I dropped back into jozi and all is pretty cool. My lungs have adapted to the altitude and my blood has cooled down. my toast pops up after 3 minutes, gently toasted to a fine crispy crisp. The peanut butter melts just like I like it-from the centre outwards
to the four corners of the crust. I munch my corn flakes just before they get soggy and the coffee takes 2 and a half sugars to leave its drinker sweet. I walk to the tv room and all is fine. I continue thinking of the next opportunity to do some scratching, I feel that no time can be wasted. Yip, it's true, the Big Cheese holds the griller, the George Forman griller, and when He wants us grilled, He 'flicks' the 'on' switch. So I need to take every opportunity that falls me merry way.
A round of golf cancelled, the key to my office so fat it couldn't fit into the key hole and hillary rodham clinton's autobiography. This was the b
orsht of Sunday morning the 16th and it was only 8.30 am.
The 14th hundred hour had rung its chime and Berger was waiting at the haloed gates of the home of Transvaal cricket, the Wanderers cricket stadium-a fortress of invincibility. A form of cricket has engrossed the masses in these parts and I'm not convinced, it's gross. It's called pro 20/20. 'You call that cricket?', I enquire. Pro 20/20, is a feckin abomination of the old age imperial game of sticks, bats and balls. It's an absolute corrupt form
of a gentlemanly game. Vissie calls it 'soek and moer.'-another name for garden cricket.But I loved garden cricket-grass burns, broken windows, grazed knees, WWF aggression, red juice drinks breaks, neighbourly meetings and ball searching sorties. But even this form of the game didn't have a time restriction. One had to grind out an innings, or bowl a consistent line and length taking into consideration the mole hill just off leg stump. Only at the fall of the sun when ball sight was restricted or your mom called you in for toasted cheese snack-wedges would the game be called off. These were real concerns.
Pro20 20 you have nothing my friend.Aside from the 'cricket', the day was a ripper, for as berger explained it, 'it's the only time jo'burgers get out in public and consume loads of booze'. It's our sandy beach and we love it. The game ended and I walked home numb. Instead of killing bob woolmer, maybe they should have beaten the guy who invented 20/20.
Back in jozi, I tend not to breach the ten kilometer radius that surrounds my house, la
rgely cos I find all that I need is within the 'golden circle'-fresh milk, oven baked bread, my place of work, the tv remote and my mom's spaghetti bolognaise.
Anyhoo Saturday rolled in like Hymie and Abe's Sunday morning game of bowls- slow, dry and not much room for action replays. But then I spoke to Tal about Saturday night. tal had exhausted me while eating a dry mint icing cup cake, about the fact or non fact that there is loads of sheeite to be done in jozi. one just needs to be the carrot top from CSI New York to find it.He'd been gnawing on my left calf, chewing it to the bone demanding that I head off on one of his rendezvous' and so, short of my calf catching gangrene, I obliged.
The venue was the Red Room. it's red 'cos the lighting is red(I noticed the energy saver light bulbs, niice), the 80's Carpeted wall is plush red, the ceiling is, well, red, and I wore a red Tee. and it's a whopping 30km out of my 'safe zone'. Thank goodness I didn't need a schengen visa for this excursion, I just needed a tank full of cream soda-unleaded Iraqi jet fuel. My Toyota tazz was going to take me to the far ends and beyond.
The red room probably once featured as the dining hall/ bar of the road side s*x motel in which it sat with its cheesy terracotta tiles, strip timber ceilings and wooden bar tops. It's tacky and stuck together with chewing gum, but that's rock n roll, and I love it.It's a rock, indie venue stuffed like a meaty blintze with tagged teens, leather pipes and greasy metal junkies. The music ranged from the 'scream-your-lungs-out-of-their-ribbed-cavity, to the slow melancholy of radiohead, to the bash-your-melon squeals of pearl jam. I sat alone propping up the bar, sucking on one of the last locally brewed Amstels ever, awaiting Tal, the craziest yid I know and his side kick, robin's, (no not batmans' robin) imminent arrival. The Prodigy mix was spinning and so we wiped the parquet floor to a polished amber glow with our slides, jumps and moonwalks. It was a sickly tiring experience. I quite enjoyed the journey to the unknown and hope to do it again.
Well my friends far and oh so wide, ill leave you with a cracking quote i saw on the side of the road on a johnnie walker advert.'i'm a slow walker, but i never walk backwards.' abe lincolnfrom the scratchings of a content laddan, middle name GER
to the four corners of the crust. I munch my corn flakes just before they get soggy and the coffee takes 2 and a half sugars to leave its drinker sweet. I walk to the tv room and all is fine. I continue thinking of the next opportunity to do some scratching, I feel that no time can be wasted. Yip, it's true, the Big Cheese holds the griller, the George Forman griller, and when He wants us grilled, He 'flicks' the 'on' switch. So I need to take every opportunity that falls me merry way.A round of golf cancelled, the key to my office so fat it couldn't fit into the key hole and hillary rodham clinton's autobiography. This was the b
orsht of Sunday morning the 16th and it was only 8.30 am.The 14th hundred hour had rung its chime and Berger was waiting at the haloed gates of the home of Transvaal cricket, the Wanderers cricket stadium-a fortress of invincibility. A form of cricket has engrossed the masses in these parts and I'm not convinced, it's gross. It's called pro 20/20. 'You call that cricket?', I enquire. Pro 20/20, is a feckin abomination of the old age imperial game of sticks, bats and balls. It's an absolute corrupt form
of a gentlemanly game. Vissie calls it 'soek and moer.'-another name for garden cricket.But I loved garden cricket-grass burns, broken windows, grazed knees, WWF aggression, red juice drinks breaks, neighbourly meetings and ball searching sorties. But even this form of the game didn't have a time restriction. One had to grind out an innings, or bowl a consistent line and length taking into consideration the mole hill just off leg stump. Only at the fall of the sun when ball sight was restricted or your mom called you in for toasted cheese snack-wedges would the game be called off. These were real concerns.
Pro20 20 you have nothing my friend.Aside from the 'cricket', the day was a ripper, for as berger explained it, 'it's the only time jo'burgers get out in public and consume loads of booze'. It's our sandy beach and we love it. The game ended and I walked home numb. Instead of killing bob woolmer, maybe they should have beaten the guy who invented 20/20.Back in jozi, I tend not to breach the ten kilometer radius that surrounds my house, la
rgely cos I find all that I need is within the 'golden circle'-fresh milk, oven baked bread, my place of work, the tv remote and my mom's spaghetti bolognaise.Anyhoo Saturday rolled in like Hymie and Abe's Sunday morning game of bowls- slow, dry and not much room for action replays. But then I spoke to Tal about Saturday night. tal had exhausted me while eating a dry mint icing cup cake, about the fact or non fact that there is loads of sheeite to be done in jozi. one just needs to be the carrot top from CSI New York to find it.He'd been gnawing on my left calf, chewing it to the bone demanding that I head off on one of his rendezvous' and so, short of my calf catching gangrene, I obliged.
The venue was the Red Room. it's red 'cos the lighting is red(I noticed the energy saver light bulbs, niice), the 80's Carpeted wall is plush red, the ceiling is, well, red, and I wore a red Tee. and it's a whopping 30km out of my 'safe zone'. Thank goodness I didn't need a schengen visa for this excursion, I just needed a tank full of cream soda-unleaded Iraqi jet fuel. My Toyota tazz was going to take me to the far ends and beyond.
The red room probably once featured as the dining hall/ bar of the road side s*x motel in which it sat with its cheesy terracotta tiles, strip timber ceilings and wooden bar tops. It's tacky and stuck together with chewing gum, but that's rock n roll, and I love it.It's a rock, indie venue stuffed like a meaty blintze with tagged teens, leather pipes and greasy metal junkies. The music ranged from the 'scream-your-lungs-out-of-their-ribbed-cavity, to the slow melancholy of radiohead, to the bash-your-melon squeals of pearl jam. I sat alone propping up the bar, sucking on one of the last locally brewed Amstels ever, awaiting Tal, the craziest yid I know and his side kick, robin's, (no not batmans' robin) imminent arrival. The Prodigy mix was spinning and so we wiped the parquet floor to a polished amber glow with our slides, jumps and moonwalks. It was a sickly tiring experience. I quite enjoyed the journey to the unknown and hope to do it again.
Well my friends far and oh so wide, ill leave you with a cracking quote i saw on the side of the road on a johnnie walker advert.'i'm a slow walker, but i never walk backwards.' abe lincolnfrom the scratchings of a content laddan, middle name GER
No comments:
Post a Comment