Thank goodness for good people

There is a beautiful piece of writing by Jonathan Jansen entitled “My South Africa”. In the final paragraph he says “My South Africa is not the angry, corrupt, violent country whose deeds fill the front pages of newspapers and the lead-in items on the seven-o’clock news. It is the South Africa often unseen, yet powered by the remarkable lives of ordinary people. It is the citizens who keep the country together through millions of acts of daily kindness.”

Now I may not be an entire country, but I can relate in so many ways. And the funny thing is that I was going to write this blog before reading Jonathan’s story. Because while everyone may think that The Tart leads of life of complete joviality and wild adventures, what happens behind closed doors is often best left there. No-one wants to hear about the shit and the drama, because everyone is dealing with their own shit and drama. Like that saying goes, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.” So let me enlighten you about the battle behind my closed door in Gay Street and how so many good people have made this year bearable…

To put it bluntly I f***ed up. It happens. And it will happen to almost everyone in their lifetime – if it hasn’t happened to you, I really hope it doesn’t. But if it does, you had better hope that your inner circle is a good one, like mine. In reality, I probably shouldn’t have gone to Zimbabwe on a whim. I know I will look back one day and say “Oh, but it was worth it” – which I do already – but right now the repercussions are severe. The trip cost a lot more than I bargained for and I came back to bounced debit orders all over the place, an angry landlady and a lot of scary messages on my phone. If you think no-one cares about your existence, just let a car payment bounce. And it doesn’t stop there either… the charges from each bounced debit order amount to a small fortune. Then they add interest and the whole thing gets out of control.  And we all know what happens when you don’t pay your electricity.  Plus the economy is in ruins so no-one has money for anything but the necessities, so freelance work becomes hard to come by and you can’t make up the deficit fast enough. Then you are so desperate to earn some cash that you end up doing said freelance work for peanuts. But at least you can buy a bag of cat food before your feline family eats you in your sleep (dogs are easy, they eat whatever you give them, including marmite toast).

But this is not supposed to be a whinge session about surviving on a few hundred Rand a month while trying to hold onto your car and the roof over your head because you decided to go travelling without saving first.  It’s about how much worse things would be if it weren’t for the goodness of people.  Bad decisions and drama aside, I must be the luckiest girl on the planet. I have the best friends and the best neighbours anyone could ask for.

Just an hour ago I finished tucking into a plate of chicken and salad brought to my door by Awesome Neighbours. Last night they brought me crumbed fish and veggies and the night before that it was steak and beer. Why? Because I am loaning them my car while theirs gets fixed (I can get lifts to work). But they don’t need to bring me dinner – after all they have put fuel in the car, fixed the tyre and goodness knows they spoil me all the time. They do it because they are good people and they know what it’s like to struggle.  They constantly do kind things for me (like throwing over an extension cord when my electricity was cut off) and I love them for that. Quite frankly they can use my car for as long as they need to and they don’t even have to give me dinner every night (but I am not complaining). On the subject of neighbours, the other night I desperately needed to put fuel in my car so I could go to a free photo workshop that I had signed up for and do a shoot that was important to me. I went and knocked on two neighbours’ doors with my begging bowl and the next day I put in enough fuel to get me to the workshop and shoot. If it wasn’t for them I wouldn’t have been able to go.

Then there are friends who have loaned me money to tide me over while I try and get my finances back together. I am slowly paying it back, but it is taking longer than I thought it would. I know that they know that they will get it back, but they haven’t badgered me or sent in people to break my kneecaps and I thank them for their patience. Me Swifty paid for a car service and when it went bad (never buy a Groupon car service deal) she offered to pay for half when it wasn’t even her fault. She too waits patiently for my half of the deal. I almost cancelled my birthday lunch when I realised that I wouldn’t have the R60 to pay for my roast. The Monster was having none of that and paid for my lunch while the rest of my friends paid for my drinks and The Usual Crew made damn sure I partied into the wee hours. Slappy, who has her own cross to bear this year, constantly sponsors nights out and feeds me every Friday night. She claims she is investing in me as I will be very well-off and famous one day (I hope she’s right), but she could get fed up and just stop inviting me out, which she doesn’t. In fact we go out so often that we have earned the nickname Thelma & Louise. I just hope we don’t go over the edge of De Waal Drive in her little red bubble. Brad Pitt would be nice though…

But I digress.  The Genie has bugger all money herself (not through bad decisions, rather through trying to build up her own business – which is starting to take off), but often treats me to supper and wine and buys treats for my pets. The Lesbians know I am struggling so gave me a Woolies voucher for my birthday which I used to buy food for me and my furry family, while Mom Friend gave me a bag of fancy face creams and make-up from “the sample cupboard” at her work. Now my worry wrinkles are disappearing and while I don’t have money, I can still look like I have class. There are countless things that everyone in my life has done for me, from giving me loo rolls to tea bags (God forbid I can’t wipe my bum or have a cup of tea) to buying me beer and tequila shots. They’ve given me lifts when I had no fuel and allowed me to shower at their house when I had no hot water.  Without all these awesome people I probably wouldn’t have made it through the last nine months.

It’s not over yet, but it is getting better. Despite being told there are yet again no increases (four years on the same salary doesn’t help matters either) and that my job hangs in the balance, some doors of opportunity are opening and they could lead to great things. And when those great things happen, it’ll be my friends and neighbours turn to be spoilt. I cannot wait for that day to arrive. But until then, I hope they know just how very much I love them all and appreciate everything they have done and do for me.

It’s times like these that make me realise that there ARE good people out there and my faith in humanity is restored.  Until the bank phones me again tomorrow…

Note: This is not intended to make anyone feel sorry for me. I will be the first to admit I did this to myself. Rather may it be a lesson to everyone in how things can go bad very quickly and how a little help goes a long way. Times are going to get tougher for everyone so we need to stick together and help eachother when we can. So get to know your neighbours and ask your friends how they are doing. You may be surprised at what you find.

My bloody birthday weekend

So this last weekend was my birthday weekend. An annual celebration of when chaos was introduced to the world. You can be mighty glad that I ate my twin. Imagine if there were TWO of us. Thankfully I had the foresight to realise that it was too early for the world to deal with the apocalypse and took care of matters in the womb. Lucky you!

Now that you are all feeling uncomfortable imagining me devouring my sibling, I will tell you about a very real horror that awaits you all. Hangovers with age.

They really do get worse. And you seemingly need less and less alcohol to get said hangover as the years go on.  They (the hangovers) get so unbearable that it reaches a point where you almost swear off liquor. Thankfully (again) I haven’t got there yet. But I have noticed that drinking on a “school night” is slowly becoming a thing of my sordid past. Which is probably why the tequila farm in Graaff-Reinet closed down – but that’s for another story (with a cunning business plan attached to it).

So Birthday Weekend was a blast. The hangovers (note the plural) weren’t. But one shouldn’t dwell on the shitty stuff when there’s so much good stuff happening.

Friday started with sparkling wine at 11am, followed by the weekly “dop system” drinks at work at 4.30pm. Then it was off to Slappy’s house for Friday Supper (we are only allowed to cancel Friday Supper if we have a hot date – so far no cancellations this year which is more scary than the rest of this blog). Then it was off to the new Decodance Underworld in her new red bubble (I say she should call it Nellie because it has an ivory interior, but she's not convinced) where we drank an insane amount of tequila. Or should I say, the Birthday Tart drank an insane amount of tequila. By the way, the new Deco is fantastic. So much so that I am about to send an sms to get on the guestlist again tonight … if they let me in.

Captain I Am Awesome was there and so was Prince One EL and I do remember slurring at YourLMG Mike. Plus a friend of Slappy’s who had blue contact lenses in. Yes I know everyone has those these days, but  you look across the bar after your fifth tequila and see a black chick with blue eyes looking back at you and see what a fright you get. But what a fun night – we danced, we drank, we talked kak and terrible photos were taken. At 4am Slappy got me safely home and I am pleased to report that I did not wake up with my pyjamas over my clothes this time.  But Slappy did find my box of cigarettes on the back seat the next morning and my lipstick under the passenger seat yesterday. Good times!

I spent most of Saturday applying fake blood, eyeliner and brushing hair out of rockstars’ eyes. Glamorous eh? Nothing is glamorous with a hangover. In fact I felt quite sorry for the lads in The Monster’s band as their “stylist” was probably breathing tequila in their faces while applying eyeliner (no wonder they couldn’t stop twitching) and I probably reeked of post-clubbing smoke as well. Come to think of it, I was probably more rockstar than them. But then I have always said that actually being a rockstar is not half as much fun as living life like one.  I will also say that those band members have the best hair and the longest eyelashes I have EVER seen. More sickening than a hangover. Anyhoo, after a day’s hard work where the hotshot photographer dude had the band members posing in derelict buildings and me sloshing through swamps it was time for a few beers at the local hotel which made me feel infinitely better. Needless to say I stayed at home on Saturday night! I did see my birthday in though – I got through the doors of Club Duvet at 12.10am…

Then it was Sunday – Birthday Day! You know you are right in the middle of adulthood when you start your birthday day washing the dishes and picking up dog poo!  Things got better though – I was driven in style by Commander Conker, Little Miss Chatterbox and The Monster to Sunday lunch at Dixie’s in Glencairn. My mother said Dixie’s sounded like a cowboy bar – to which I responded that knowing us lot, it would definitely resemble The Wild West in a matter of  minutes.

Except it was remarkably civilized. In fact, I thought I had got off lightly when I still felt quite sober after my second Voodoo cocktail at Cape to Cuba at 8pm.  But I should’ve known better… The Usual Crew were there and we don’t know where the Home button is on the Party Remote. Not content with the thought of going home at a reasonable hour on a Sunday, we continued the shenanigans at HobNobs in Kenilworth. I think we put the Nigerians to shame. Judging by my second hangover of the weekend I also think it could be the last time I party so hard on a school night. Except next year’s birthday is on a Monday…

Ps. It should be noted that it was my friends who made my birthday so special and I love them all dearly. Without them I would’ve sat at home the whole weekend feeling sorry for my aging self and lamenting the lack of tequila in the freezer. So thank you ALL for the love and the hangovers – you know who you are. xx

Telling a story in six words

A few weeks ago I attended a blog conference where one of the speakers emphasized the importance of keeping things short. He then challenged us to tell a story in six words, using Hemmingway’s example.

The legend goes that Ernest Hemingway once won a bet where he was asked to write a six word short story that was so good, it could make people cry. This is what he came up with:

“For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.”

While this thought-provoking piece of writing has been floating around the Internet for some time and there is actually no telling whether Hemingway really wrote it, it’s still damn good!

Inspired by this and being a bit of a waffler myself, I decided to give this a try. I also challenged two fellow bloggers, Monster and Brain Droppings, to give it go. The challenge was soon on, with each of us having to produce ten 6-word stories. Besides, it seemed like a fun Friday thing to do...

Here’s my best shot:

• Swimming to shore. Grey shadow follows.
• She walks home. He watches. Waits.
• Last round, with nowhere to go.
• Saw spider on ceiling. Now gone.
• Seeking partner in crime, South Africa.
• Bath drawn, razor sits sharpened.
• Kept him forever. Limb by limb.
• Gunshots next door. Children start crying.
• Man walks dog and returns alone.
• Hear scratching in cupboard. No cupboard.

Noticeably most of them have a horror angle.

• I blame everything on Stephen King.

Tart goes travelling: Schreiner Karoo Writer’s Festival, Cradock

Those who know me well will know that my greatest love is travel (followed closely by tequila). I spent much of my childhood wishing that I had been born into a gypsy family - going to sleep at night in a caravan and waking up the next day in a new town. The closest I ever got to that is having a mother who essentially looks like a gypsy with her bright headscarves and flamboyant jewellery. There was also the much-looked-forward-to annual road trips from Zimbabwe to Durban via Kruger National Park. Leaving at 4am in the morning in the dark and stopping off at interesting spots along the way started a love affair with road tripping that has never died.

Now that I am bigger and can do as I please (OK, most of the time), I am free to be a gypsy of sorts. I have obligations  (car payments and credit card bills) and grown-up commitments (dogs, cats and fish) so I can’t travel as much as I would like to, but thanks to my daytime job, I get to travel a reasonable amount. So I have decided to add “Tart goes travelling…” to my blog adventures. And what better place to start than my recent visit to Cradock, an Eastern Cape town steeped in Boer War history and once home to one of the most brazen women of her time, Olive Schreiner.

I was chauffeured to Cradock by Intercape. It has been a long time since I used a bus to go somewhere (I arrived in Cape Town 20 years ago on a bus) and was pleasantly surprised to see that nothing had changed.  Especially that smell of chicken that permeates the air from the minute you step aboard. Everyone’s tupperware containers seem to hold chicken and even I joined the you-win-when-you-eat-da-chicken movement by scoffing a chicken sandwich. Our first stop along the N1 had everyone in Steers buying chicken n’ chips and I was secretly relieved that the KFC was closed by the time we got to Graaff-Reinet. The chairs were covered in the same colour fabric as 20 years ago and the DVDs shown for our on-board entertainment still got stuck half-way through. Nevertheless, it wasn’t too shabby – more space than a plane and much cheaper than driving.

I got to Cradock at 4.30am and got picked up by Vernon from Die Tuishuis (only to discover I could’ve walked around the corner to it). After a cup of tea, a brief snoop through my beautiful Victorian lodgings and a nap, it was time for the day to begin. At breakfast I opted to share a table with another lass who was on her own and I am glad I did. We quickly became friends and thanks to her good Afrikaans heritage (including family having been in the Boer War concentration camps) she proved to be an excellent Afrikaans interpreter and a lot of fun. My next big road trip could very well be to Ellisras.

What followed was two glorious days filled with books, authors, poetry, readings and open-mic sessions (where Ellisras Friend read some of her poetry too).  Etienne van Heerden told us about his latest novel based in Matjiesfontein, Barbara Mutch went into the history behind the Housemaid’s Daughter and Margie Orford gave insights into how she knows so much about the gangs and the inside of a morgue.  I went on a walking tour of the town where places mentioned in books were brought to life and listened to an organist play in a church where Jan Smuts was christened. I feasted on kudu schnitzel and lamb shanks. I sat on the pavement drinking wine and indulged in stoep-sitting under the Karoo sunshine. I met fellow Zimbabweans and a missionary-turned-winemaker.  I had a cigarette and chatted about life on the road with Margie Orford. I spent a morning in Olive Schreiner’s house listening to readings from her letters. I listened to a once-stuttering magistrate read a poem he had written without so much as a stammer and a professor who was inspired to write a book about the Boer War concentration camps thanks to finding bullet casings in her garden in Phillipolis.

It was possibly three of the best days of my life that went by faster than a tumbleweed in the wind. I met inspiring people, kind people and famous people. Most of all, I met Karoo people. Real, down-to-earth people that embrace life in the Karoo and love every inch of it. People who don’t just hang out their laundry on a Sunday, but hang the biltong out to dry at the same time.  People who invite you into their homes for Sunday lunch and entertain you with stories about the ghost of the Boer War soldier who stands on the stairs and of the local folk who keep lions as pets.

As I wound my way back home on the bus, I nibbled on a leg of chicken and thought about all the stories I had heard.  I really can’t wait to go back for the next chapter…

Where to get tequila in Cradock
I never had time to visit the liquor store, but the only tequila available at The Victoria Manor was Olmeca Silver. I gave it a skip and became a Wine Wench for the weekend.

Township styles...

I am sitting here with my laptop plugged in and rice boiling on the stove. The radio is playing and I can see the rain falling in the lit up garden.  Everything seems normal yes? Not really! See, this time last week I came home after working late and all I wanted was a cup of tea and a hot bath. Except I came home to a house plunged into darkness. The City of Cape Town had caught up with me and they were not going to accept half payments. No way! After all, I live in Claremont and everyone in Claremont should be able to afford their electricity and rates. And God help you if you fall behind. Because they KNOW where you live.

OK, I take responsibility for not paying the bill when I should've, but some months I just didn’t have the R300 for electricity. Then when you get a bill for R600 the following month it becomes even worse. So I buried my silly head in the sand and hoped I would amass enough money to pay it before they came a calling. Alas, I didn’t. So I got a letter in my postbox demanding money within a week (it was dated at the beginning of the month, but it must’ve got lost in the mail or the accounts office). So I paid half, phoned and explained and got told (very politely I might add) “that it was too late and they could cut me off at any given moment.” Which of course, they did. Sometimes it sucks living in suburbia.

But then again it actually doesn’t. And in my suburban little world, I have neighbours that have become good friends. Such good friends that they even let me take their 9 year old daughter out on kid-friendly excursions and on walks with my dogs (Mom Friend says that’s amazing as she wouldn’t trust her neighbor – or me probably - to take care of her daughter) . They give me tins of tuna for the cats. Heck, they are so awesome that they even feed me on occasion. So who were the first people I ran to? Awesome Neighbours….

Before I could say “Please help me with this blasted gas canister so I can cook camping-style” they sat me down, cooked up a steak dinner AND gave me a beer. Then they threw an extension cord over the wall so I could plug in my fridge and not lose my food on top of it all. Awesome Neighbours are awesome.  Fridge purred away as if nothing had happened, I could boil the kettle for tea, make toast and even had a lamp for light in the evening. It was all quite cosy to be honest.

And that is how I lived for a week. My friends who knew about the debacle were awesome too. I showered at Slappy’s, at Monster’s and at Awesome Neighbours. I had a little Bath Bag that I kept packed with get-clean basics and I would either chuck it in the boot when visiting friends, or take it next door.  I lived on toast and tea and occasionally boiled pasta on my gas cooker. I watched Downton Abbey on my laptop... To be honest I would get  into my bed at the end of the day, thank The Universe for my Awesome Neighbours and quietly show my middle finger at “the system”.

But you can’t live off the goodness of others forever, so I worked hard, luckily got some shoots and managed to get the money together for the rest of the electricity bill (which of course now had R500 reconnection fee added onto it). With much pride I went to the Post Office to pay and got chatting to the Post Office lady who was taking my wad of money. Just before I left I said “Great! Now I can get my electricity reconnected.” She looked at me with wide eyes and said “Eish, you got cut?” followed by “What did you do?” When I told her about my Awesome Neighbours and the extension cord she smiled broadly, give me a high five and said “Township styles!” It was one of the greatest moments of my life. There we were, two people from completely opposite sides of the social sphere sharing a common bond. We both knew about living “township styles” and how to beat the system.

So now it’s back to normal… No more camping in my own home (I always knew the gas cooker and the hoarding of candles would be useful). I have also learnt a few things from this…

1. Pay your electricity (because they WILL cut you off).
2. A plan can always be made (even if it is township styles).
3. Be grateful for your friends (who will always try help you out if you tell them your problems).
4. Get to know your neighbours (you never know when you may need them and they could become Awesome Neighbours and good friends).

And now I am off to fetch my Bath Bag, pack it away and go have a bath. In my own bath, with HOT water and with the light ON. Dear Universe - please don’t let the bulb blow now…

Tarty’s weekly bargains

I have never been as broke-ass as I have been for the past few months. And while things will get better (forever the optimist) I have been forced to find ways of keeping myself and my menagerie well-fed and happy despite nervous glances through the window whenever someone comes to my door in case it’s they are coming to cut off the electricity (I got a scary letter last week). Although according to my neighbor, they tend to chop off the water first to force you to pay your electricity bill. If you see a showercap sticking out of my laptop bag at work you’ll know that the water has been cut…

Jokes aside (actually that wasn’t a joke, but we’ll pretend) I have become one of those people that scans the papers for bargains in the grocery and booze department. I do this every week. I even go as far as to cut parts of said newspaper out so I remember, or make a list of where to go for what. I kid you not. I have become a pensioner before my time dammit!  The interesting thing though is that seemingly I am not alone (how did the neighbour know that the water goes before the electricity gets snipped?) and when I casually mentioned my latest finds at dinner last night with The Hout Bay Hippies, everyone gasped, put down their forks and went “Wow! That’s SUCH a bargain! I am going to do that too.”  With their mouths full of food. The bargains were THAT good.

Now I am a fairly resourceful lass and becoming increasingly so. So I figure I need to share the love with my hapless followers (half of whom are probably as broke as me, but are too proud to say it) and … one day the very people whose bargains I am sharing will probably contact me for advertising on this very blog. Clever huh? I may even get a free butternut thrown in.

So here are this week’s top bargains:

Fruit & Veg City bargain (valid until Sunday 28 July)

Fruit combo: R39

1 x pineapple
1x paw paw
1 x orange thriftpack
1 x banana thriftpack
1 x punnet strawberries
2 x kiwi fruit

Freshstop at Caltex bargain (valid until Sunday 28 July)

Veggie combo : R50

1 x 2kg potatoes
1 x 1kg gem squash
1 x 1kg butternut
1 x 1kg onions
1 x sweet potato thriftpack
1 x cauliflower

Booze bargains at Ultra Liquors (valid until Sunday 28 July)

Olmeca Black R129.99
Amstel Lager and Windhoek Lager (2 x 24) R299.99

Run, run to the shops people! For R100 my fridge has never looked better. The only problem is that I now have to remove 3 gem squash, 2 butternuts and 10 potatoes to get to my Savannas…  which I get from the office bar in lieu of my non-existent increase.

While you do that, I am running to the post office to pay my electricity bill. God forbid they cut me off when my fridge is full of food and stolen booze.

Move over Baglett! I have a new heroine....

It’s been a while since I’ve been inspired to write a TT blog (blame it on a severe lack of tequila), but I saw a Facebook post today that I have to share. It’s so good that it has the Tart’s stamp of approval – which is not easy to get (unless you buy me lots of tequila of course).

In fact I was so impressed that I took it further and looked up this Caitlin person and seemingly she’s quite famous. She’s even won awards for her book, which I am SO going to buy. I think I shall buy both of them actually, because they sound hilarious and the latest one will probably win awards too. 

Most of all, Ms Moran sounds like the type of person I would get along with. Perhaps we can even share a few life observations over a shot or two and a box of cigarettes one day. But for now I will just follow her on Twitter and spend money I don’t have on her books.

Here it is - great life advice from Caitlin Moran.  Read it and learn something while I go have a cup of tea and a biscuit... and a fag.

My posthumous advice for my daughter by Caitlin Moran
Published in The Times, July 13 2013

My daughter is about to turn 13 and I’ve been smoking a lot recently, and so – in the wee small hours, when my lungs feel like there’s a small mouse inside them, scratching to get out – I’ve thought about writing her one of those “Now I’m Dead, Here’s My Letter Of Advice For You To Consult As You Continue Your Now Motherless Life” letters. Here’s the first draft. Might tweak it a bit later. When I’ve had another fag.

“Dear Lizzie. Hello, it’s Mummy. I’m dead. Sorry about that. I hope the funeral was good – did Daddy play Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen when my coffin went into the cremator? I hope everyone sang along and did air guitar, as I stipulated. And wore the stick-on Freddie Mercury moustaches, as I ordered in the ‘My Funeral Plan’ document that’s been pinned on the fridge since 2008, when I had that extremely self-pitying cold.

“Look – here are a couple of things I’ve learnt on the way that you might find useful in the coming years. It’s not an exhaustive list, but it’s a good start. Also, I’ve left you loads of life-insurance money – so go hog wild on eBay on those second-hand vintage dresses you like. You have always looked beautiful in them. You have always looked beautiful.

"The main thing is just to try to be nice. You already are – so lovely I burst, darling – and so I want you to hang on to that and never let it go. Keep slowly turning it up, like a dimmer switch, whenever you can. Just resolve to shine, constantly and steadily, like a warm lamp in the corner, and people will want to move towards you in order to feel happy, and to read things more clearly. You will be bright and constant in a world of dark and flux, and this will save you the anxiety of other, ultimately less satisfying things like ‘being cool’, ‘being more successful than everyone else’ and ‘being very thin’.

“Second, always remember that, nine times out of ten, you probably aren’t having a full-on nervous breakdown – you just need a cup of tea and a biscuit. You’d be amazed how easily and repeatedly you can confuse the two. Get a big biscuit tin.

“Three – always pick up worms off the pavement and put them on the grass. They’re having a bad day, and they’re good for… the earth or something (ask Daddy more about this; am a bit sketchy).

“Four: choose your friends because you feel most like yourself around them, because the jokes are easy and you feel like you’re in your best outfit when you’re with them, even though you’re just in a T-shirt. Never love someone whom you think you need to mend – or who makes you feel like you should be mended. There are boys out there who look for shining girls; they will stand next to you and say quiet things in your ear that only you can hear and that will slowly drain the joy out of your heart. The books about vampires are true, baby. Drive a stake through their hearts and run away.

“Stay at peace with your body. While it’s healthy, never think of it as a problem or a failure. Pat your legs occasionally and thank them for being able to run. Put your hands on your belly and enjoy how soft and warm you are – marvel over the world turning over within, the brilliant meat clockwork, as I did when you were inside me and I dreamt of you every night.

“Whenever you can’t think of something to say in a conversation, ask people questions instead. Even if you’re next to a man who collects pre-Seventies screws and bolts, you will probably never have another opportunity to find out so much about pre-Seventies screws and bolts, and you never know when it will be useful.

“This segues into the next tip: life divides into AMAZING ENJOYABLE TIMES and APPALLING EXPERIENCES THAT WILL MAKE FUTURE AMAZING ANECDOTES. However awful, you can get through any experience if you imagine yourself, in the future, telling your friends about it as they scream, with increasing disbelief, ‘NO! NO!’ Even when Jesus was on the cross, I bet He was thinking, ‘When I rise in three days, the disciples aren’t going to believe this when I tell them about it.’

“Babyiest, see as many sunrises and sunsets as you can. Run across roads to smell fat roses. Always believe you can change the world – even if it’s only a tiny bit, because every tiny bit needed someone who changed it. Think of yourself as a silver rocket – use loud music as your fuel; books like maps and co-ordinates for how to get there. Host extravagantly, love constantly, dance in comfortable shoes, talk to Daddy and Nancy about me every day and never, ever start smoking. It’s like buying a fun baby dragon that will grow and eventually burn down your f***ing house.

“Love, Mummy.”

The Tart, Napoleon and a test tube baby

The headline is far more interesting than this blog is going to be. This week has been a busy one so I haven’t had time to update the world on my hedonistic little life. Online deadline … which usually coincides with magazine deadline as well. Basically it means I run around like a headless chicken trying to load articles online in time for the new magazine coming out in stores and then on top of that I get hounded by a sub-editor for my piece in the magazine on events coming up. Which I never get done in time because no-one can plan their lives a week in advance, let alone three months in advance. So by the time all the interesting events come into my mailbox, it’s too late to include them in the mag. Sigh, what a vicious circle. Oh, and I have discovered why it’s called “deadline”. Because it can actually kill you. Or make you want to kill others…

So I could be going home to my cosy little house and cute waggy-bum wooftas now, but I thought I had better make an attempt at keeping this blog thing going. Once you’ve started something and all that. Oh the pressure! I really do hope I get a free bottle or two of tequila out of this effort one day.

After Taste of Cape Town, it’s been a fairly quiet week. But there were some highlights:

• Having a “Test Tube Baby” shot with The Documentary Maker at some dodgy club in the city on Saturday night. Basically curdled Amarula swirling around in a sea of green (that they claim had vodka in it). Looked disgusting, but tasted quite good. My only complaint was that it didn’t actually come in a test tube. I never got to try their “Flaming Dragon”, but probably not a bad thing. If the test tube one was anything to go by, it would’ve probably been a gecko in a matchbox. Actually that’s too imaginative for that lot. 
• Aqua-planing to get to Groot Constantia in the middle of a storm. Then running through the rain and splashing through puddles while scaring the ducks. Followed by swanning about in soggy feet (my boots apparently have holes in them) quaffing wine and eating copious amounts of food, all in the name of work. Reckless Freckles was my “plus one” for the event and we made a perfect team. We had such a good time that the event finished at 5.30pm and we only left two hours later. Needless to say we both had headaches the next day. 
• Finding out that Napoleon was a big fan of Groot Constantia wine, which means we have something in common. So my next dog is going to be called Napoleon. He will only respond to commands made in French.
• Having chocolate cake for breakfast at Organic at Heart. A chocolate cake that was made using beetroot. My mother always said that breakfast was a healthy way to start the day and that vegetables are good for you. I effectively killed two birds with one stone. It was delicious too, they masked the beetroot very well and the cake wasn't purple.
• Starting a search for a male escort. Seemingly there are not too many male prostitutes in Cape Town. Well not many willing to, well, service women. Watch this space, I WILL find one and let you know all about it. If you really want to know, that is. Seemingly people do. 

This weekend I will be terrorising the good farming folk of Bot River, drinking wine and judging beards. I will be staying in a villa that has a jacuzzi with Monster, Slappy and The Genie. I did find it a bit ominous that I had to fax through an indemnity form.

Tasting Cape Town

Last night Slappy and I ventured to Green Point for a styling evening amongst the well-heeled at Taste of Cape Town. I usually avoid these things like I avoid hipster hangouts because (a) they are usually over-priced, (b) there’s never any parking and (c) the queue for food and beer is enough to make to you cry. But I won tickets and thought Thursday would be a good evening as nobody ever goes to the first night of anything, let alone out on a school night.

We finally got to this food-infused shindig after a beer at Ragazzi (we figured that there was no way we were going to get anything as cheap as R11 for a beer at ToCT so it was a good way to start the evening) and as usual, parking was a nightmare. Being the good lawless citizens that we are we found parking in a spot that made the parking guards edgy and made our way to the entrance. Seems the tickets I had won got us in, but not much else. Not even a wine glass for tastings. Gasp! Those unfortunate wine lovers (or alcoholics depending on how you look at it) with no glass had to buy one for two “crowns” (R10). I was penniless (as we know from my last blog) so we decided to share a glass. I also knew that at some point someone would be drunk enough to leave their glass somewhere and I would just pilfer it. Which I did. Being penniless makes you savvy and being drunk helps the penniless.

Our first stop was at the Original Cocktails stand where we  had a shot of gluwein for free and spent our first crowns on a Pina Colada (me) and a Cosmopolitan (Slappy). Then it was the Lindt chocolate tent where we got free Lint truffles and samples of their 70% cocoa range. On to the Jack Daniels tent where the promo girls felt sorry for us as we didn’t get a bag with promo items in it  - “Why did you not get a bag? They must’ve made a mistake.” -  and before we knew it we were seated at the bar and tasting the new Jack Daniels Honey (lip-smackingly delicious) and being dealt cards which afforded us a cocktail-shot. So far so good! 

We were quite comfortable at this little beehive, but realised we were meant to relinquish our seats for the next lot of honey-samplers and so reluctantly left the bar to go try a spoonful of Paella from the Spanish Cooking School. And so it went on … moving from stall to stall pretending to be interested in their products, while eating as much bread smothered with various dipping sauces or oils as we could get away with. Some finer moments included:

• Just about popping an entire green chilli in my mouth at the “Eish” stall while thinking it was a chopped green bean. Thank goodness the stall owner stopped me before I had a very eish moment indeed.
• Not listening to Slappy's advice and putting too much habanero sauce on my square of bread, resulting in me burning the roof of my mouth off and trying to soothe it with copius amounts of bread lathered in olive oil.
• Pressing a baby tomato firmly into some garlic salt flakes and needing a gallon of water. Turns out you are only supposed to use one flake, not cover the entire tomato as “this is very strong salt”. No shit! Slappy, being the eternal goth, was quite taken with the charcoal salt. I can see goths lining up at Spar stores across the country to buy black salt in the near future.
• Slappy buying a pink flamingo keyring at the Beefcakes stall and then wedging it in her glass of wine for a photo. Goodness knows what she’s going to do with the flamingo, but perhaps she keeps losing her keys and needs a bright pink beaded keyring to assist her in locating them. Or she has a secret flamingo fetish.
• Taking photos of people’s portions of food and saying things like “How do you feel knowing that you have just paid 8 crowns, for a tiny piece of raw ostrich? And did you know about the avian flu going around ostrich farms at the moment?” Piece of raw ostrich with coriander leaf: R40, look on his face: priceless.

In between dunking mini pieces of bread into various sauces and nodding politely at the stall owner’s promotional waffling, we quaffed wine and made friends with the people at the absinthe stall (best absinthe ever!) resulting in us having been invited to Wellington to visit their farm and see how absinthe is made. We may never make it back. Slappy also treated herself to a magnum of whisky liqueur while I tasted my way through Hawaiian cocktails. The evening was going swayingly well.

Half way through this soiree we realised that we didn’t have many crowns left and had essentially spent the entire first batch on booze. So we went to get more (you can only buy R100 worth of crowns – sneaky bastards) and set about finding food. The choices were endless and ridiculously expensive considering the portions, but we ended up tucking into a rather delicious lamb potjie pie which was definitely worth its 5 crowns (R25). If you can only afford one thing to eat at ToCT, have the pie. It will keep you full for days. 

Before we knew it, it was closing time. We had 5 crowns left in our stash and wondered frantically what we were going to spend them on (you can’t return them for cash). We did think of donating them to the rhino people or perhaps the angel people. But then we remembered the Lindt tent. One crown got you two truffles. 

All charitable thoughts went right out the window and we left Taste of Cape Town with 5 Lindt balls each. Marie Antoinette would’ve been proud…

You win when you eat da chicken

So last night I joined Mom Friend for the evening as her hubby is away and she needed help with fetching her car from the mechanic while she fetched her child from school. She could’ve done it all on her own, being the capable woman that she is, but this would’ve meant that her daughter would’ve been the last one at the school and as we all know that is just horrible (and spooky). It all involved a lot of strategic planning – goodness knows how single parents do this stuff – and was made more difficult by the fact that I can’t phone or sms or anything because I need to pay for my phone. Which I haven’t this month. Yet. Note: Donations to the phone fund most welcome, I promise to sms you to say thanks.

Anyhoo, I got rewarded for my efforts with a box of ciggies, “Because if you can’t pay your phone bill, you probably can’t buy fags either.” Bless! Love it when my friends look after my best interests and my habits. They are the expensive Malborough ones too. Long time since I had those! But that’s not all, I got treated to Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner. I cannot remember the last time I had KFC as I tend to avoid places where they are known to make burgers out of pink chicken-gut gloop. But not one to look a gift horse (gift chicken?) in the mouth, I gladly went along with the plan. Wow! What a place! No wonder it’s so damn popular. First off it’s chicken (but is it really?) and you always win when you eat da chickeeen. Secondly, it’s so cheap! Sorry, cheeeeeep! Ok, that’s enough.

Where else can you buy two burgers for R18?? TWO. Bloody hell. The next time I am out partying with a pal and we decide we need sustenance to get us through from 3am (bedtime) to 11am (waking up time), I am going straight to KFC. For R9 each we can get a burger with mayo and lettuce, which is more than enough to see us through the midnight munchies. And the roll is good for soaking up alcohol. And R9 is pretty much all you have left after a night out anyway. If you are lucky.

Then there’s all sorts of other stuff they have on the menu, including a new addition in the form of a bun-less burger called the “double down”. I kid you not – two chicken “fillets” with lettuce and mayo sandwiched between them. Not a sniff of bread in sight. Fascinating. They still have their mash potato and gravy (I used to love that) and now there’s “pap and gravy” too! There’s three different types of burgers, a zinger, a colonel and the original. Goodness knows what the difference is between them – a different flavoured mayo? A different breed of chicken? Then there’s wraps, nuggets, wings, legs and breasts. You can buy a bucket of chicken or a streetwise feast. It’s mad! And then there’s the kiddy meals that come in a little box festooned with cute little chickens on it. It’s so damn adorable all the adults want one too. Not to mention the toy…

Needless to say it took me ages to decide what to have, but in the end I got a wrap with chips and a Fanta. Mom Friend had the same (probably because she was also too overwhelmed with choice to make a decision) and kiddy got the cute chicken-covered box with nuggets in it. She struggled with the choice of toy – never give a 3 year old a choice between three things. And off we went, back home to enjoy our night of takeaways in front of the telly. I felt like I was in true family suburbia. So this is how the other half live! Chicken nuggets and dsTV. It’s not bad. Much better than sitting in front of a laptop until 10pm and then scoffing two slices of toast before bedtime.

Tonight I go a slightly different route. The Taste of Cape Town route. I won tickets so feel the need to go. I have bugger all money (again, donations gladly accepted, along with credit cards) so Slappy and I are going to see how much free food we can get and how many "crowns" we can pickpocket. At least if we fail we can go to KFC and buy two burgers for R18. Viva le chicken!

ps. Last night I dreamt of beakless chickens with four legs chasing me down the road with laser guns. I am not sure if was the KFC or the James Bond re-runs I was watching on dsTV.

Seeking the ultimate pub quiz team

I used to belong to a pub quiz team that was legendary beyond a doubt. A few of the elite members of Team Burger King that have been mentioned in previous blogs included Monster, The Viking, Madcap Menno and TDO. Unfortunately that team is no longer, mostly because the LMG Pub Quiz was abandoned and we had nowhere to go and partly because some of the team members became “grown ups” (gasp!)  and had better things to do than go to a beer-fuelled night of answering questions and shouting profanities at other teams. (Needless to say Monster and I were not one of those – we will never grow up.)

Sigh, I do miss those nights…

But there is hope. I have been informed of a new pub quiz, called CityMusicQuiz that is starting at Gourmet Boerie on Monday nights. There’s some comedian involved called Rhys Woods who is on 5FM and 2OceansVibe Radio. That means the small problem here is that this event could potentially be filled with nasty little hipsters, who are threatening to take over every watering hole in our city. But, that said, I am intrigued to see what a quiz night involving a comedian, a bunch of hipsters and gourmet boerewors rolls would be like.  So I want to go and check it out. If only to eat boerie rolls, make a noise, drink beer, have a shot of tequila and scare hipsters. But to do this, I need a team. And not just any team… a legendary Tarty team! Seeing as it is a CityMusicQuiz, I am going with Top of the Tarts and Monster reckons it should be called Tart Toppers (he’s quite good at coming up with clever names).  But that’s up for discussion. It also needs to be a team of women. Because whilst we know that men can be sluts, they don’t make very good tarts (unless they are gay of course).

So I am searching for women (preferably tarty ones) to form a legendary pub quiz team that will go out once a month on a Monday (every week would just punish our wallets and our livers) and have some fun.. It will be the ultimate girls’ night out. Beer, wine, comedy and well, a sausage fest. Heck, we may even win prizes. But before you quickly wave your hand in the air going, “Me, me! Pick me!”, there are certain qualities you need to possess to be part of this team…

1. Be available once a month on a Monday (most likely the one after payday). No babysitting cancellations, no husband or boyfriend dramas and no period excuses. If you can’t make it you will be expected to find someone to take your place and you will be made to buy everyone a beer at the next quiz.
2. Have some general knowledge. Geographical and historical knowledge is a huge plus. 
3. Music knowledge goes without saying. It’s called CityMusicQuiz so they are likely to focus on music. I know bugger all about music (although I now know how to spell bass guitar) so I expect my team mates to answer all these questions.
4. Failing all of the above, you need to be entertaining or good at going to the bar and getting drinks. Or both.  I was in Team Burger King purely to keep everyone entertained, but now I will be heading up a team of tarts so I need to keep everyone safe from the clutches of hipsters and any other unsavoury characters. Plus make sure none of the hipster teams are cheating.
5. Be able to drink at least one shot of tequila. You are in a team with the Tequila Tart. Enough said.

And that’s it really. If we find the sausage isn’t up to our standards and we are running out of hipsters to crucify, we can always go to the pub quiz at Oblivion  on Monday nights (Mondays are the new Fridays) where we can swig wine while swinging on the pole. Either way, it’s going to be legendary.

So who’s in?

A tribute to The Iron Lady

Baroness Margaret Thatcher died today. I didn’t know her personally and don’t really pay much attention to politics. Besides, I was only seven years old when she became the first and only female Prime Minister of England.  But she has always fascinated me. Or should I say I have always been fascinated at how many people seemed to despise her. So much so that she even got the nickname “The Iron Lady”, which is really not very becoming is it?  So when a movie about her life came out I went off to see it. 

Turns out, The Iron Lady had a huge effect on me and gave me a whole new perspective on what her life (or any woman in a position of power) must’ve been like and, being a woman, for living life myself.

My favourite quote from the movie was this…

“I will never be one of those women, who stay silent and pretty on the arm of her husband. Or remote and alone in the kitchen doing the washing up for that matter. One’s life must matter, Denis, beyond all the cooking and the cleaning and the children. One’s life must mean more than that. I cannot die washing up a teacup.”

Gasp! In “those days” women were generally thought to be better off in the kitchen making dinner, washing the dishes, taking care of the house and tending to the children while their husbands went out into the world and earned a living.  But there was going to be none of that for Ms Thatcher. And good for her, I personally couldn’t think of anything worse. I am no major feminist (and yes, I do like a man to open a door for me, it’s called manners),  but I am grateful that we have come a long way since then - and that dishwashers were invented.

I also tend to agree with her opinion that people should be encouraged to stand on their own two feet and stop whining when things go bad and do something to change it, instead of hoping someone else will.

“What I do think is a man should be encouraged to stand on his own two feet. Yes, we help people. Of course we help people, but for those who can do, they must just get up and do. And if something’s wrong, they shouldn’t just whine about it. They should get in there and do something about it. Change things.”

And here’s one that our country’s leaders could learn from…

“Gentlemen, if we don’t cut spending we will be bankrupt. Yes, the medicine is harsh, but the patient requires it in order to live. Should we withhold the medicine? No. We are not wrong. We did not seek election and win in order to manage the decline of a great nation.”

Baroness Margaret Thatcher, aka The Iron Lady, was all about principles and about working hard for what you wanted (for yourself and the good of your country) and not relying on handouts. I have the same belief system.  She also became Prime Minister in a man’s world and that wasn’t easy either.  Things have changed a lot these days, but it still essentially a man’s world, so I really admire her for that.

Despise her all you like, she had strong beliefs on how things should be done. Many of these beliefs are lacking today and, in my mind, attribute to the downward spiral that the world is going on. Yes, perhaps she was a little “hard” and made some mistakes, but from politicians to women, we desperately need more people like her in this world today.

RIP Baroness, I shall raise a cuppa to you this evening.  And I promise not to die washing the teacup.

“Look at a day when you are supremely satisfied at the end. It's not a day when you lounge around doing nothing; it's a day you've had everything to do and you've done it” - Margaret Thatcher

I’m back! Now somebody get me a tequila…

Ha! You thought I had gone all Baglett AWOL on you. No chance. I am not that grown up. Yet. And probably never will be. The truth is, I have been awfully busy doing stuff.  Here’s a rundown of the more exciting stuff (I mean who cares if I scrubbed my house from top to bottom last night).

1.    A solo roadtrip from Cape Town to Zimbabwe

A hairbrained scheme that started with taking Christmas puddings and presents to my mum in Harare. After all, Christmas is about family and I hadn’t seen her, or Zimbabwe, for a while.  I ended up driving it. On my own. Well, for the most part. I was joined for some of it by one of my favourite old boyfriends. Apart from his incessant need to use GoogleMaps wherever possible instead of a good old-fashioned map book, he made an excellent butler and co-driver. Actually, I think he was quite long-suffering with all my demands and this was made evident by his blunt refusal in Botswana to make me cucumber sandwiches for tea. Colonial much? Me? Never!  I had to make do with peanuts and popcorn, but all in all it was an awesome trip that saw me drive 7 800km and had me fall even more in love with Africa. So much so that when I returned I was greeted with a “Look! It’s Mama Africa!”.  I am really hoping that name is not due to my rather large and very “African” rear end.

2.    Hands on Harvest in Robertson

My first “assignment” of the year, that involved wine, food, brandy, a Red Roman (long story), champagne-making, white hats and more wine. All for free! Again, I love my job. There was also a very posh guesthouse on a very old wine estate where the owner flirted with me unabashedly and I did the same back. Dancing Friend (who came with me on this little jaunt through the winelands) was quite amused with all of this and asked me quietly “Would you ever consider dating someone like him?” Having been a bachelorette practically forever, I was a bit taken aback with this question, mostly because no-one has ever actually suggested I “date” someone.  My immediate answer was “No. There is just no way one can shout out the name Willie in the throes of passion without bursting out laughing.” So that was the end of that. Pity about the name though, he’s worth a fortune and the farm is quite beautiful. He's not bad looking either. Which brings me to the next subject. The eagerly-awaited….

3.    Man-list

To be honest, I am not quite sure why so many people are interested in reading what I require from any suitor. Men just aren’t that interested in me. It’s true…  I have loads of male friends, some of whom I fancy like mad, but no-one actually wants ME. You would think they would, after all I am loads of fun and not one of those clingy girls that hates it when her man goes out with the lads. But perhaps that is what it is right there. Not clingy. Not needy. Men like to be needed. Well here’s the first thing on my man-list, blokes … I don’t actually NEED you. WANT you, yes. But I digress. I do actually have a sort-of man-list taped onto my fridge. It states what I want from you (being you, man) and will form the basis of this man-list that will apparently change my life. So far not so good though. The basic one on the fridge has scared every man right out of my life. And that’s just the male friends.

4.    Preparing for my early retirement or more likely, retrenchment

When I got back to the place of my permanent employment we got all sorts of emails from our Chairman saying that we may be taken over by another company (read, lose jobs), along with no salary increases. Yikes, times are tough, but that makes it three years in a row with no salary increase for me. Which is mad. I can barely afford to put fuel in my car to get to work (like everyone else) and moreover, it’s putting strain on my tequila drinking budget. But lack of cash and fear of unemployment also makes one resourceful. I wouldn’t be much good at standing on the street (if I can’t get a normal date, how on earth would I get someone to PAY to shag me) and I have too short a temper to be a waitress, so I had to get creative. So I built my own website showcasing my photography, which launched the other day. It looks very snazzy (I think) and it’s all rather exciting. Except the phone hasn’t rung and the mailbox is empty. Ok, perhaps expecting to be able to retire within 2 days of launching your website is a bit ambitious. But here’s hoping…

All those things, along with various dinners, braai’s, gigs etc. have kept me busy for months. Not to mention that I write for a living as well. Amazing how time flies. But the good news is that I am back. I had forgotten how much fun all this warbling can be. And you know how I love to warble! I have all sorts of interesting topics to soapbox about, including:

• Why are women so smart in the workplace, but so stupid when it comes to men - this includes me.
• Why you should be recycling - and avoiding cling wrap like the plague.
• Why are people still insisting on breeding - especially as they then spend the rest of their lives complaining about their offspring.
• How to avoid hipsters and how to spot one - here's a clue, &Union.
• Why there is no such thing as a free drink - I was reminded the other day that I owe a friend drinks from when he bought me drinks three years ago.
• Seven dates in seven days – this will of course be AFTER I have published the man-list. Lads are going to be queuing at the door dying to show me how they could be the perfect man for me. Not. Ah, the challenge…

See you again soon.!

Ps. Speaking of which, what HAS happened to Baglett? I miss her. Perhaps I should just attempt to replace her? I wonder if she got free drinks and food and stuff. I shall have to find out…

Witches, maypoles and bunny rabbits

Jeesh! What a week it has been! All I can think about right now is nice cold Savanna, but if I don’t get this blog up, my chances of forcing you lot to drink tequila from bottles stashed in holsters on my hips at SynergyLive go down the drain. And we don’t want that...

In my never-ending quest to seek out different things to do, I agreed to join Rose “Chatterbox” Thorn at her Beltane Festival last Saturday.  Remembering how she waffled my ears off on a trip to Hermanus I threatened her with duct tape. Thankfully this resulted a fairly quiet journey.

All I knew about this pagan festival was that it involved fertility, a maypole and sex. Naturally I was intrigued. I may have a fertile imagination, but had never danced around a maypole and sex is fast becoming a never-done-that scenario too. And don’t mention the bicycle thing, because the last time I rode one (a bicycle people!) I almost fell off.

We arrived on a farm in Worcester in the midday heat armed with a plethora of ritualistic goodies, including a sword, two potjie pots (sorry, cauldrons) and the maypole. We also had hay bales, gasoline, flaming torches, cushions and boxes of wine. Quite frankly, if we didn’t pitch up, they wouldn’t have had a festival. We were met by a bunch of people in black and the sounds of Rammstein. I started wondering when the rest of the World Goth Day crew was going to show up. Clearly the pagans thought they were coming as well as there was one of those “we take no responsibility” notices up, including a piece about the dangers of dancing around a maypole. There was also mention of a childcare facility which I never found (perhaps they ate them – gasp!).

The rest of the day was spent setting up, drinking beer, unraveling the maypole, drinking beer, buying crystals, drinking beer, getting a henna tattoo, drinking beer, getting a pentagram pendant (got to have all my bases covered), drinking beer… you get the picture. Needless to say the maypole was a right bastard to unravel (I never realised how long the ribbons were) and there was much huffing and puffing. By the pagans – I sat in the van and watched over the proceedings.. drinking beer. That made me tired so I had a nap. By 5pm when the festivities were due to take off I was well rested and ready!

But they didn’t take off at 5pm. Because everyone was too busy drinking beer. In the end the maypole dancing only started at around 7.30pm. Turns out that the expression “dancing around the maypole” is a lie. It gets quite technical and there is no dancing. Essentially you are supposed to run around this phallic symbol with a ribbon in your hand and by going over and under the other ribbons you weave the ribboning back onto the pole.  There were too few of us to have one ribbon each so we all had to take two. The high priest (or whatever he is called) barked instructions whilst drinking wine (I hope) out of a goblet.  Most of the pagans were pissed so it became more like a game of dodgem-pagans with half of them not knowing what “over” or “under” meant and the other half were just too lazy or un-coordinated enough to do it properly. On top of all this, the ground was not the most even and we had to dodge holes and thorn bushes. How anyone made it out without twisting their ankle amazes me. But I will say this, it was fun. And damn good exercise too. Which of course warranted more beer.

The next part was The Ritual, but that was cancelled as it is not cool to do a religious ceremony when the high priest is two sheets to the wind. So I never got to see what the sword was for.  But they did have The Great Hunt which essentially is an interpretation of an old tradition where the king would have to hunt a stag and when he had completed this hunt he could then perform the Great Rite. A person gets chosen to play the stag and the king chooses three other men to help him hunt said stag. I was getting quite amped to see a man running around half naked in a loincloth with a pair of antlers on his head. But this was not to be. Instead they had a lad with bunny ears… and a bunny nose.  Watching three men chase another man with bunny ears (and bunny nose) almost did me in. But I managed to maintain a serious expression throughout – one must respect other people’s religions – and even cheered when they caught the “rabbit”. I did, however, manage to finish an entire beer in the 3 minutes it took to catch the stag, er bunny.

Then it was time for the Great Rite, which is where the sex part comes in. The chosen couple has sex in a tent and this symbolizes the coming together of the God and Goddess. I thought we’d have to walk around the tent and chant with flaming torches or suchlike, but we left them to it and sat around the bonfire watching belly dancers and flame throwers. And drank beer.

And that was it really. I was relieved that no-one stripped down to their birthday suit and that there was no orgy. This was hinted at a few times by the high priest. If this had happened you would still be able to see me running down the N1 highway.

Oh, the Beltane Festival represents spring, abundance and fertility – and we are not talking about babies here. Fertility and abundance in everything you want, like money or a successful career or an endless supply of tequila. But I promise you now, if I fall pregnant the next time I have sex I am going straight to Ms Chatterbox Thorn and suing the coven.

ps. No cats were harmed during this festival.

Disclaimer:
As I am not a pagan or Wiccan, I actually have no idea what I am talking about. So don’t get upset if I have it all wrong. It is my version of events and by no means factual. And whilst I do find some of this stuff amusing and have written it in a manner that will no doubt amuse you, I have respect for all religions. As you should too.

Hauntings and hitchings in the Karoo

So there I was, in the middle of a pub in a haunted hotel agreeing to take photos of a wedding the following day. A priest from Laisburg had been requested, parents had been phoned and friends smsed. You just never really know where your life will take you. It was 11pm and I was on my fourth brandy and coke. Oh and there was tequila. Of course. Served in champagne glasses. Because that’s how they do things in Matjiesfontein.

I was there to investigate the rumours of certain guests that have refused to leave. I am not talking about ones that get defiant when the pub closes. Rather ones that have been known to float down corridors, rattle doors, play cards, appear in windows and stare forlornly from turrets. Never has an assignment held so much intrigue and slight foreboding. There was no way I was going on my own so had to find a suitable person to accompany me – preferably a man who could keep me safe from things that go bump in the night. Monster flat-out refused saying he would “poop in his pants” and others had excuses of “no leave” or having to leave wives and girlfriends behind. But eventually I found a taker. None other than Brainy Friend. He was perfect for the job – loves ghost stories as much as I do, had never been to Matjiesfontein and he’s a manly-man sort of man.  I am still amazed he never chickened out at the last minute, but I think he’s more afraid of me than ghosts.

We arrived on the Friday with the storm in Cape Town chasing us down the N1.  With dark clouds amassing and dusk falling, the scene was set. As we pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the hotel, there it was. That staircase. With the red carpet. Straight out of The Shining. I swear I heard a small gasp from Brainy Friend, but he appeared stoic. The look of relief on both our faces made the receptionist laugh when we found out we were in Room 16 and not the infamous Room 10.  Room 10 is Lucy’s room and she is known to rattle doors and chuck things about in there. Phew!

After signing the massive and ancient guest book, we trundled our way up the stairs, keeping a beady eye out for the two soldiers that are said to lean on the balustrades. I was so busy gawking up the stairs that lead to the turrets and Katie’s Card Room (where sounds of shuffling cards have been heard) that I almost tripped over Theresa, the hotel cat. Theresa, being a good host to many a newbie at the hotel escorted us to our room and almost everywhere we went.  One hiss from that cat and I was prepared to run in the opposite direction! So I liked having her around, a sort of “ghost alert” if you will.  She must’ve picked up on this (cats are intuitive) because she decided to spend the entire night with us. Not hissing, but purring. She took a shine to Brainy Friend and chose to sleep with him.  He reveled in the feline affections, but was told the following day at breakfast that she is notorious for sleeping around. And like a true hussy, she ignored him for the rest of the day. Proving that women and cats will always do as they please.

Having got through our first night unscathed, apart from clanging pipes and creaking wooden floorboards (that hotel talks to you even if the ghosts don’t) we got taken on a private hotel tour by Johnnie, the resident entertainer. You can’t help but love Johnnie. The minute he catches your eye he shouts “It’s show time!” followed by “I love it when you talk foreign.” Just writing this is making me laugh. He took us around the various rooms of the Lord Milner, showed off his brilliant rendition of Nelson Mandela, pointed out the 100 year old piano, the 300 year old mirror and the cup that South Africa won in the very first cricket match played against the Poms in Matjiesfontein. He also showed us a photo of a ghost.

The story goes that he had the picture taken with the two little girls and the one said “Who’s the tannie?” Of course no-one else could see this “tannie”, but there she was when the photo was developed and posted to Johnnie by the family.

The hotel reckons the ghost is that of Olive Schreiner, who lived in Matjiesfontein (she wrote The Story of An African Farm here) and her house is right near the pub. It may or may not be a fake, but I tend to go with the latter. This town barely uses email let alone Photoshop.  Besides, there is no way you can get a small child to make an expression like that for no good reason. But you decide -  real or not, it’s chilling stuff!

After that it was time to go see some different ghosts. The fields near the hotel were once the campsite for British soldiers during the Boer War (the hotel was originally a hospital).  The soldiers, horses and tents may be gone, but there are still remains in the form of holey tin cans and rusting pieces of metal. We picked our way through the debris, startling a few hares and making sure we didn’t stand on baby tortoises (we saw three!) while searching for treasure. We felt like Pirates of the Karoo and we had so much fun that we were out there for hours. Brainy Friend became my new hero when he found the one thing that I wanted – a button! Oh the glee! Turns out that it is the real thing (Brainy Friend is the sort that researches these things) and possibly belonged to a General or Commander. We sat on the kopjie, which was probably the look out point, and took in the view. I closed my eyes and imagined how things must’ve been for young soldiers in their late teens and early twenties being plucked from England and sent to the middle of the blistering hot (and sometimes freezing) desert. I swear I heard the ghosts of tents flapping in the Karoo wind.

The afternoon was spent scoffing bangers n’ mash in the pub, taking a brief nap and visiting the township tavern to catch the rugby.  We also took a tour of the town (the shortest tour in South Africa) on the red bus, called Futtom Fluffy. It took ten minutes and we turned left or right because we couldn’t turn right or left. When the tour was over, Johnnie brightly informed us that the tour may be over, but the pub was still open. I was beginning to fall in love with this town. Not only did it have history, quaint buildings, ghosts and antique gas pumps, it had character and was filled with characters. It also served divine meals in a dining room where you had to dress for dinner, breakfasts with as much bacon as you could fit on your plate and the pub was always open. A desert oasis indeed!

But we still hadn’t seen any ghosts.  We checked our photos as soon as we took them, glanced furtively up the stairs and scanned the windows regularly. But nothing. Not even the sound of shuffling cards. I was secretly disappointed. Until I went to the loo upstairs in the pub that evening.

Above the Lairds Arms is a billiard room with a beautiful billiard table that I spent some time admiring – it had a thick wood cover that you had to slide out to open the table. I don’t think I had ever seen one like it until that day. After this minor distraction, I located the bathroom and switched on the light. As I stepped into the bathroom, “click”, off went the light. I went back and switched it on again. But no, the minute I stepped away from the switch it went off. I put it down to faulty electrics the first few times, but eventually I lost my temper. I said in my big girl brave voice “Now stop it! I need the loo and I don’t want to go in the dark!”  The light stayed on. And I sat on the loo praying it didn’t go off mid-wee. Which it didn’t, thankfully.

Now herein lies the interesting part. I scuttled downstairs hastily and asked Abie, the barman, about faulty lights. He just laughed and said “There’s no faulty light switches. Someone’s being playing tricks on you. Perhaps it was Olive. She likes it up there.” I immediately turned to Brainy Friend who had been threatening to scare the bejesus out of me the whole weekend, but he denied all. Besides, there would’ve been nowhere up there for him to hide.  I brushed it off, went outside and started chatting to the Groom To Be about the wedding. The conversation shifted to the hotel’s ghost stories and he told me that he had seen quite a few shadows in the hotel and something strange on the stairs in the pub. I went on to tell him about the ghost photo, which he hadn’t seen. I showed him the photo I had taken of the photo on my camera. He went quiet for a second, looked at me and said with a deadpan expression, “That’s who was on the stairs”.  I never went upstairs again and Brainy Friend took the long way round to the loo for the rest of our stay.

When I went up to our room after staying for an extra round in the pub (my nerves needed it), Brainy Friend was still wide awake reading a book. “There was no way I was switching off the light until you got here.” Strangely enough our feline “ghost alert” had disappeared as well.

The following days were spent eating enough food to feed a British army, taking walks through graveyards and singing along with Johnnie on the piano in the pub. And photographing a wedding of course. As you do. We also changed rooms to try out one with a balcony and sat on said balcony into the wee hours chatting, while Brainy Friend sipped on a whiskey and I quaffed a Savanna and scoffed melba toast  (with mountains of butter) that I kept from dinner. It was bliss and I was definitely getting into the simple routine of life in this Victorian-era town. So much so that I didn’t want to leave and stalled things on the day we had to return to Cape Town by insisting on a walk through the gardens. Poor Brainy Friend by this stage just kept on saying “Yes, dear” to everything as I was probably being bossy the whole weekend. Well, I like to call it “making suggestions of cool stuff to do”, others may call it bossy. Either way, it was definitely the yes-dear’s that made us seem like an old couple and people kept asking if we were together. They suggested we too get married in the chapel. It was the first time I saw him look genuinely terrified.

I have to say the weekend in Matjiesfontein was probably one of my best weekends so far this year. I loved it so much that I am planning to get a group together for a weekend there. Quaint town, grand old hotel, fabulous meals, a charming pub, lovely people and a beautiful swimming pool make for a good summer weekend away. Is the hotel haunted? Maybe, maybe not. But I think there is something there, faulty light switches and could-be-fake photographs aside. Definitely enough to make you look up at the windows constantly and not want to go to your room alone.

But I never really felt afraid and neither one of us had sleepless nights. In fact I am more worried that the General who’s button I have is going to come and reclaim it and Brainy Friend is probably having sleepless nights that I am going to drag him down the aisle in the Travellers' Chapel.  Scary stuff indeed!

The Tart does The Daisies (again)...

 

So this time last week, instead of gasping for a Savanna, I was actually drinking a gigantic one (love the new 500ml bottles) whilst attempting to pack for Rocking The Daisies (or RtD as it is affectionately known by hipsters and those of us too lazy to type out the whole thing). Needless to say there was more drinking than packing, so despite having the WHOLE day to get organised, I was late. Whilst Madcap Menno and Barmy Bernie are laid back folk, this had repercussions later…

RtD was epic. Really. It was. I know you are all sick to death of hearing about it, but I don’t care. You are only sick of hearing about it because you weren’t there.  Those of us who went have no problem talking about it still. And we will probably carry on raving about it until Synergy Live in November. Which also promises to be a legendary weekend. Awesome local bands already lined up and if the rumours of The Prodigy are true, all hell is going to break loose. I already have my ticket and I suggest you get yours too. So we can all rave about it and there’s no whining.

Where was I? Yes, last Friday. We arrived to a massive queue of cars on the only road leading into the festival grounds. They need to change that soon – 15 000 people trying to get in and then trying to leave on one dirt road is just silly. In fact they should install robots as well. Then we can all play “shots on green”, “run around car on red” and “hoot at orange”. Now that would be fun!  Anyhoo, I digress as usual …

To cut a long story short, we eventually parked and trekked all our stuff to the campsite. By “our” stuff I mean “my” stuff. I am not much good at festival packing so had a trillion bags and all my bedding in separate pieces. BB pointed out that all my bedding could go into my sleeping bag so I ended up looking like a dwarf version of Father Christmas with a sack full of duvets that was twice my height. We niftily found a spot right near the entrance and hastily set about getting our tents up. Then to fetch the remaining bits of my stuff , which resulted in us being late for one of BB’s favourite bands, The Sleepers. Not only had I arrived late causing us a delay in leaving Cape Town, I had caused even more of delay by having too much katoondu that required two trips to the car. Not cool! I have promised to buy a big bag and whatever doesn’t fit, doesn’t go. Thankfully they gave me their tent bag so at least I will have a tent at the next festival.

It was a quick gather of bags and money and then we were off to the main stage. The Sleepers were shocking as usual. Monster is not going to talk to me for a week, but really, this is the second time I have seen them at a festival and I still fail to be impressed.  I don’t know anything about music (“Clearly!” I can hear him muttering) but that lead singer acted like a complete twit. Be drunk, it’s a very rockstar thing to do, but don’t stand there flicking your hair and flapping your wrist. He looked like a gay head-banger in slow motion. I am obviously missing something. Like tequila. Which incidentally run out. Yes folks, no tequila anywhere (Bubblegum Tequila doesn’t count).  This was a more shocking situation than The Sleepers. I was assured by a pimply young lad that they would be getting “supplies” out of the truck that evening. Well I am not sure if he was talking about the tequila supplies or other supplies, but there was no tequila to be found, whilst the MDMA tent (“the one with flowers”) had no problem with supplies – apparently. Not that this is a bad thing, just saying that running out of tequila on a Friday night at a festival is just not cool. So we drank Jagermeister instead - I found 10 empty Jagermeister-emblazoned shot glasses in my tent on Sunday when packing up to leave.

Friday night was fairly uneventful. And cold. Freezing in fact. I spent most of the night on a couch under a blanket in the BAT tent watching the bands from a lofty perch. I had a first-class view and wasn’t going to leave my spot for anything. Not even Grandmaster Whoever that got my crew running off to the Red Bull Electro Tent faster than you can say “turntable”. Turns out Mr Itchy and Scratchy (as I liked to call him) sounded like Tin Roof on a Friday night. Check how hip and happening Clarement is eh?! I in the meanwhile perved over the lead singer from The Kongos and kept warm. Things changed when Beast came on though. Wow! The “chucky” side of Inge came out to play and she rocked the crap out of that stage. So much so that I was forced to remove the blanket and my arse off the couch and get involved. By far the best band of the day (if not the entire festival) and have made a note to go to more of their gigs. Ahem, they are playing at Synergy Live… that makes it worth going all on its own.

Saturday morning started with papsak vodka and orange – breakfast of festival champions.  And the discovery that MM had got so hammered that he pee’d in the tent – on their clothes and his shoes. Best part – him wondering why his shoes were wet and being reminded why! The whole day was spent by the main stage watching the likes of Arno Carstens, Rudimentals, The Mystics and various others that I can't remember. While drinking papsak vodka and orange, Savanna, Red Bull and Jagermeister. And scoffing a giant hotdog with butternut and bacon called “The Big Oink” (I realized on Sunday that it was the only thing I ate all day). That and few other things along the way would explain how things got more interesting when nightfall arrived.

Suffice to say that I thought a yellow clown afro (won at the Savanna tent) and white sunglasses made perfect festival attire and I spent the night barely being able to see a thing, but happy in the knowledge that everyone could see me. I was determined to see Bloc Party though and managed the incredible feat of getting right to the front from the back. Stumbling your way through 12 000 odd people (the other 3 000 may or may not have been there) and losing a piece of your front tooth to see a band you hardly know makes for a good story to tell your grandchildren. I may even tell those grandchildren that I ended up in the Electro Tent and stayed there, dancing in the mud, until 6am when we were kicked out.  And then proceeded to dance in the empty field opposite the food stalls with about 5 other “like-minded” people, before skipping  (literally) off to my tent. Thankfully the chance of me having any grandchildren is practically nil.

We went home on Sunday. BB and MM left their tent behind (thus my scoring the tent bag) as MM had ripped it open when he failed to manage unzipping it. I had a cloud obsession and had had no sleep. I also terrorized the girls in the Daisy Den and fell into the shower. It was definitely time to go.

It took me two days to recover. My “Lenny Kravitz” leggings will need to be washed three times to get the mud out of them. The chipped tooth cost me R250 to repair.  Party Partner is still not speaking to me for apparently "spiking his drink" and causing him to have a most unpleasant Sunday and Monday and Tuesday (in fact he took the week off). And there are photos of me with people I don’t even know. 

The best part … only seven weeks until Synergy Live. That was only the warm-up and this time there WILL be tequila. See YOU there!

Overheard at RtD:

“I promise not to puke or wee. I just want to sleep in there.”

“What’s her number?”
“I can’t remember.”

“She’s your girlfriend dude!”

“It’s 082…. Oh let’s just go get a beer.”

“You don’t understand. I just want to be friends.”
“OK, I can do that.”

“Great!”
“Is that friends with benefits?”
“No.”

“Good morning!”

“Good morning.”

“How are you?”

“Fucked.”

“Why are my takkies wet?`”

“Because you pee’d on them.”

“Oh good, Comparel. Just what I need. Now I need a vodka to wash them down.”

“I was planning a copper bombing. But realized it was useless as I wouldn’t be able to see the fear in their tiny little eyes.” - how liquid shrooms turn you into a festival terrorist.