Hot in the City

23 12 08

Life has largely been good since last Thursday, 15:45, when my company shut down for two weeks. My holiday commenced with a dinner party at Chocolate Dachshund’s abode, which was memorable and hilarious…not that the two are mutually exclusive. Half an hour before said party was to commence, I received a text message from the hund alerting her guests that the power in her neighbourhood had failed, and that the two chickens she’d purchased that morning with the intention of roasting for our gastronomic pleasure, were off.  “Oh my god!” read the SMS. “The chickens have gone off because the fridge has been off! Oh the SMELL! Good god!”

In a Kramer-esque moment, I demanded that she retrieve the foul fowls from the dustbin and return them to the shop, as I found it impossible to believe that chickens could go bad in just nine hours while being kept in a still cool (although not frigid) fridge. Ah well, even if it IS possible, it still would’ve been fun to imagine an irate Dachshund pitching up at the shop with the mouldy chickens and demanding compensation.

So off she went to purchase take away chicken (which were damn tasty, by the way) and at a respectable hour I made my way to her abode, as I have done many times before. This trip was different, however. Firstly, when I turned right at the church I was convinced was the church at which I usually turn right, I ended up somewhere entirely different from where I thought I was going. (Did you enjoy that sentence? I think it has a certain charm.)

I passed no less than four other churches. Ironically, I felt entirely unblessed as I wondered how the hell I managed to get lost going to my friend’s house for, like, the 20th time. Secondly, of no help to me was the electricity-less neighbourhoods I was traversing with no particular skill… neighbourhouds which I now spit upon!

After arriving a full half an hour late, the festivities got underway…if by ‘underway’ I mean ‘some had been drinking for some time prior to my arrival and were pleasantly toasted’. Somehow eating by candlelight brought out the best in everyone, and it was genuinely one of the funniest evenings of my life.

Since then I have watched Seinfeld seasons 1 and 2, and all but the finale of Dexter season 3…I need to know how it ends!!!!!!! Don’t tell me though. I’ve also attempted to become an amphibian as I suspect living in cool water is the only civilised way to exist in Johannesburg at the moment. I spent four hours sweating my way through a shopping centre today with Chicsa Fashionista, as she desperately tried to get me to buy something suitable for my friend C’s wedding in Cape Town on Sunday. Hell is clothes shopping. Pass the chocolate.

Alrighty folks. In case this is it till 2009, hope the festive season treats you festively and be safe.


Happy Birthday Adolf Hitler

18 12 08


Poor little Adolf Hitler Campbell is unlikely to ever experience the joy of a bespoke cake personally wishing him a happy birthday. If you read this story, you will see that little Adolf Hitler has a problem; a problem that began when his cretinous parents met and decided to breed. And unless he changes his name to, say, Bob or even Robert Mugabe – someone I’m sure his parents have not heard of unless they beat an effigy of him at their parties – Adolf Hitler Campbell’s lot in life will probably not improve all that much.

I thus made him a cake.

This cake.


I ran out of icing when I wanted to explain that his sister, JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell, may well turn out to be an ally when it comes to discussing ways to rid the planet of his single digit IQ parents. Or she may turn out to be just like them.

On Douchbags

15 12 08

In the fine tradition of not really knowing what a term means but using it anyway, much of the world has taken quite strongly to the insult “douchebag.” This little insult has not caught on in SA to the same degree as it has with our northern counterparts, however.  I suspect those who use the term are as unaware of its meaning as Apricot Afghan’s parents are/were when they embraced “cocksucker” so completely while on holiday a few weeks ago.

Douche can be defined as: irrigation with a jet of water or medicated solution into or around a body part (especially the vagina) to treat infections or cleanse from odorous contents.

A douche bag  is a bag for holding the water or fluid used in douching. The Wikipedia entry helpfully suggests not using the same bag for a vaginal douche and for an enema, lest intestinal bacteria be transferred to the vagina.

So it seems that calling someone a ‘douchbag’ is akin to calling them a receptacle of liquid designed to clean out a bodily orifice.

I could think of worse things to be called, quite frankly.

Like Frank.

Because that’s not my name.

Anyway, the Guardian published a list entitled: “2008 in lists: 12 biggest douchebags of the year” this weekend. Assuming that this term is the very worst we can ascribe to someone is an indictment on peoples’ sense of what constitutes a REALLY BAD WORD. But anyway, let’s stick with it for a while as I suggest my list of the 5 biggest douchebags of this year, in no particular order:

1) Most of my colleagues. They are insignificant enough to receive one collective vote, so they remain a collective douchbag in my mind.

2) Men who jog without their t-shirts on. Case in point: the codger who passed Apricot Afghan, Chicsa Fashionista and me while walking on Saturday morning. My dislike of him has nothing to do with the fact that he was more than twice my age and was able to jog for longer and quicker than I could. Absolutely nothing to do with that.

3) The people who land up on my blog by searching “Porn + granny.”

4) Julius Malema, president of the ANC Youth League. I can’t begin to imagine what kind of value this man could bring to South African politics.

5) Robert Mugabe. For depriving pens of ink when trying to write a cheque for something purchased in Zimbabwe.

End of Year Lunch

12 12 08

Today is my office’s end-of-year lunch, again.

This year, I hope the following does not happen again:

1) One of the invited guests lapses into petulant silence when I stop speaking to her for a few moments in order to eat.

2) One of the invited guests demands to know why I’m still single, and decides to take things into her own hands by calling up a man she knows and demanding that I speak to him on the phone, then and there.

3) My one colleague gets so drunk that she starts doing hand-less shots with the bosses.

4) My colleague’s wife demands that I acknowledge that her husband is the best looking man in the world.


Wish me luck.


11 12 08


While driving to a meeting today, I came across this sign. A sign that signalled that where I would be driving was perhaps not the safest place, despite the name of the area sounding like a chocolate bar.

Where in the world do you think I was?

And what do you think the exact danger was?


10 12 08

I am sure we all know people who like to pretend that they are far more outrageous and wild than they really are. People who deliberately, perhaps, hold their hands over lit candles for a touch too long… woooo, hectic bru! People who gleefully tell you that they stayed out till 4am drinking and dancing the night before, while you read your book and fell asleep on the couch during Oprah. You know the type.

Then you get another type of outrageous individual who probably is utterly mad and is someone with whom you don’t really want to be seen in public (or private). Someone like, say, the individual I watched perform at my friend C’s bachelorette party in London about a month ago.

We went to a burlesque club called Volupte for the occasion. The woman of whom I write was the final performer on a night themed “The Nightmare Before Christmas”…Tim Burton-style, naturally. I suppose she was the final act of the night because she was the most…outrageous? Provocative? Insane?

In she  pranced, covered in bizarre make up and fake blood, and she proceded to place a small number of whacky items on a table just next to the area in which she would perform. These included:

          A large rubber chicken;

          A blunt knife;

          A needle-like object;

          Poi (the type that is lit and swung around)

          A small skull

          A cup filled with some liquid

          Something that resembled a belt a boxing champion would win; and

          A grinding tool of description.

She began her act with the needle, which she shoved through her (obviously) pre-pierced tongue, and jumped around the room wiggling it at her audience. After this, she removed the needle, took a large gulp of the red liquid in the cup, shoved the needle through her tongue once again, and flapped her ‘bloodied’ tongue at us, once again.


Next she lit the poi and placed each one in her mouth a couple of times and removed them still lit, before finally extinguishing each one in her mouth.

Again, utterly exciting.

Her third act involved picking up the skull, smooching it passionately while canvassing the room, and then replacing it on the table. This was my second favourite of her acts.

Next she put on the boxing champ belt, a pair of sunglasses, plugged in the grinding tool, and proceeded to grind the belt while she wore it. Very pretty sparks but not much else in the way of entertainment there.

Her final act – that which made it all worthwhile for me – involved the rubber chicken. Clearly worn out from her astounding feats, the woman obviously decided it was time to kill livestock (or is a rubber animal ‘deadstock’?)

She held the rubber chicken to her chest, pulled out the blunt knife and plunged it into the chicken, causing a shower of red liquid to erupt from the rubber beastie.


At this point, she probably realised that she had to work a little ‘burlesque’ magic into her performance so she pulled down her top, flashed her nipple-covered booblets, and flounced away.

The end.

What a performance. I am afraid to say I laughed like a drain the entire way through, which I suspect was not the desired response. But really. Was their any other suitable reaction?

Age-appropriate Inappropriateness

09 12 08

It just goes to show that if you live to the age of 105 years, and no-one else is alive to prove whether or not you did reprehensible things like visit Nazis at death camps, you can get away with saying most anything.

The ”world’s oldest entertainer” Dutch-born tenor, Johannes Heesters, performed on stage in celebration of his 105th birthday last week, according to SAPA:

“Heesters, whose celebrity career began in 1934 Vienna, is reviled in his homeland, the Netherlands, for collaborating with the Nazis. He acted dandy roles in German feel-good movies during the Second World War. He even flattered the SS guards at Dachau Concentration Camp with a 1941 visit. “But I never sang to them,” Heesters insists, adding that his Munich theatre company at the time was invited as a group.”

A Berlin judge is set to give a verdict shortly in a libel suit which Heesters brought against an author, who claims Heesters performed at Dachau. The bemused judge said it was now impossible to prove if he did or he didn’t, and wondered if it was important.”

Heesters’ 59-year old spring chicken of a wife, Simone, did her best to prevent the old buzzard from ruining his reputation further during an interview on a satirical Dutch tv show last week. When asked whether he thought Adolf Hitler was a ‘nice guy’ (a particularly inane question, one could argue) Heesters is reported to have said something which translated to, “Adolf Hitler, gee, I hardly know the man, but a guy, you know, he was one, a decent guy.”  (perhaps something got lost in translation?)

His ever-present wife then interrupted, cautioning him that he seemed to be saying that Hitler was a nice guy. “Well he wasn’t one, but to me he seemed nice,” Heesters said stubbornly, then joked, “I can’t say anything now or she’ll get mad at me.” His wife later issued a statement saying he had been inept and was sorry.

He had been inept. HA HA HAHAHAHA!

Simone sounds like fun – perhaps Heesters can work her into his act playing his granddaughter ?