Wednesday I was making my marks as a many a proud, patriotic, young South African was. Still have the (not-so) fashionable purple thumb stain. Also had to take the Majer the airport, almost had an accident with a tonsil that doesn't know how to yield! Thank goodness I have quick reflexes.
Friday was a completely exciting day. Hairdresser -Tick. Payday - Tick. Pay all bills etc - Not so exciting, but Tick. Road trip to Dirtbin with my bestie Bokkie to see her Dirtbin boy. Tick.
So we hit the road at about 13h30 armed with enough padkos feed an army of Ethiopians. Tinkies, peanut butter M & M's, biltong, nuts, Toffets (those lekker choccie coated toffee bits that you only used to be able to get at Woolies), Chipnicks & enough Red Bull to ensure one person's body and mind would be vitalised beyond recognition.
The trip down was littered with our usual antics. Cars filled with men on their way to what looked like a 'Boy Weekend' randomly taking pictures of us with their long range lens, many an outburst of some great sing-a-long songs. God console any dear soul that may have had the misfortune to overhear our resonating out of tune sounds. It's so much fun road tripping with Bokkie - no matter how hectic life has been or how much we've seen each other prior we always find tons of kak to talk about and tons of cheesy, pathetic things to do.
We got a HORRENDOUS 'Welcome to Dirtbin' present just as we were travelling past Edwin Swales. Traffic suddenly came to a standstill in a matter of seconds and Netcare 911 response vehicles, wambulances and Metro cop cars were racing past us. As we drew nearer to the scene Kat looked to her right, as she was driving, and screamed: "Oh my Fack, I just saw something's intestines."
Immediately our minds race back to about 30 minutes prior where Kat and I conversed about hitting livestock while driving and how there can't be anything worse. Kat reveals that it's probably her deepest fear to hit a cow or a goat. Flip, I'd freak the fack out if I hit a chicken for Pete's sake!
Turns out it can get worse than hitting an animal. Like a pedestrian can run over a three lane highway in peak traffic and get hit and have himself decapitated and his limbs torn from his body. Yes. There lay this dude's torso. Just his torso. Blood bloody everywhere.
The phone rings, its Kat's mommy. Immediately I pick up the phone to talk to mine. My eyes welled with tears, the two of us in a state. My Majer assures me that things like this happen. I mean he was not even 500m from a bridge. Suddenly we're discussing other people we know who have hit pedestrians running across the highway. Scary stuff. Touch wood.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. After that we need a tequila. Make that ten. We arrive at our destination, albeit in a sorry state, safely. We head to Dirtbin Boy's pad, get introduced to Dirtbin Boy's young friend 'Champ', get the tequila going and have a bite to eat. It's decided we'll hit the new place to be in this town - Clapham Grand. It happens to be part of the same kingpin, millionaire owned group that Manhattan does. How convenient?
I scrounge around in the bag I've brought and come to the realisation that I'm a kak bag packer. I never pack exactly what I want to wear, bring way to much that I'll never with me and forget the simple stuff I even made a list to pack. Balls.
I titivate and procrastinate, Kat even offering some assistance in the form of one of her tops, until I decide on an okay outfit. That'll do Pig. That'll do.
And we're off. Well not before DB's revolting specimen of a roomie deposits his putrid manner, foul mouth and bad grasp of the English Language on us. Even helps himself to the pizza. Siff.
So we arrive and pay our R40 entrance. Gosh, I wish entrance to clubs in Jozi only cost R40 South African Commercial rand. DB and Champ are very doting and our hands are never sans drink. I get my groove on. Of course I do. It's me we're talking about here. We get up on the little podium-type thing and dance our buttocks off.
Suddenly Sreesanth, an Indian Cricketer who had played for the Kings XI Punjab earlier on in the evening, is up on the podium. Gooi-ing. Seriously Gooi-ing. Nogal in his plaid shirt. Turns out when you Google the oke and take a look at Wikipedia he "was a breakdancer, and in eighth grade became national champion." Are you effing kidding me? ha ha ha ha ha ha
Then I'm spotting peeps like Kevin Pietersen, Jacques Kallis and the-like. Pity old Freddy Flintoff wasn't there - he's a rad guy and fun to chat to. I know. Would have been fun to see old Paul 'Yum yum donuts' Collingwood and even Ian 'Bellboy' for that matter.
Still we have a fantastic time dancing, singing. Go back to the car for a little 'Kaaaaa baaaaa' and Champ attempts to hit the nails that he tried to fix his square-toed shoes with, back in cos he's literally getting nailled. ha.
We retire earlier than we're accustomed t,o but the place honestly started to fade out. The Dirtbin chicks are positvely rude and full of ish too. They bolt past you, taking half of your clothing with them as they storm past, with not even a mumble of apology. Be-aches.
Then we're on the drive back to Toti. Of course I'm playing DJ. I slide a disc into the slot and next thing you know the four of us are belting out 'Hakuna Matata' and 'I just can't wait to be king'. Lion King Soundtrack of course.
We don't get to sleep for a while longer, chatting and talking randomly about some nonsense. I'm stuck on the bean bag. Feels like I'm sleeping in a toilet cubicle. So since everyone else is passed out in the lounge I decide to take a dos on Dirtbin Boy's bed. Good plan. Tick.
We all wake up suprisingly early and head off for a Wimpy Brekkie. Delish. It's a beautiful day and I need some sun on this bod. Then I see DB and Champ expose their bodies and somehow I don't feel so bad. I mean they live at the sea. They can go to the beach everyday if they want to and they still look like they've seen Daisy de Melker. I look like I've spent a week in Mozam compared to them. It's disappointing on their part. WTF Boys? Best be stoked that their personalities and phenomenal gentlemanly behaviour more than make up for the lack of sun-bronzed skin.
Part the second to follow tomorrow. Sheez, didnt realise I had so much to yap on about and honestly I'm tired of thinking this much. My head hurts. Lucky for you.
I'm off to see the new Hannah Montana flick with my beautiful eldest niece, Miss Tanur Michaela aka Tanur Banana Alabama Slamma. So stoked to eat Jelly Tots, popcorn and drink a cherry Slush. Yum. And after that I'm going to try and rally some female troups that might be keen for Swaziland this weekend for Biltong Bro Part III's 30th bday. Hmmm.
Au reviore.
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