The TALE of a SALE

SALE. It’s a word no woman’s body can resist once her eyes have seen it.  It sends electrical pulses from your eyes…to your brain…directly down to your feet.

And while you are still under the impression that you’re on a mission to buy your little sister a much budgeted-for birthday gift…you find your feet suddenly directing your body toward that little cardi that, at 50% less (!!!) is still ridiculously over-priced yet you can’t possibly refuse it!

Refusing a SALE item is like a slap in the face of Good Karma. Like having your boobs reduced or breaking the heart of a really good guy. You never know how Karma is going to get back at you, and I always fear the worst.

THAT is exactly how I justify buying an item that is 2 sizes too small. “But it was the right colour, and it was on my birthday, and it was less 57%…how could I NOT buy it?!”  My friends all nod their heads solemnly.  It is a well known Girl Fact, and no one can deny it.

So when once a year, I get a text message from YDE declaring their upcoming R75 SALE, I make sure that no matter what previous plans I might have made-a trip to the Maldives, a 6 month advance booking at the dentist, my parent’s anniversary…nothing can keep me away. I’m just not willing to hurt Karma’s feelings that way.

As Karma would have it, the last R75 SALE I went to, fell on a Sunday at 8am. That’s right…on the Sabbath. Karma can be so demanding sometimes.

Anyway, being the seasoned bargain shopper that I am, I arrived an hour early. Only to find about 50 people ahead of me. So much for early bird and all that. Upon taking my place in the queue of avid like-minded cheapskates, I noticed that everyone around me was a little on edge.

You see, SALES can do that to people. I think it might have to do with the red lettering. Plain font. On a white backdrop. It attracts you, locks your focus in, and makes all your blood heat up.  Woman the world over go straight into Hunter/Gatherer Mode when they see it.  It messes with your mind.

Also, noticed that most shoppers had come in pairs. Clever game plan. Made a little note to self.

 All I had with me was a Boyfriend (The Skater), and they are generally useless when it comes to shopping take-downs except for being available to hold your handbag while you try stuff on the middle of the store, over your clothes due to unwillingness to stand in the queue for the changing room. (Or maybe that’s just me.)

Knew immediately upon surveying the situation that I should have brought at least two girlfriends. Preferably one small: to slip between the masses and be able to move around under people’s legs. A midget would have been ideal here. And one large: Tall enough to reach over people, and up to the the higher rails. Also wide enough to plough through the throngs of medium-sized shoppers and at the same time forge me a nice little slip-stream to fall behind her in.

Next time. (Also, we’re going in team uniform.) (Possible emblem: A beautiful Mermaid with shells on her boobs and starfish in her hair riding on the back of a glittering Unicorn with a diamante reing-thingy and a shimmering mane. A rainbow curves above their heads and they balance on a cloud of pink fluff. Both have war paint across their cheeks.)

Anyway…during the next hour, tensions mounted as we prepared ourselves for the glorious feast of bargain buys spread out ahead of us. Some were doing stretches, while others jogged on the spot to warm up.  Many had bottles of energy drinks. Those are all lies. Mostly everyone just stood around and gave dirty stares to anyone who remotely resembled the same size, and thus posed a threat and possible competition for garment-foraging.

By the time 8am arrived, there were about 80 people waiting outside and the crowd had began pushing against the doors. Employees stared at us from behind the glass and a saw fear flash across their eyes.

As the doors opened, the shoppers started running,pushing… a flood of people pouring through the gloriously open doors into a bargain shopper’s dream!  The characteristic stark white of YDE’s interior resembled what I envision heaven as…except for the demonic adrenalin-demonised women running around, flinging garments everywhere, fighting for the correct size!

The emloyees must have know what was coming, because as we ran through the Gateway To Bargaindom, “Chariots Of Fire” blared through the in-store sound system.  I almost started running in slow motion, just because it felt so right, but I feared I would be trampled to death by the spike-healed Jewish girls dangerously close behind me.

My Game Plan was simple, yet effective. As everywhere around me people were working furiously, without rhyme or reason, I had both.  I rapped to them all to divert their attention as my little sister, who had joined our Team stole the colthes from right under their noses.

That is another lie.  I cannot tell a lie… without telling the truth after.

With choas surrounding us, I deployed my troops.  “Boyfriend (The Skater): Stand around near the tills, and if a queue starts to form, you stand in that bad boy! I don’t care if you don’t know where I am, I don’t even care if you cannot see my or feel my aura. You stand, and you keep me a spot.  You stand there and be a man, until I return, loaded down with wondrous bargains.” “Sister: You do what you need to, find your sizes.  But when I call you, you find me.  I may need you as back-up if some girl flashes her claws at me over the last pair of Medium Moscow jeans.  Our safe word will be ‘Whhhhhiskey’.  Now go.  Go and find your garments.”

Me? Well, I wasn’t willing to follow what other were doing. Around me, women were greabbing entire rails of clothing, throwing them on the floor in a giant heap, and flinging their bodies over them.  Protecting them with all four limbs, a torso, and a face if neccesary…while their Team Mates sat around them, findinge their size.

That seemed a little too limiting to me.  I wanted to be able to get stuff from every designer.  So I used my keen survival instincts (an attribute I’ve gained, and cultivated through endless hours of watching my Man-Idol; Bear Grylls) and I managed to slip between the rails.  While all others were milling about the aisles, filling up the limited space, causing traffic jams of Joburg Rush Hour proportions.

Surrounded by clothes, and shielded from the masses, I was free to browse at my leisure.  Picking and choosing, finding the right size. Rubbing my cheek against the silky tops, feeling the roughness of the jeans between my forefinger and thumb.  The clothes were whispering to me.  And I was listening.

Within an hour, the rails were empty.  A few garments hung dejectedly from their hangers, worse for wear after the massacre.  My arms were FULL of shiny, gorgeous items, all in my size as I slipped out from between the rails.  Other teams side eyed me, but even their toxic stares couldn’t dampen my spirits.  I was victorious!!

The Skater (while not being very good at much of anything…besides skating) had done a stellar job of place keeping, and we were about 3rd from the front.  Breathless, sweaty…but happy, I piled my items onto the counter.  My heart and mind started to race as I thought of the potential damage this mountain of fashion could do to my wallet.  What if the joke was on us, and there was NO R75 SALE?!?! What if everything was being rung up at FULL PRICE??!!  Panic almost caused me to shout “STOP” and run from the store, my YDE card clutched between my teeth.

Just over R1000.  That was what the total came to.  My mountain of items at YDE (who are, let’s be honest, not exactly cheap) was costing me less that what I’d once paid for a single pair of jeans??!! 

Upon leaving the now clothes-less store, I walked past a line of people waiting to pay that was almost as long as the Great Wall Of China.  If not for the roof over our heads, I’m sure you would also have been able to see us from space.

Once home, satisfied, and all modelled-out, I tallied up the total of my new purchases… R5000!!!

So while it may be traumatic, a SALE is definitely worth it!

Oppikoppi

Oppikoppi…

By default, every girl in the entire world has 2 dates of the calendar year permanently etched onto her fluttering little heart.  Regardless of how heartbroken/battered/hardened/disillusioned she may pretend to be (or really be), she lives and breathes for these two dates:  14 February (that’s Valentine’s Day you heartless men-folk) and her Birthday.

As you may know by now, I often find myself questioning my own girlyness.  (Due to lack of handbag/shoe fetish, decidedly manly-looking bedroom, zero tolerance for pretty-boys and various other things I don’t care to mention right now).  My point will now be further proven in the following post.

During the year, I too look forward to 2 calendar days with sweaty palms and a butterflytummy… they just happen to both fall on the exact same weekend and take place in the loudest, dustiest, dirtiest setting known to man.

Oppikoppi.

For 2 full (official) days every August, I get to roll around in dust and grass, gash my legs to shreds on inconveniently placed thorn bushes, listen to endless music, drink everything I see, hang out with like-minded people, eat potjiekos made by hippies, wear leopard print pants, not wash my hair, climb a koppi in the bush, fall down a koppi in the bush, lose myself completely, find myself completely and enjoy general all-round debauchery… ALL in the name of work.

Ahhh…to be young and employed by a music channel.

My virginal Oppikoppi experience was endured in a 4 man tent, with my wing woman @Coreenbunnyp, a cooler box, not nearly enough blankets, no chairs and about 6 rolls with cheese.  It was the best weekend of my short little life.

We camped in Mordor with the rest of the commoners (also known as General Admission Camp) and managed to lose our way home, via various routes, every night for the entire weekend.

After that first time…I was hooked. Once you go black…(somehow, this is relevant…I’m sure).

Thankfully, MK came to my rescue and after just 1 month in their employment, they appointed me as one of the official MC’s for the 15th Oppikoppi, Smoorverlief.  This meant that for my 2nd Oppikoppi experience I was

a) Getting paid actual money to go to a festival that I would sell my left liver to go to (kidding…I need them both) (kidding again…I know I only have one liver)

b) Going to be a part of the Oppikoppi History and

c) I was being moved to the Golden Temple of Oppikoppi camping…The Kreef Hotel.  Point 5 star (Ha! Love that) tent accommodation, with a porter service, your tent fully set up and equipped with mattresses that don’t need to be re-inflated every hour, on the hour, hot showers, clean(ish) toilets and my personal favourite…full.english.breakfast.

I have about 389 000 pictures documenting my first few Koppi’s (good thing too, as all the excitement and adrenalin (???) seem to cause massive memory loss) and every time I look at them I think a) wow, I used to be really chubby… but more than that b) I CANNOT WAIT for next time.

This year though, was without a doubt my Best Festival To Date and a narrow tie for Best Weekend Of My Life with my 22nd Birthday Weekend of Cape Town Debauchery.

Now, when you have spent an entire year looking forward to a single weekend (and the excitement has caused you to neglect both 14 Feb AND your very own Birthday), you need to make sure you do it right.  

This takes months and months of meticulous planning, money saving and mental preparation. OR…it doesn’t.

Sometimes, you get really, really lucky and the Universe throws you into a completely un-planned, spontaneous, spur of the moment Situation Of AWESOMENESS and all you can do is go with it, appreciate it, and document it.

So here’s a little shout-out in honour of The Universe… Shot Universe.

Living in Joburg, a mere 2 hours away from Oppikoppi, I had been reading all over Twitter about an #epicroadtrip from Cape Town to Oppikoppi, stopping in PTA to meet up with the Joburg/PTA convoy.  I must admit to a certain (read: HUGE) amount of Road Trip Envy.

See, I have recently developed a special fondness for all things Capetonian (particularly a blogger named @bangersandnash) and could not think of a radder way to kick off the Oppikoppi Festivities… unfortunately, as mentioned above, I live a short little distance of just 200km’s away…while this #epicroadtrip was going to take a possible 16 hours.

So due to mere practicality, I would not be joining the #epicroadtrip.

Then I remembered… Spending 16 hours in a car with @bangersandnash listening to rad music and preparing yourself for what could possibly turn out to be The Best Weekend Of Your Life is NOT an opportunity you should miss out on!! Even for the sake of practicality.

Also remembered that I have never really been big on practical thinking anyway.

(Also remembered that I’ve seen Almost Famous more times than I care to count, and I have this really romantic idea about road trips and writing about them). (Ok, so perhaps I am a girl after all.)

So… After a hurried phone call from the ticket counter (after actually booking the tickets) to Nash: “Can I come visit you…tomorrow…and then road trip back up to Joburg with you?” I boarded a plane, flew 2 hours down to the coast, only to get into a car and drive 14 hours back up to Joburg, to drive another 2 hours to Oppikoppi.

Best Bad Decision I’ve ever made.

Cape Town kids will be Cape Town kids, and the day before #epicroadtrip all but one pulled out. May I introduce you to one of my all time favourite party partners: @stormin_ (yes, the man has an  underscore…)

IT BEGINS

Morning of #epicroadtrip Nash’s BlackBerry wakes us all an hour late. We get into Storms car to find a flat battery. At 3am on a winter’s morning we jump start the car, and finally jump start the #epicroadtrip. Somewhere in the middle of Antarctica (may have been a detour) my window opens itself, and proceeds to get stuck that way. The car tells us its -1 outside. Perfect. I shove 2 pillows into the window, and wrap myself in a sleeping bag. I’m still freezing.

14 hours later, we’rein Joburg.

Even though Koppi only officially starts on Friday, we head there on Thursday. We didn’t drive 16 hours to do this in half measures. After getting lost in PTA CBD, Nash having a typically Capetonian “Traffic Meltdown” and a gps failing on us, we arrive at Oppikoppi after dark. Never ideal when you are planning on setting up a camp site.

This year lots of people had the same idea, and there were LOTS of early party starters. Thanks to @coreenbunnyp, we managed to find @donmulto and the PTA crowd and the camp where the partying was going to be going down!

Some newby in an orange (euw) jacket tried to tell us where we may/may not set up our camp site (???) as he wanted his friends to camp there (???) We told him where to get off (with his orange jacket) and after setting up we decided to wade into our excessive amount of booze.

Now this may sound like too much for four people, but here is what we had to quench our thirst with: 6 bottles of tequila, 5 cases of red bull & 4 bottles of whiskey. Also, in case one of us died and the others had to sober up quickly, we had a case of Steri Stumpy and Loaded Smoothies. Note: No food.

Just so you all know, if ever you want to get ANYTHING for free…Nash is your man. We didn’t pay a cent for all that Party Juice and somehow LOADED Smoothies agreed to sponsoring the road trip too. If you are lucky enough to see Nash out and about somewhere, high 5 him. (No sexy girls.) (Kidding) (Ok no, seriously). 

1 (2??) bottle of tequila and a couple of Red Bulls down, and we were having a bloody good time. Nash was taking pictures with my Diana Mini, but kept forgetting to roll the film, @melkie_128 (more with the underscore) was wrapping Stormin’s legs in danger tape and I forget what exactly I was doing, but judging by the pictures, I thought it was bloody funny. There was a table mad from a cooler box and a distinct LACK of fire. It was beautiful.

The next morning was welcomed in with a breakfast of Tequila Red Bull and some Cruciale from our Golden Bag Of Oppikoppi Survival.

This is vital for any and every Oppikoppi and it contains: Savlon, plasters, Anadin, Cruciale, Rehidrat, Viral Guard, tissues, LOTS of baby wipes (or, if you’re me: wet wipes, face wipes, disinfectant wipes, and various other forms of wipes that respect the various ph balances of your various body parts), sun screen, and a mirror. (Although if you, like our neighbour, plan on falling face-first into a fire, perhaps re-evaluate the mirror as it might scare you out of any further partying). Also, it must be golden.

Friday: After lots of tequila and such things we made our way up the Koppi where I proceeded to have a fight with a bar man named Chris. Me: “Can I have one Hunters Gold and absolutely anything for free.” Chris (the bar man): “No”. Fight ensued. Details boring. Did get Hunters. Did not get anything for free. Chris (the bar man): 1 Natalie:0

Lots of laughing, lying on the floor, laughing, rolling on the ground and taking of pictures later we made our way (somehow) back down and I did some general MC’ing on the Main Stage. This includes a lot of: “Oppikoppiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!” “Is julle almal DROOOOOOONK?????!!!!!!” “Is julle almal DIRTYYYYYYYYY?????!!!!!!” and then the name of the next band.

I also, for reasons I cannot explain, found a permanent marker in my handbag… This caused a massive outbreak of “If found return to: @bangersandnash” all over every hot girl who would stand still long enough. The site can pay me later in favours.

PARTY TIME *insert general walking through crowds/watching rad bands/drinking stuff/laughing/getting lost here*

Also include: Move stuff to EPIC tent hotel of Radness.  Jip, sleep on a solid mattress, with a hot shower awaiting you in the morning.

Saturday night:  Haezer, more laughing, Stormin wearing my jumper, Nash being Little Foot from Land Before Time (COMPLETELY DRUNK yet somehow: responsible, level-headed, a man with a plan, general pack-leader and awesome boyfriend to The Presenter) and a flashing light in a juice bottle.

Also, a pack of party mustaches, a dozen pairs of sunglasses and many RIDICULOUS pictures! @lizetheunicorn and Mel decided the look was working for them and spent the night standing around, trying to look serious with their facial fur. No less than SIX males approached them, admitting to finding their lip lapas “Strangely arousing…” (???) (?!?)

Sunday: Ugh. Lying on grass, listening to more amazing bands, massive tiredness and extreme hangies all round. Very little drinking indeed.

Ok, I’m going to admit to something here… I did not watch Billy Talent. By that late ungodly hour (11pm) on the Sabbath (!!!) I was just too partied out. Add to that the fact that I don’t even like Billy Talent, was bloody freezing my appendages off one by one, and woke up on the grass with Nash on my one side, and some random on my other and you understand why I chose to retire. I’m just not one of those people who are willing to stand around having the WORST night of their lives, just to be able to say “I saw Billy Talent perform. Well, I mean I didn’t actually see see them…there were too many people. But, you know, I was in the crowd.”

Monday came, and so did the end of Oppikoppi. The last day felt kind of like what a slap in the face must feel after a really good kiss. Surprisingly painful, yet somewhat exciting…then just plain shitty.

Monday: Hot shower (Thank you MK), breakfast (again…MK), then a 2 hour wait in the queue to get out of Koppi. 17 000 people means at LEAST 8 000 cars…which means… a 2 hour wait in the queue to get out of Koppi.

So that was Oppikoppi 2010. I partied my face off to Taxi Violence who I LOVE and will gladly lose my face for any time. Other highlights were Wrestlerish, Dance You’re On Fire, Rambling Bones and Southern Gypsy Queen. Also of course, Haezer and Peach. I missed VCK and Jack Parow, but they are always the same anyway: AMAZING.

Let me take a second to tell you the following…

Oppikoppi is NOT for the faint hearted. It’s not for girls who are going just cause they don’t trust their boyfriends to go alone.  It’s not for people who are precious about their cars.  It’s not for people who don’t like alcohol, or crowds of “stupid drunk people” or sleeping in tents.  It’s not for people who aren’t willing to have their perpetually drunk, fire-damaged, free loader neighbours become their new BBF for the weekend.  It’s not for people who ”can’t sleep if they haven’t showered”.  It’s not for people who want to fight about who has the bigger arms. It’s not for people who list “whatever is on the radio” as their favourite music. It’s not for people who think “skinny jeans are for gays”.

Oppikopp is for people who love music…live for music. It’s for people who come knowing that they are going to end up dirty as sin, stand in queues of no less than 30 people long for everything from a hamburger to a toilet to an ATM. It’s for people who will let the drunk hippy hug them and scream “I LOVE OPPIKOPPI” in their ear. It’s for people who will allow a blonde in leopard tights to write “bangersandnash.com” all over them in permanent marker. It’s for people with names like @johnstoked, @awe_and_some and @adoneandthesky. It’s for people who will mission around all day, if it means a good time will be had. It’s for people who are willing to either throw away, or frame the shoes they walk around there in.

Oppikoppi is for me.

Big Nights…& Girl Fights

Big Nights & Chick Fights…

They happen to the best of us. Obviously MORE so to the VERY best of us, as I have been in more than one.

They were never (read: sometimes) my fault and I always (read: always) came out the winner.

Let me tell you a little story about how chick fights go down, where they go down, and how to not go down with them.

So this weekend was the famed Debaucherous Cape Town Birthday Weekend. Basically, it entailed myself and @Lizetheunicorn boarding a plane to Cape Town for a weekend devoted entirely to the best parties of our short little lives. In celebration of my Coming of Old Age (22).

We arrived on the Thursday night at Chevelle (rumoured to be one of the dodgiest joints in all of Cape Town) for the AKing video launch. Here, I met up with the legendary @bangersandnash and @snoddie and we partied our faces off with @rudi_cronje…although I suspect Rudi had already misplaced his face earlier that evening.

So, much good music, much tequila (suspect this is what caused Rudi’s loss of face), much conversing with @stormin_ (which I would later have no recollection of and be mocked about incessantly for the rest of the weekend)

No girl fights. Not even one. Not bad for a famed Dodgy Joint.

Friday was the Big Day. The day all of the world (well, Cape Town at the very LEAST) stood united to celebrate My Birth, and subsequent globe changing life.

The celebrations started off having my hair done at Scar on Kloof upon recommendation of @bangersandnash (he didn’t recommend I have my hair done. Only that I have it done at Scar. I think he likes my hair.)

 Nash had mentioned in one of his many publicity tweets that they were Best…and what would I want other than Best? What he had failed to mention, was that they were ex-pen-sive! And that I would be spending at LEAST half my rent and around 32.6% of my petrol budget.

Granted, neither of us knew that when I said  “I’d like a wash and blow dry” the hairdresser (pretty, stylish and intimidatingly friendly) would hear “Please bankrupt me on my birthday. Also, if you could insult me, that would be great too.” Never mind, she was lovely. So when she said “Would you like me to fix your colour?” I couldn’t exactly say “Uh, you know what…no thanks. I’m actually fine with it looking obviously problematic.”

Now I know what you’re thinking here. You’re thinking… “Here comes the chick fight!!”

But no, you are mistaken friends. It was my birthday, which by default means a flawless mood. And not even the Acid Rain of Joburg could have dampened my parade. I took it all in my stride (and out of my wallet) and walked out admittedly looking like a bloody lovely Birthday Mermaid.

So no chick fight there either. I know…I know… I’m classy that way.

Friday night. The BIG NIGHT! Things started off at Neighbourhood where I re-introduced myself to @stormin_ and opened up an entire can of “You seriously introducing yourself to me?” worms. Sorry @stormin_. I still think you’re rad.

Anyway, after a lack of girl fighting there, we moved on to Mercury. To be honest, there really was very little time to actually find, instigate and ultimately execute any girl fight here. I arrived, was fed about 345,8 tequilas by various party pushers, was given one free bottle of bubbly, and was out of there just after 12.

By now you’re probably feeling the way I feel when I’m watching a cricket match from the stands: “All of this is alright-ish, but where is the fighting?!”

Be patient friends…for Saturday night meant one thing… Stellenbosch. And Stellenbosch to me means one thing: Bohemia.

If you have never been to Bohemia you are a)Missing out b)Not into my vibe c)Wise. If you have never been to the ladies room at Bohemia you are a)Male b)Wise beyond my years.

Standing in line for the ladies…well  I say “Ladies”-consider it a broad term…is part of the adventure that is Stellies. But I have to admit, it is a part I wouldn’t mind skipping.  See, this is why I don’t dig nature…and when it calls.

Anyway, after spending what felt like half the night in line, I finally got my very own cubicle. I walked in to find that (naturally) the stall was void of toilet paper. Dilemma. But thanks to my keen eye for anything of value and my outstanding survival skills…I spotted a bit of the white gold strategically behind the door. Luck of the Irish!

No sooner were my tights around my ankles than some deranged psycho-woman started banging on my door! “What the *banana* are you doing in there??!!” She screamed like the well brought up young Afrikaner lady she was. “I’m peeing!! (???) Now *banana* off!!” I shouted back. (When in Rome…)

This precious sweetheart did NOT get the hint and proceeded to literally bang the door down. I kid you not. She banged and banged until the little door hinge (which, incidentally is the only word that rhymes with orange…but only in America) actually broke.

There I was, pants around the ankles, completely exposed to the elements, with Miss Angrypants staring at me from the doorway!!! “What the *banana* are you doing in here?” *Little girl, what the *banana* does it LOOK like I’m doing??? I’m ON a toilet. With NO pants on?!?!?!?!* “I’m doing 25 lines of coke, now *BANANA* off!!”

By this time I have had enough, and it became apparent that Miss Angrypants was NOT going to leave me to pee in peace. Also, I started to have a very real fear that she might actually lift up her dress, and sit down on my lap.

Forgetting my own inhibitions, I got up, no pants on and slammed the door right in Angrypants’s FACE! HA! Take that woman!

All I wanted to do was to finish peeing! But Angrypants wouldn’t give up! She started pushing the door open again! I managed to slam it shut, break a nail (I have pretty nails because I am a lady…quite obviously) sit back down and try to just.finish.my.pee!

But a door with no lock, can prove to be a problem. (Is this an old Chinese proverb? If not, it should be. Them’s wise words right there.)

So leaning as far back as I possibly could, with my hands on both walls, steadying me… I kept one foot against the bulging door, while still balancing on the loo and I finally managed to answer natures call.

“Hi, Nature? Yes, I’m sorry, but you have called at a very  inconvenient time. Please call again later.”

When I left the stall, Angrypants shoved her way past and I think she might have thought I was serious about the 25 lines. Cause she looked pretty excited to see if she could find any left overs.

I’ll tell you what she did NOT find:

The Toiletpaper.

Cause that little pearl was tucked safely into my handbag.

Revenge is sweet Angrypants.

The Dance of Death

A weekend with friends on a game farm sounds ideal… Evenings around a campfire: Drinking wine, roasting marshmallows. The icy cold of a winter’s night, biting at your cheeks. Actually being able to see the stars your had forgotten exist in a sky usually thickened by city smog.

You would never expect a weekend like this, could turn into a weekend that will forever tarnish the “Happy Memory Box” in your brain. (Unless you’ve seen some episodes of When Good Times Go Bad…then you would most definitely think that.)

So, when I was woken up at the crack of a winter’s dawn on the Saturday morning of the away weekend, I was a little peeved that my morning would not be spent lazing in bed, chatting to my  two girl friends. When I was told that in fact, we would be spending the morning “counting the game” I was positively outraged!

First of all, I am a city girl at heart. Yes, of course I love weekends in the bush… but for the cheese & wine at sunset, and for the cheese & wine around the fire, and for the cheese & wine while snuggling into the many, many blankets those places seem to always be equipped with… My enjoyment of these places has very little (well, nothing) to do with the actual animals! To be honest, I really couldn’t care if I don’t see a single animal all damn weekend!

So, not only was I not interested in spending hours walking at arms length away from my friends, through dusty bushveld, counting (and documenting the name, year model and number plate) every animal I see… but I was ignorant too. I had no idea, at all, what a “rooibok” looked like! And when I found out it wasn’t actually red at all, I almost gave up. Then, when I found out a “blesbok” wasn’t walking around completely devoid of any fur or feathers, I lost all hope.

But, not one to give up (well, I actually AM one to give up, but whatever) I ventured deep into the dry bush. Now the thing about the bush is: Extreme Climate. When it’s cold, it’s bloody freezing. And when it’s hot, you need to remove your extra layers. I at least knew this much, which is why, by the time the wintry sun started beating down, I was well equipped to remove my red hoodie, and tie it around my waist. While still covering my (modest) bosoms with the T-shirt I had worn underneath for just such an incident. There is a little bit of bushveld in each of us…even if it is only “bushveld fashion sense”.

After failing to identify at least 6 different animals as they ran past me (not obvious ones like lions, just different species of buck) (who the hell would want to spent a weekend viewing buck anyway?!) I noticed I that I was being followed. Not by a hot young Game Ranger as I had initially hoped… but by a huge, towering, beady-eyed ostrich. This thing was stalking me from around four paces behind me, and it was freaking me the hell out. Its giant, black marble of an eyeball had the devil behind it, and I was not happy.

Fortunately, I had acquired a walking stick during the journey, and could use this to ward my stalker off. Unfortunately, after about 15 minutes of awkward silence between the Stalker and myself, I decided to give the ostrich a defensive little wave of my cane… At that moment, the ostrich decided now would be a good time to give my face a defensive little peck with its beak! As it lunged forward: Head-to-cane connection of epic proportions!

In the split second between said head smacking and my death…just kidding! But once I had hit this seemingly innocent giant bird in the head, it didn’t take me long to realize that he was LIVID! Apart from the obvious signs: vicious hissing sound, smoke coming out of his ears, and horror movie theme music playing in the background…my keen survival sense told me: I needed to make a run for it. 

Only after I had taken my first few steps, did my common sense pipe up and say “Hello?! Are you kidding me?! You are trying to run away from one the fastest land animals known to man!”

Now, in times of impending doom, or imminent death, one expects ones life to flash before ones eyes. But, honestly, between all the things happening at once, I really didn’t have time for such frivolous thoughts.

While simultaneously trying to outrun one of God’s most awkward-looking speed machines, being pecked to shreds by a giant Beak Of Pain, screaming for help in my pitiful Morning Voice and waving my arms around in a general state of panic… I failed to notice that the hoodie, which had previously lovingly cuddled me in its delicious warmth, was now slipping down around my knees, to become a knee-squishing death trap!

So many things happened within the next, oh I’d say…maybe six seconds. Firstly, running with my knees together proved to be more difficult than trying to get a tweezer onto an international flight. Secondly, I felt a 16 wheeler truck drive into my back (this turned out to be a kick from Demon Ostrich).

Third, my face hit the dirt at an alarming speed, and proceeded to plough through the dust and grass. (I would later find that my bottom lip had tried to slow me down, and in the process was torn from my gums. My nose had tried to break my fall, and instead ended up skinned like a potato. That my teeth were an ideal place to store any extra sand/grass/bugs I might need to transport in the future, and my eyelids weren’t quite tightly shut enough to save me from getting absolute boulders right into my eyeballs.)

What I would later be told, is that ostriches have a very specific way of killing (I say murdering) their prey (or any innocent humans who happen to smack them in the head with a stick). I like to call this, The Dance of Death.

 

 

 Here is what they do: A fierce kick at speeds possibly breaking the sound barrier (Mythbusters?) gets the prey to the ground. The ostrich then uses its one gigantic toenail (I call this The Talon of Destruction) to rip open the abdomen of the poor beast. It does this by literally stomping on, and kicking at said victim until victim can fight no more (this brings to mind images of high school). This looks something like what people in clubs do when they do so-called “Stepping”. (If you don’t know what this looks like, Google it. It is hilarious and well worth the ridicule.)

With my face in the dust, and a murderous ostrich dancing on my back, it seemed as though my time was up. Death was at my doorstep and it was tapping its foot. As I was screaming for help, I could do no more than hope that this story would not get out.

I didn’t want to imagine my poor mother, having to be interviewed by Oprah about how a giant bird (that can’t even fly!) STEPPED her daughter to death. (???) My only hope was that one of my friends would take initiative, and make something awesome up. Something about how I was dragged to my death by a ravenous crocodile/lion/rabid meerkat…but not before putting up a valiant, if not successful, effort to survive, killing its entire family before, ultimately, perishing.

Then… it was over. Suddenly. Thankfully. And as I opened my eyes, searching for the Pearly White Gates, I was surprised at how dusty heaven was. It wasn’t really what I had been expecting…less shiny…more…

That’s when I saw her. An angel in jeans and a t-shirt. The poor woman had the ostrich by the throat, and blood pouring from a gash in her leg. Her face was pure Hero, and she was screaming at an unidentified kid to “Bring die bakkie!!”

While I was coming to my senses, I was overwhelmingly grateful to this Hero Woman for saving me! Yet, at the same time a little disappointed to not be in heaven… While at the same time… relieved that heaven was not necessarily this dusty… While at the same time, hungry (???) Obviously, in times of extreme trauma and near-death experiences, one might not think clearly.

Once the ostrich had been tied to a nearby tree, and I had stopped screaming for the ranger to “Shoot it!! Just kill the thing!!” we were taken to a nearby doctor. I was given an injection right into my bruised and battered derriere (this could easily have been done through the many slashes in my jeans), while poor Hero Woman was given 42 stitches in the gigantic gash in her leg.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that a complete stranger had been injured while risking life and limb to save me from underneath the Death Talons of a Demon Bird… it turns out that back in the day, Hero Woman had carried the title of Miss Legs. The shame I felt as I watched the doctor repeatedly stab a needle and thread into her (previously) lovely leg! “All this, because I had to get cocky with a stalker bird” I thought.

Later that night, once we had all been cleaned up and calmed down, a debriefing was happening around the camp fire. Every single game ranger showed up for the joyous occasion, and everyone was dissecting the incident from their own point of view: “I just heard this scream, and when I turned around, it was on top of her!”

I almost threw myself into the fire when I heard that the offending Demon Bird had NOT been sentenced to “death”/”15 years in solitary confinement” or even “life in prison with no possibility of parole”! The game rangers had SET IT FREE!! (???) Free to roam the dusty plains of the game farm…stalking innocent guests…dancing on the backs of countless men, women and children! It was obvious that this ostrich was a danger to society, and needed to be brought to justice! “I object!”

While we all listened to the same story, over and over, from every persons own personal experience of my very own brush with death, one of the rangers started to ask me some strange questions…

He took a deep drag of his smoke, before asking “What colour were his legs?” My first though, naturally, as I was being stared down, before being pecked in the head by a giant Bird of Fury, was “On an entirely grey and black bird, what colour would the legs be?” NOT!? “If they were red, it means he was on heat. This would make him very aggressive” (ok, so I had one thing in common with Ostrich The Ripper)  “Also, the red sweater you had tied around your waist…it would have… enticed him…”

Wait. Was this man telling me… Honestly? Had I seriously escaped… ATTEMPTED RAPE by a horny ostrich???!!!

Yes sir, I damn well had.

Through sharing this story, I hope to promote a generation where we can all live in peace, free from the fear of Ostrich Rape. If you would like to find out more about Ostrich Rape, go to www.wikihow.com/Survive-an-Encounter-with-an-Ostrich

The Drunk

This is the tail of  The Mermaid and The Drunk and the fun they had together.

I’m sure many girls would agree, that a drunk boyfriend in times of one’s own sobriety, can be very annoying and often lead to grievous bodily harm/verbal abuse and often death of said boyfriend.

My hope, is that girls all over the world will read this story, and realize just how much fun one can have with a drunken boyfriend. Perhaps this tail can even save a life.

On the morning after one Boyfriend’s Boys Nights, the Mermaid arrives at Boyfriend’s house, at the pre-arranged hour of 9am, ready for their breakfast date. Right from the start, Mermaid can tell that something is not right.

First of all, Boyfriend is wearing his underpants, and a Going Out Shirt. This could mean: a) Boyfriend has lost all inhibitions, as well as sense of what is/is not appropriate attire to wear to breakfast. b) Boyfriend is in the middle of dressing, and needs Mermaids expert fashion advice before attempting any further dressing. c) Boyfriend is….

Mermaid now realizes that Boyfriend’s eyes are unnaturally glazed, his cheeks are flushed, and apart from his usual endearing lisp, he is now also slurring. Not only that, but Boyfriend is now SINGING!! At the top of his voice. A song about Mermaid being “the most beautiful mermaid in the whole entire Ekurhuleni West…”

Following him to the kitchen, Mermaid notices that Boyfriend is not too steady on his feet. Also, he seems to be part of some imaginary race, to be the first to finish every form of fluid in Kitchen and surrounds. Mermaid manages to save him, as he narrowly escapes downing the nearby dishwashing liquid.

At this point, two things dawn on Mermaid…1) Boyfriend is not in fact, partially dressed, but partially un-dressed. 1.a) Boyfriend did not Go To Bed, but in fact Passed Out *Mermaid knows this, because Boyfriend is mad keen on his clothing, and would never Sleep in a shirt that was meant for Going Out* and 2) Boyfriend is in fact… Still Drunk.

Here, Mermaid reaches a cross-road. She could either go down Annoyed Boulevard, and give Boyfriend hell for obviously forgetting their breakfast date… or… she could take Make The Best Of It Street, and help The Drunk prepare for their date.

After laughing at, helping up, and cleaning up after The Drunk (previously known as The Boyfriend), Mermaid gets him out the door.

Now, here is a detailed list of exactly what you can get up to when you have 1 x Willing Mermaid, 1 x Drunken Boyfriend, and many unsuspecting victims at a Shopping Mall.

1.         The E-mail

            For this you will need, 1 x BlackBerry, 1 x Spam Mail and 1 x Sense of Humour

The Drunk receives 1 x Spam Mail that reads as follows:

Subject: RE: Soccer Fever Cooler Bags

*The rest is very boring, and all you really need to hear is the reply, anyway*

Mermaid and The Drunk have a good laugh composing the following reply…

Subject: RE: Soccer Fever Cooler Bags

Dear Jan,

I’m currently lying in hospital with a Soccer Fever of almost 56 degrees. I’m very interested in purchasing a Soccer Fever Cooler Bag. Do you have them for human bodies?

*1 New Email*

Hi The Drunk* (name changed to protect the inebriated)

I’m sorry to hear that the Soccer Fever can go that high. Our Soccer Fever Cooler Bag’s will be able to bring the fever down, but not break it, I’m afraid.

I hope you get well soon, and regain your strength so that you are able to blow the Vuvuzela.

Regards, Jan

*Reply*

Hi Jan,

I must admit that I am somewhat disappointed to hear that the Soccer Fever cannot be broken. Although I suppose this will be useful during the cold winter months to come.

I hope to be able to blow the Vuvuzelas with the best of them soon. Thank you for your concern.

2.         The Questioning Of The Buffalo Wings

            For this you will need : 1 x young/dumb-looking waiter, 1 x Outspoken Drunk, 1

x  Fire Starter Mermaid

The Drunk (to Waiter): “Sorry, these buffalo wings…are they actual buffalo? Or are they chicken?”

Waiter: “No sir, they are actually just chicken wings.”

The Drunk: *outraged* “Well, why do they call them buffalo wings?!”

Waiter: *nervous giggle* “I actually don’t know…”

The Drunk: “Well, can you Google it at least?!”

Mermaid: “You see, the reason we ask, is because according to my religion, I’m not allowed to eat any buffalo. And his religion *points to The Drunk* says he’s not allowed to eat any chicken.”

Waiter: “Um, well, in that case… I suggest the Nachos.”

2.b       The Outrageous

            For this you will need: 1 x incredibly hungry Drunk, 1 x Fast Talking Mermaid, 1

x Good Natured Black Waiter (he must be black, so as to relate)

Because of his drunkenness, The Drunk felt he needed not only a Crème Soda, Chocolate Milkshake, T-bone steak, with buffalo wings AND chips… but a cheeseburger too. So that’s; 1 meal for The Mermaid, and 2 for The Drunk… a total (for those who are mathematically-challenged) of 3 meals.

The Waiter #2 brings to the table  necessary tools for the meal to commence, and even though there are only 2 people seated at the table, he uses his initiative, and sets a table for 3.

Mermaid: “Oh, no thank you. There are only 2 of us at the table. But The Drunk is having 2 meals because he is eating for 2. *whispers in a matter-of-fact, yet conspiratorial manner* He’s pregnant…”

*Waiter 2 laughs with gusto*

The Drunk: *Keen to get out of here ASAP, as he is beginning to feel the drunkenness wear off, and the hangover kick in* “And please can you bring us the bill so long.”

Mermaid: *Keen to make excuses for The Drunk’s obvious lack of appreciation for the time and effort that should be spent on a Date* “Yes please, we really must run. He might go into labour any minute.”

*Waiter 2 is now genuinely entertained, and is ready to get in on the action*

Waiter 2: “And what are you going to call the baby?”

Mermaid: “Bongiswa. We want to bring up our BEE Points.”

So ladies, enjoy it, embrace it…love it

Joburg Traffic

After 21 years in Joburg and a good 4 years of navigating it’s traffic all by myself, the single most valuable #trafficlesson I’ve learned, has been this: Pee before you leave. Naturally, I only found this little pearl of wisdom…yesterday.

You see, being a girl…and having recently watched Forbes 15 Supermodels Who Made Bank…I am doing what I can to shed a few kilo’s. This means replacing my Coco Pops with Special K…and consuming enough water daily to dilute the venom of 3 vipers…

So yesterday, after 3 litres of water and at least 73  (possibly less) trips to the ladies’, I set off from Joburg to Midrand. Ah yes, The N1…or, as I like to call it: The Devil’s Driveway. Not because I it leads it leads to The Devil’s House…which would be Pretoria…of course. (Well…Dropzone…)

The distance that lay ahead of me was a mere 25km’s. I could swim that far!! (I probably could not, at all… but I’m trying to illustrate how easy this distance should be to cover-especially in car!)

No sooner had I found myself jailed between 2 lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic,than my bladder went into Panic Mode! I could just hear it screaming: “Yes, I’m OK FOR NOW!! But who knows how long we might be stuck here?! I’m not exactly empty you know! In fact, I’ve had it! Pull over! Right here! I just realized I’m about to burst!! Get! Me! Out!”

Unfortunately, my location was not ideal for this little bladder breakdown. I was stuck in stationary traffic (which, apparently, is NOT a highway packed with trucks full of pencils, hi-lighters and post-its) about 14 km’s from the next offramp. The thing is, in Joburg traffic, 14 km’s could take anywhere between 7 min to The Rapture!

What is a girl to do?? BBM your friends, of course. “Will most likely get stuck on N1 without petrol. If you have to come get me, please be aware that I would have peed in my car.”

Thankfully, after around 40 min (23 years in Bladder Time) my eyeballs caught sight of the Golden Yellow of a Shell service station on the horizon!

At this point, I attempted the impossible. Risking life and limb, I dodged and weaved my way through the angry, fierce mobs between the fast lane (ha! ironically named obviously) and the slow lane (literally named).

People tried to communicate with me via hooter (“You go girl! Drive that Blue Getz!)”, flashing of lights (“Go ahead! Get in there!”) and one deaf lady even tried to speak to me in sign language, but this I could not understand… I take it she was signaling “You are a #1 driver!” But I had my eyes on the prize: I did not have time for idle traffic chit-chat.

I could see it! I was headed towards it! I was… driving past it…??!! Yes. That is correct. No, there was no sign that said “DO NOT drive this way if you are in need  of: Petrol, a garage pie, a urinal/toilet!” Somehow, that offramp goes exactly BEHIND the Shell, and right back onto the N1. (This does not even make ANY sense??? Why would that road even be there??? I’ll tell you why-because the joke, is on us!

So, swearing like a sailor who really needs to pee, I was back on the highway. But I was not going to be beaten. I would not give up! I put my foot down, and picked up the pace to a speedy 60km’s/h! Focusing on not thinking about fluid in any form.

FINALLY!! I was at Midstream Estate. Now, if you have ever tried to visit someone who lives in this estate, you will understand that my defenses were up, as I pulled up to the boom.

Here, you are expected to hand over all you personal details. They ask for your name, drivers license, telephone number, vehicle registration number…THEN… they take your fingerprint on a little fingerprint scanner… THEN (by this point I was expecting to be asked to hand over a sperm sample and to ad the Estate as my friend on Facebook) (also had the feeling they were secretly scanning my eyeball with some form of laser technology) they phone the people you are going to visit, to verify whether you are in fact going to visit them at all!! AS IF I would go through 15 minutes of detail swapping for any other reason!!  To what?! Steal architecture ideas??!!

The address I had been given (by a friend who shall remain nameless *lize kay* was for stand 527. So, with my legs crossed, my abdominal floor muscles in spasm, and my voice high-pitched, I gave every detail to Boom Guard. He called stand 527. But stand 527 did not answer. My nerves (bladder)!!

I then called friend who had given me address for 527. I was practically (literally) screaming: “The guard won’t let me in!! I’m, going to pee in my car!! Get someone to answer the phone!!!” Friend: “Are you sure you’re at the right gate?” Me: “YES!!!!” Friend: “But the phone isn’t ringing.” Me: *I put down the phone*

I am not proud of this, but I then proceeded to throw some very dirty, very angry words in Boom Guards face. 

This did not cause stand 527 to answer the phone. (???)

To Boom Guard I  then screamed: “I AM LEAVING MY CAR RIGHT HERE! IN FRONT OF THIS BOOM! IS THERE A TOILET IN THIS LITTLE BOOM HOUSE THING??!!” 

Boom Guard (looking startled and bewildered) “Yes?”

Me *I violently threw the door open and exploded out of the car* (By then I  had a urine-baby, and my eyes were brimming with tears of frustration/desperation/urine) “I AM USING IT!!”

Boom Guard: *too afraid to say anything*

Very carefully, but still powerfully I pounded up the stairs of said Boom House Thing. At the top of the stairs, I am greeted by Boom Guard for the next shift, mid-wardrobe change, in his underpants. (???) Yip, I was on the step, face-to-crotch with Boom Guard.

But, I could not let this throw me off course. With my eyes now firmly pinched shut I verbally abused the poor half-naked man. “WHERE IS THE TOILET??!!”

I think he pointed, but my eyes were closed so I just had to use my own initiative. I bravely swung around, threw open the door I had randomly selected using my intuition (it was the only other door in the room) and there it was… In all it’s white shiny glory!!!

And the rest, as they say… is history (Or, as they don’t say… is too graphic for this site).

Note: Dear friend Lize Kay had given me the wrong address. She is a smart girl, but she often tries to prove otherwise.

The Heathrow Conclusion (or…Confusion)

Just touched down in London Town...

Here I thought; no grounds for arrest, no dodgy passport, no history of sexual-offences, no reason AT ALL to be sent back to Africa with my head hung in shameful silence… Time to get my London Street Party on!!

Ha! That’s where they get their kicks you see.

Fiona, I’m sure, was sitting in Mission Control HQ (you know…those rooms with all the black and white TV screens displaying the millions of cameras set up in Heathrow, that document every nose-pick, every bum-grab and every gum-sticking-under-table…only to be aired later in the canteen for all to enjoy) with her feet on the desk. Waiting, patiently, for me to breathe a sigh of relief. To see the colour return to my cheeks, and a smile play like a little sugarplum fairy, at the corner of my lips.

Then, just as I am about to say my “Thank You’s” to Mr Turban (one cannot say that we South Africans are not polite) Fiona SLAMS down her fist on the wooden desk!!!! BOOM!!

Fiona: “Hahaha! The fool! Jokes on you African Scum! The best is yet to come!!” *even though she laughs, she remains straight-faced. This is her trademark, and even the most hardened Immigrations Officials envy her for it*

I am led to a room where two men sit at a metal desk. Pushing paper. Looking angry (one can only assume that they, like Fiona, are unable to read what is in front of them, this causing the unexplained anger.)

Angry #1:”I’m going to have to ask you to hand over all your personal belongings.”

Me: “Um, I only have this with me.” *Slowly, filled with shame and reluctance, I slide my hands under my shirt.*

*Angry 1&2 must have had mixed emotions here.*

*Emotion #1: Fear. I could have been hiding any number of dangerous weapons under there. Bearing in mind, they would have had to be small enough to carry on my skin, AND made it through airport security in South Africa, and yet pack enough punch for me to wipe out all of their equally angry co-workers in order to execute my escape.

Emotion #2 Excitement. Let’s be honest… I’m just a girl, standing in front of (two) a boy (men) asking him to love her (sticking her hands under her shirt).

Emotion #3 Nothing. I mean, they ARE Immigrations Officials. They can’t be expected to experience REAL human emotions such as empathy, apathy, and sympathy.*

*I remove unsightly money belt, now soaked in sweat and, slightly happy about this, hand it over.*

Angry #2: “You are going to have to remove your belt. That buckle is a dangerous weapon.”

I am wearing a belt buckle that is a rather large skull.  I might be able to murder someone with it… granted I was a 120kg trained cage-fighter with the reflexes of a mongoose!!

Me: “My pants will fall down…” *Sad, girl-eyes, brimming with customary manipulatory (is this a word? hope not. would like to take credit for it) tears.

Angry #1 or 2 (I loose track due to the fact that they are equally non-descript, pasty English men): “You’ll have to risk it.”

Thanks very  much, Angry…for nothing.

Now, with no money, passport or uber-deadly-fighting-skull-buckle-secret-weapon, I am lead into another room.

Here I find two men who I assume are my fellow-terrorists.

I decide to be friendly and find out about them. If one of them decides to kill/eat/explode me, maybe the other will take pity on me, and my friendly South African ways and use his own personal brand of Terror to save me.

The first man can be described as: Well, just Google “Serial Killer Images”. He is bald on top, but has straggly, oily mullet down to his shoulders. His skin is badly scarred from years of acne (perhaps he had to burn his face with acid in order to become part of Global Terrorists United…one never can tell with these types). He is wearing a sweatshirt that does not look like it is his size, or even his property… and sweatpants. His eyes are blue, except for the part that should be white. This is red.

Me: “Why are you in this room?”

Killer: “They are deporting me. Sending me back to America.” *killer has the exact kind of American accent you would imagine. Think, ‘My Name is Earl’, but slower. And a deeper voice, like he just woke up and smokes 30 a day*

Me: “Why are they deporting you?”

Killer: “I was coming to live with my girlfriend, but they say she says I’m not.”

Me:*feeling quite sad for Killer now. He’s not likely to find another girlfriend any time soon, and I feel his dedication and willingness to move countries for Girlfriend shows some good character* “Why won’t they let you in?”

Killer: “I don’t have any money in my bank account. I met my girlfriend on the internet, but now I’ll have to go back to America.”

*Sympathy for Killer is now replaced with Understanding. I totally get that this man should not be allowed to further stalk poor Girlfriend. I also start to experience a deep and urgent desire to NEVER attempt internet dating chatrooms.*

I decide to cut my conversational losses and turn my attention to my other cellmate. He seems young, and he is of the tanned variety. Turns out he is Indian.

Cannot repeat our dialogue, as I myself had trouble decoding and processing his broken and somewhat confusing use of what I assume was the English language. But here is a brief summary of our conversation, and what I managed to piece together.

He came to England to study at a University. He had all his papers in order. But upon closer inspection (not sure who exactly did this inspection, as it has become apparent that no-one who works at this airport is able to read??) it was discovered that the Uni he was coming to, did not exist at all. (“In his mind” does not count.) And I know what you’re thinking…but no, the poor Indian boy was not lured to the UK by some evil Indian-student-luring-cult. (Maybe you weren’t thinking that at all, but I know it was my first train of thought.) He actually did it all himself. And not once, did it ever occur to him, that making up an entire Uni, that no-one would ever have heard of, or even be able to Google…was the worst idea that anyone had ever had.

*Why am I here???!!!! Am I just as mad as these two?? By now, I cannot take it anymore. I have been brave for as long as I possibly can. I have given it my best shot. It’s time I face the inevitable…it’s time…to phone my Mom.*

After very brief convo with Mom, I am renewed with a fresh batch of leaky eyes. Borderline hysteria now. Loud sobs. Uncontrollable runny nose. Not a pretty sight. Should perhaps not have called Mom, but find that I always need to hear her voice in times of crises. (Also, excitement, anger, rage, financial turmoil, failing/failed romance, confusion of any kind, hunger and sheer boredom)

Not Notting Hill Guy now makes an appearance. He takes met to yet ANOTHER room. Start to worry about location now. In case of Terrorist Cult trying to include me in any activities, my escape route might be a problem. The mental map I would need to use in order to re-trace my steps and escape this place, (learned this little skill from the amazing Bear Grylls. Also, it is safe to drink your own urine-hoping this will not be necessary-and if stranded in desert, a camel is a safe place to sleep in) is too confusing as I have now been sent from room to room, deeper and deeper into this airport, and am not entirely sure I’m still INSIDE Heathrow at all. Perhaps this is a technique they use to ensure Terrorist Confusion.

Inside this Confusion Chamber I expect to be submitted to Drunken Twister (well, one can hope). But no, my picture gets taken (most likely for publication on interweb and Dodgy Foreigners To Look Out For databases across all International Airports across the globe) and my fingerprints get digitally scanned. Now I get taken to ANOTHER room.

In this room Not Notting Hill Guy sits me down at a small table. He sits down across from me. Does not offer me a “cuppa” as I was hoping.

NNHG: ”Do you see this bar next to you?”

*Excitement nearly kills me! But no, sadly not a place to order a Whiskey. Just a strip across wall that says “DO NOT TOUCH”*

Me:  (Is this a trick question?) “Yes.”

NNHG: “If you touch it, an alarm will go off, and you will be arrested.”

I wish I could tell you what the point of this whole untouchable bar was. But I do not know?? I can’t even guess? Why would they place a bar that may not be touched, unless you want to be arrested of course, 6mm from my ELBOW???

*I decide not to say anything. Trying the hardcore approach now, as I have run out of tears.*

NNHG: “I have all your documents here. Now I am going to go through them, and ask you a number of questions. Then, it’s up to me to decide if you will be allowed into the country, or if we are going to send you home. Ok?”

Me: (No!! That is NOT ok AT ALL!! But, because you remind me so much of that funny guy without the pants, and because I can see that you are actually, surprisingly, a nice person under all that Immigrations Officer anger, I will go along with your silly questions.) “Ok”

NNHG: “It says here that you are a television presenter in South Africa.”

Me: (This is not a question?) *silence*

NNHG: “I would think that this is quite a sought-after career? Why would you leave it to come to London?”

Me: (Exactly!! Thank you for not being RETARDED!) “I’m not leaving it. I get paid for the shifts I work, so I am just taking 3 months unpaid leave.”

NNHG: “This Jethro Kruger, how do you know him?”

Me: (Oh, Hugh Grant’s Friend! Did Fiona put you up to this? I know you are unable to read, but I wish you two could just discuss facts with one another. Would you like me to read to you the letter that is right in front of you that clearly says: ‘Natalie Roos is the daughter of my cousin.”) “He is my Dad’s cousin.”

*NNHG flips through my papers, pretending to be able to read what they say. I am tempted to look if they are actually even the right way up.*

*Boredom tempts me to touch the bar. Common Sense kicks boredom in the face.*

After what seems like an eternity…NNHG looks up and says:

NNHG: “Right, I can’t see a reason why you should not be allowed to enter The UK. You can collect your belongings and I’ll meet you outside.”

Me: *too scared to say a single word in case it prompts him to change his mind/call Fiona for her opinion/touch the bar*

In a blur, caused by elation, disbelief and exhaustion due to the fact that my journey has now been almost 24 hours long, I somehow find my way back to the room with Angry #1 & #2. They reluctantly hand over my Secret-weapon-killing-belt (quite surprised that they would risk allowing me to enter the country with a weapon so obviously capable of mass-destruction.)

Decide not to question them, and rather make a run for it. They bid me farewell with little fanfare and even less smiles. I, in return, blow them kisses.

Now, the end is near. I can see the exit. I’m sure I can smell the London streets (can’t be sure, might be me…haven’t showered in over 24 hours). I wrap my hands firmly around my luggage trolley, and just as I’m about to step out…a light bulb goes on!! My passport and ticket!!!! Fiona never gave them back to me after she called me Lying African Scumbag.

I turn around, about to start a frantic search for Fiona and my Golden Ticket. But she has beaten me to the chase. She stands a few metres behind me, with her best impression of a smirk across her immaculate Scary Face. In her extended hand, is the green book that caused all this trauma in the first place, along with my return ticket. I reach out, as Fiona says: “Well, that was the final test. If you were planning on disappearing into the country, you wouldn’t have needed this, now would you?”

I think Fiona might have some trust issues. I think I might have some brand new issues all of my own. But I don’t have time to think about this now…

I’m in London baby!!

Heathrow…a little Highbrow

Heathrow is a little Highbrow…

When I was 19 years old, I decided that the time had come, to spread my little wings, and head on over to London.

Aaah yes, the way of the Modern South African Youth. You finish school… you board a plane to London. You do the jobs that their pasty white youths are too pissy-bitch to execute. The jobs you would never even DREAM of subjecting your milky white hands to in your own home country. You earn minimum wage. You live in the left hand corner of the 2x2m bedroom you share with another South African you’d never met before you stepped foot in Wimbledon. You don’t pay your heating bill (obviously you need that money for drinks). You pick up 15-30kg’s. You LIVE! (???!!!)

I, on the other hand… am not able to think of a worse scenario. No my friends. I was going over…to LEARN. Yes, learn. I had recently obtained my Diploma in Make-Up art (I need to use big words like “obtained” to prove to people that I didn’t study make-up because of mental retardation…just because I actually LIKE make-up), and I was going to the City of  Foreigners to do an internship with a prominent Make-Up Artist. Not only was I going for educational purposes, I was going to be working with this woman for FREE! NO PAYMENT.

So, I buy my ticket, I exchange every cent I have into a few fistfuls of pounds and I board a plane. All my paperwork is in order. My Mother has strapped my incredibly sexy flesh-toned money belt firmly around my waist, and I am ready to experience LIFE! BOOM!

Uneventful plane trip over. No terrorist bombers. No ripping-off of sexy money belt in my sleep. Yes, things look good.  

Little did I know… The terror and torment that awaited me at the World’s Best-Disguised Torture Chamber…

When you land at Heathrow, you get separated into 3 categories:

1)British Citizens.

They get welcomed home by an entire symphony orchestra. They also receive princess crowns-for girls and gays- and motorbikes-for boys and girls who want to impress boys.

2)Fellow-Europeans

They get welcomed into London by go-go dancers, singing in their native tongue, and a firm handshake.

3)All Others (read: Terrorists, Potential Terrorists, Known Sexual Predators, Drug Mules, Homosexuals, South Africans, Americans, People with limps-even those whose one leg is just asleep from epic journey across the nations, and anyone at all with a slight tan, or headgear of some sort)

This category gets welcomed in with knowing glares, general dodgy service, suspicion, and sometimes, if they are lucky…they get treated to the character-building exercise I was fortunate enough to be subjected to.

So, I walk to the counter with the sign that says: “Foreign African Scum”…or something to that effect.

Here, I am greeted by Fiona Coin from Weakest Link. Could have been her look-alike, but can’t be sure.

I hand over the flip file of documents I have had to lug across the globe with me. Flip file contains: Passport (South African—curse my middle class Grandparents and their African heritage), Copy of bank statements since conception, Letter from boss indicating that I have a steady job, and will be returning to it after my 3 month holiday, Numbers of every person I have ever met, now living in London, stating that I will be staying with them, for short periods of time, as their guest. NOTE: No VISA!!!

Immigrations Woman: *somehow managing to keep beady little accusing eye on me at all times, as she flips through my papers* “Where is your visa?”

Me: *looking scared as hell-no acting required* “(Well Fiona,) I don’t have one, as I’m only here on holiday.” *This was when South Africans could go on holiday to London for up to 3 months without a Visa* *Think I might have ruined it for everyone* #sorry

Fiona: ”How long?”

Me: “Three months.”

Fiona: *Now looking outraged, as well as suspicious* “Do you expect me believe, that a South African (obviously, this word tastes bad, because she looks like she is trying to spit it out) can afford to come to THE MOST expensive city in the WORLD for THREE MONTHS on holiday?!” *This woman does not mince her words, let me tell you*

Me: “Um, well, I have brought my life savings with me?”

Fiona: “Who are you staying with?”

Me: (Fiona, it’s right there in front of you. On that letter that says who I’m staying with. Are you not able to read? Is this why you are so angry?) “My dad’s cousin. Jethro Kruger.”

Fiona: “How long have you known Mr Kruger?”

Me: “?????” (Fiona, we are family. I have known him since my birth.) “Um, my whole life.”

Fiona: *Now trying new angle* “Isn’t in summer in South Africa now?”

Me: (How, Fiona, is this relevant?) “Yes?” *I’m not sure if this is trick question or not. Start to doubt myself. Is it summer?? It’s Feb…is that still classified as summer?! Should I have said ‘No Fiona, but thank you for asking. It is, in fact, End-Of-Summer.’ Then Fiona might smile-perhaps that’s pushing it, and say, ‘What a clever little African you are! Welcome! Please enjoy your stay with us, and be sure to mind the gap!’*

Fiona: “So, why would you come to winter in London?”

Me: (Fiona, you are a strange, and sadistic woman, and I think I hate you) “Well, I’ve had 19 summers in South Africa, and I don’t really mind the cold.” *Can’t be sure if this is correct answer*

Fiona: *Hands me a piece of paper* “This piece of paper, indicates that I do not believe your story, and the reasons why. Do you understand? Now, sign here.”

Me: “(???)” *sign* *now eyeballs start to leak*

So here I sit, on the wrong side of the Heathrow Immigrations Border. Fiona has gone somewhere-presumably to sharpen her horns and kick some babies and old people. I wonder “Am I going to be deported? Why does Fiona hate me? Is this because I look Asian?”

Fiona returns with a guy who looks like Hugh Grants pantsless buddy in Notting Hill. This lifts my spirits slightly. On closer inspection, I see that it is not him. Back to state of fear/depression/anxiety.

Fiona sends me with Not Notting Hill Guy. My thoughts: “Is this headed toward a cavity search??? Please! No! Nooooo!!!” I try to ask him a question, but it comes out as “Squeek.”

Not Notting Hill guy hands me over to a man with a turban. Is this what happens to suspected terrorists?! They get handed over to fellow terrorists?! Are we going to some form of Terror Club where we swap terror methods and it’s all filmed and aired on the Crime Channel??

No. Turns out this man works for Heathrow Airport (???) (Suicide Worker??) He tells me that he needs to search my bag. So we collect it from the carousel. Being that it weighs 40kg’s, you would expect Turban Man to help me carry it? You would be wrong.

So, I drag my bag along, with Mr Turban uncomfortably close (but not close enough to help carry) to what I can only assume is the Terrorist Search Room. We stop. In the middle of nowhere. Mr Turban orders me to pick up my 40kg bag, and put it on this table. Due to extreme fear, I eagerly oblige.

Mr Turban whips out (I kid you NOT!) a pair of Blue Latex Gloves!!! *Here it comes…the cavity search…in the middle of the TERMINAL!!!…with people EVERYWHERE!!!…*

Turban: “Please unzip your (Pants right??? You’re going to say pants!!!) bag.

*Phew*

*I unzip bag*

Turban starts to remove my clothing. (From the bag you perverts! We already established that this is NOT a cavity search.) Of course, the first thing he displays, for all the world to see would be, my panties. And no, not my Wednesday panties. Not the ones you wear just for the sake of wearing panties. Nope. He removes The Saturday Panties.

Not one to be put off by a good piece of lingerie, he forges ahead. (Real trooper, this one.)

Turban: “Does your bag contain any meat?”

Me: “No?”

Turban: “Pigeon?”

Me: “?????”

Turban continues to remove my meticulously folded clothes from my meticulously packed bag. Obviously this man does not understand that in order to get all this stuff in there in the first place, I had to take 2 days off work, have my clothes folded by an origami artist, inserted into the bag by a midget (small hands) and vacuum packed, and that I am for no reason going to be able to squish it all back in there!!

Once Mr Turban has established that I’m not smuggling any drugs, small African children, pigeon meat (?????) or any other contraband, he orders me to put it all back. UGH!!!! *Is it just me, or does he look somewhat disappointed? Obviously he has yet to find someone with a gram of cocaine/pigeon folded between their Saturday Panties who he can point at and yell: “You see!! EEEEt’s not just my people!! Look!! No nappy on head, but STEEELL TerrorEEEEst!! Arrest thEEEEs pigeon smugglEEEng African woman and beat her wEEEEth my pashmEEEEna!!!”

So, the whole ordeal is finally over, and I am now free to proceed into the streets of London with reckless abandon!!!!

NO!!!

—-TO BE CONTINUED—-

Mermaids have tails…Unicorns have tails…

My friend @lizetheunicorn (Lize Kay) and I share many a conversation via BBM daily. The thing about BBM, is that, with it being free…I find myself unable to carry out the most mundane tasks, such as: purchasing a pair of shoes, without sending a picture to a girlfriend for a yay/nay…or, as I have never been able to drive more than a single km in my car without some form of communication  with someone outside of my car, I can safely, and…well…safely communicate via BBM voicenote.

Anyway, this is the story about two little girls (well, one Tiny, and one Medium) discussing healthy eating via BBM. Please note, that for some obscure reason, that has yet to be explained, it’s the Tiny Little Borderline-Anno size 6, asking the Medium-to-Extra-Medium size 10, for advise) (???!!!)

Lize:”If you don’t eat carbs at night, what do you eat?”

Natalie:”Protein”

Lize:”Cous cous?”

Natalie:”That’s a carb (???)”

Lize:”But a good carb.”

Natalie:”Fish, Biltong, Chicken. For Veg-heads like you *for some reason, Lize likes to torture herself by refusing to eat both meat AND tofu* Nuts, Yoghurt, Eggs.”

Lize:”What’s better, 1 fried egg or 2 poached eggs?”

Natalie:”2-4 boiled eggs. No yolk.”

Lize:”OK. How do I boil an egg? I know I know.”

Natalie:”Pot of cold water on stove. Place egg in water. When water starts to boil, time 4 minutes.”

Lize:”4 minutes of boil?”

Natalie:”Yes. Add a tsp of vinegar to water.”

Lize:”Vinegar? WTF?!”

Natalie:”Yes. Don’t know why. Think it prevents cracks. But not, Butcracks, obviously.”

*Lize ignores that little gem*

Lize:”So add vinegar after boil?”

Natalie:”No, before boil. Just forgot to mention it.”

Lize:”And then?”

Natalie:”Then you run them under cold water. Peel. Remove yolk. Enjoy.”

Lize:”So no yolk?”

Natalie:”You may have one yolk.”

—END—

So, if ever faced with the question; how many blondes does it take to boil an egg? Answer with: “Just one, but she needs a Mermaid to explain how.”

In keeping with the nutrition theme, Lize sent me a BBM today, posing the following question:

Lize:”What is a healthy lunch? For me and @Ninavanibos (who, by the way, needs to watch her weight, as she is soon to be married to a lovely fellow she met on a bus. Yesterday. He is a doctor. Or pilot/diver. I have only met Future Husband via @Ninavanibos’s Tweets, so can’t be sure. Nevermind, she is marrying him. This is all you need to know.) I’m going grocery shopping now.

*I don’t know woman!!! All I ever eat is meat. In various portion sizes, and from various dead animals.*

*Not one to admit defeat, I give her some options*

Natalie:”Salad with chickpeas and broccoli, and sugar snap peas. Also, 2 slices Low GI brown seed loaf.”

Lize:”Bread avec cheese?”

*It’s obvious that this girl is craving protein something fierce*

Natalie:”Mozarella und Ricotta bist the lowest fat cheeses.”

*Note: Lize is fluent in at least 327 languages (that is an exaggeration of epic proportions), including some she made up herself (that is a blatant lie). One of them being German (Deutsch). I, once spent 3 months in Germany (Deutschland). So it goes without saying that I would INSIST on throwing in many of the vast amount (4-6, at the very LEAST) of German phrases I know, into every conversation we ever have.*

Lize:”Tomato?”

Natalie:*not even replying to the Tomato Question. it’s a vegetable (fruit, technically, yes I know-but I wouldn’t dip it in chocolate if I were having a Chocolate Fruit Salad Fondue, thus: Vegetable)  of course you may put it on your sandwich* “Also, avo in your salad. You need good fats for shiny hair, skin and nails.”

Lize:”Nina doesn’t eat avo. Also not mushrooms or asparagus.”

#fullofshit

*bit rich coming from a little girl who won’t eat meat, or allow me to use my Redken Conditioner because “it’s tested in baby rabbit’s eyelids” (???…Note to self:Must Google this) (Also, who else’s eyelids should be used??)*

—END—

Aaah, yes. Tails (Tales, for those who think I’m not smart enough for wordplay) don’t tell themselves people. And shit like this needs to be shared.

The day the earth stood up…

10 May 2010 will go down in history as… 10 May 2010.

That’s right. Nothing special about this day… To the world as a whole. (or A -hole..as I sometimes like to think)

For me though, this day was like a bit of a…how do I put this…kick in the effing lungs. Firstly, I discovered, that after the 10 short little tiny baby midget days that May has been going, my bank account is now as empty as Joburg over Christmas. Ugh, ok, I exaggerate-nothing is ever that empty.

I do happen to have a small amount of monies to work with…and if I have done my calculations correctly (hope I haven’t)… I am left with a grand total of a WHOPPING…. R35 a day. Which is just enough to cover…oh, absolutely nothing.

Thanks Monday.

So…this got me thinking (read:crying, ranting, swearing).

Am I successful?! Am I going anywhere with my current career?!(except, of course to exciting sets, sweet hotels, music festivals and awards shows #playingaintpaying) Will I end up having to marry some suit-wearing IT specialist, who excites me as much as the thought of wearing tekkies with jeans, just to keep my (cheaply dressed) ass off the street?? *more on this subject later

Needless to say… I immidately cancelled all my non-essential accounts and contracts (Virgin Active-who am I kidding?), and am just hanging on to the vitals (YDE,BlackBerry). Also, I have decided to scale down on my eating out… (except on special occasions such as weekends, girls breakfast/lunch/brunch/dinner/drinks, “bad days”, birthdays of friends, friends of friends, acquaintances and sometimes strangers)A diet of eating at other peoples places only. (excluding people who use green/red/yellow peppers for anything…ever, have too many orange items in their home,have annoying dogs, or supply one-ply toilet paper)

As if this wasn’t traumatic enough, I get a BBM (talk about impersonal) informing me, that I will no longer be having my hair done for free (???) #thehorror #swearjar #curseyou

This was all enough to send me straight over the edge…in a downward spiral, rapidly increasing in speed toward at least 6 glasses of Beyerskloof. 

Instead, I opted for the wise option: impulsively having my mermaid hair removed, whining to every person I have ever cared for, and offering my services for any career that doesn’t include orange uniform. Yes. Wise, as I said.

What is this post even I about? The point escapes me now…

Oh yes, of course…

Monday, 10 May 2010…

I hate you.