint Slayer logos on churches, synagogues, or cemeteries.
- Play Slayer covers with your own band (since 99% of your riffs are stolen from Slayer anyway).
- Kill the neighbor's dog and blame it on Slayer.

Fair enough kick the neighbours dog cause it keeps pissing on your morning paper but kill it? I'm guessing you guys didn't get much positive reaffirmation of love as a kid!

Hate mail 2...

Guy from somewhere in town hates The Percentage Man. "This is the guy that whilst gelling his hair in preparation for his big night out practices an entire repertoire of spade-lines and introductions, he has committed to memory from “How to Seduce and Succeed” in the mirror. He accompanies this rendition with sneaky winks and the double-handed firing a fake pistol manoeuvre accompanied by the Kalahari.net adverts sound bites. He then pauses for one last look and says: “we’re good to go Boytjie! Click click.” Most people who talk in the 3rd person and refer to themselves as ‘boytjie’, should be stripped naked, tied up, doused in Vaseline and left to squirm in the cubicle of a Sea Point nightclub’s bathroom, this however is not the reason I hate this guy. He is the moron that uses the mega-memory system to arm himself with an impressive array of corny one-liners that he then uses systematically on every girl in a nightclub.

-------------------------------------Click Click

His theory is that if he approaches 200 girls, at least one will fall into his trap. So he starts with the hottest girl and then works down the looks ladder until lucky number 183 when he succeeds albeit well below the 0 point range. Great for him cause now he can sport his ‘I hit that!’ tshirt at breakfast tomorrow but crappy for us. And I hate him for it. There are possibly 5 to 10 such guys at any club on any one night. Do the math! That means that by 11pm every good-looking girl has been on the receiving end of 5 to 10 douchebag quotes. The result? Ever girl now has her, ‘god men are idiots face’ on and she is less approachable than Florida if you are of Haitian decent. She is convinced that the next guy will be like the first 5 and so she immediately throws out the big don’t argue! I know this shouldn’t affect me, but you’re ruining the chances of my lesser looking mates. Fuck off back to the bathroom floor of Cruz boytjie…"

[Guy raises an interesting point. These fuckers need to be rounded up and stopped. Thankfully they are easy to identify...]

And the docstar finally delivered unto the world...

In the spirit of the Rockstar Journals, I thought it fitting to post some lyrics from a group of literal rockstars and one of my favourite bands at the moment, Brand New. I'll be the first to admit that my musical taste is as indiscriminant as a Fishoek Senior Primary graduate but these guys really are world class. So without further ado and as my inaugural contribution to what is becoming an institution....

"I am heaven sent, don't you dare forget,
I am all you ever wanted, what all the other boys have promised...
I think in decimals and dollars, I am the cause of all your problems...
We aren't pretenders, we're throwing a vibe...
Oh we're so controversial, we are entirely smooth,
We admit to the truth, we are the best at what we do,
And these are the words you wished you wrote down,
This is the way you wish your voice sounds, handsome and smart,
Oh my tongues the only muscle in my body that works harder than my heart
Wouldn't stop if I could, oh it hurts to be this good,
This is the craze only we can bestow"

Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols once said "I don't have any rock 'n' roll heroes. They're all useless." I have to disagree

Working Monday...

Since most of us that still have an excuse to study are in the throws of exams right now what better way to celebrate the start of the week than with a steamy looking nerdy girl! I suppose those of us that can't find an excuse to study and couldn't find an excuse to not get a job you might have an ugly secretary in your office so this is also for your benefit. If you fall into neither category you should be on the beach...hence the second picture. (just cause you're alone on the beach except for your laptop and 3G card...)

Hate mail 1...

Andrew from Cape Town...I hate Mr “Brand-Name-Mixer”. He struts down the plaza of campus like he is Tyson on a GQ fashion shoot for the Fall 2006 calendar. I hate him because he struts, but that’s not the primary reason. What kind of moron insists on dressing up like a collage of Access Park flyers, wearing one item of all the latest fashions labels? The unmistakable low cut Diesel jeans with the ineffectual belt loose enough to make the top of his Calvin Klein boxer briefs visible but not to low to draw attention away from the compact disc sized Guess belt buckle; the mandatory Polo Shirt, collar up obviously, in that light puke telly tubby pink; the relaxed zip up Adidas hoodie with the premeditated rolled up sleeves exposing the trendy Nike wrist sweatband and of course lets not forget the sideways fake Von Dutch trucker, the neon blue puma trainers and the greenmarket square tortoise-shell Gucci sunglasses, just because the car guard was out of black, that complete the outfit! Is your favourite drink Coke mixed with Pepsi you fuckin git? You look like the carbon-fibre shell of a poor Formula 1 team’s car that had to auction off body space to pay for their under-performing engine. You look like a fashion slut with your idiotic eclectic fusion of urban chic clothing apparel. Get an identity you fuck. I hope the weight of your packets on your next Cavendish shopping spree is sufficient to make you tumble down the escalator and spread you cranial matter across the floor of Vida.




Daniel from Jozi... I hate the guy who has more free time than Lincoln Burroughs and less of a social life than Melvin from Office Space allowing him to read ahead and familiarise himself with the content of today’s law lecture. Yes I also have last years notes that the nerdy class medallist took down verbatim and can interrupt the lecturer by finishing every second sentence like this is a prime time TV game show but I don’t! Why? Because I am not a fuckin lifeless cockface hated by the entire class that has this urge? Asking the lecturer a question or to clarify a point is socially acceptable? Raising your skinny arm into the air to make a statement is just fuckin annoying. You rude intellectual pretender! Why you then pivot mid-sentence and phrase your dim-witted comment to the entirety of the lecture hall is beyond me! Avert your gaze you lesser being! Do you know how much the founders of my trust fork out per hour to allow me to sit in lectures? Well it’s a fuckload less than what I would pay contract killers to dismember your arms and remove your tongue so you couldn’t interrupt my lecture. You do realise your relentless interjections serve no purpose. We assume you think it is to draw attention to yourself and let people think you are somewhat cleverer than the rest of us but get this asshole. The clever people have read the notes and are back at home writing theses that will eventually be published. Stick your hand up again and I’ll rip it off and make you sit on it.

What classics guy! I loved the response. Don't fear if you sent and it wasn't published, look out for part 2...

I hate you so much; write now...

I have pilfered an idea from collegehumor.com and I think it is brilliant. This guy, Streeter Seidell, gets people to email him written pieces about the 'People they Hate'. He then compiles the best written, truest and funniest ones and posts them one collegehumor. Its fuckin hilarious.

This one is from:

"Jeff K. from Penn State really hates… Ms. Giant Sun Glasses. As long as Paris Hilton says they’re cool, then it must be true. (Funny story about Paris Hilton; she’s a skank. Don’t believe me? Ask her father.) Anywhooo, I really feel that no matter how many people claim that they look good, somewhere, deep with in the recesses of their soul, they are laughing along with me. I’m sure that I will have several male detractors disagreeing with me, citing evidence that a lot of hot girls wear this particular style of sunglasses. I answer them thusly: you don’t find it a bit suspicious that nearly 50% of these girls’ faces are hidden behind overpriced plastic. What exactly are they hiding? The answer: ugliness. I’ve been told several times in my life that I’d be better looking if someone put a bag on my head with a picture of the Toxic Avenger drawn in crayon, but you don’t see me doing it! Show us your faces."



We are so doing this! In your next exam study break keyboard us an email about describing the person (or people) you hate and why. I'll sift through the good stuff and post them.

Send them to rockstarweb@gmail.com...

Let the creative juices flow...

RSLJ: Article 10 Goddamn what a rush…

Those adrenaline junkies out there will know that natural highs induced by placing yourself in situations that create them can be the most rewarding thing people can do. Those of you that don’t are probably the type of person that wouldn’t peer over the edge of a precipice because of the fear that you might fall in. Such people may live to the ripe old age of 83 and die in your sleep but then again living in cotton wool your whole life can’t be too rewarding.

Our brains are wired in complex systems to facilitate the process where by something happens to us and we get rocked by all sorts of awesome feelings, emotions and effects. It’s the euphoria you feel when that little dark-haired angel you have been eyeing all night comes over and starts chatting with you, it’s that major rush you get jumping off a bridge and then the relief when the cord jerks you back to safety, it’s that inexplicable feeling you get when that waterhead in front of you in the Tiger queue quoting about how many double canes and coke he is going to devour when he get in gets bounced instead. It’s these little pleasure situations that make life rewarding.

So everyone’s pleasure scale is different. Some guys have to jump off buildings, antennas, spans and earth with only handkerchiefs to protect them from gravity whereas for other guys they just need catch the next episode of Prison Break. The more extremist your needs the more extreme your requirements are. Problem is that through this reasoning if your trigger event happens so regularly surely the effects will become normal and the euphoria will diminish. (kinda like now that you have met number 1 from 2nd year and realised she is human she doesn’t get your party started like she used to) I think it has something to do with the effect of dopamine re-uptake inhibitors but this isn’t the New Science Medical Journal, it’s the Rockstar Life Journal. And we want to make sure our rockstars don’t have life’s little pleasures taken away from them…


This is the part where I share personal experience. Quite a while back I threw myself off Bloukrans Bridge. Man what rush! It’s hard to equal that. Problem was over Christmas I had to ride the Hulk at Islands of Adventure in Florida more than once to get even close to rivalling the bungee effect. (I’m guessing this is what it is like for Leonardo Dicaprio to sleep with other women after bedding Gisele, you have to do it more than once to get even close) However my argument was proven wrong today.

After dashing across the road (I’m quiiick) to 7eleven to purchase the Cape Times I was absent-mindedly returning to my car and forgot the whole ‘look right, look left, look right again’ golden rule of Road Crossing 101W and I nearly got broadsided by a school lift club. I owe my life to French safety features on a Renault Scenic but I was very nearly the headline of tomorrows Cape Times. (The world mourns: famous rockstar gets murdered in hit and run by lecherous Renault driving rugby mom)

Thing is it was my fault and by the time I had frozen like Earl Rose waiting for a Jerry Collins impact in the 10 channel and she had halted to a stop but a credit card length away from my right hip my brain was firing with so many endorphins I felt like Ben Johnson after winning the 100m final in Seoul 1988, full of euphoria and full of drugs...

This just disproved for me the infinite regress idea that Leo Dicaprio supposedly suffers from. You don’t have to better the situation to better the high. They can come in a variety of little ways and still kick the living daylights out of your synapse firing system.

[Note to self: feeling down and average, don’t drink heavily or throw yourself off a building, just walk across the road without looking]