The Met: An annual Cape Town event.

Someone asked me the other day why I never wrote about the Met, the annual horse race which occurred last week at Kenilworth race track, and whether I had in fact forgotten about what many regard as a prestigious social event. The reason for the omission is actually a rather simple one really.

I just couldn’t be bothered.

For me, the Met is about as much fun as breaking a leg, or sitting at the beach on a particular windy day. In all three instances, you are left feeling annoyed, irritable and in more than a little discomfort, especially if you were unlucky enough to break the leg while sitting at the beach.

Now, let me just start off by saying that I have in fact attended the Met, I’m not going to just sit here and slag it off without having experienced it first hand. It was fours ago and - It being my first time - I actually looked forward to attending the event. In fact, I would even go so far as to say I was excited about it, which, due to my rather dour personality and general outlook on life, is a very rare thing indeed.

Armed with a dashing suit, crocodile leather shoes, and an open mind, I entered the hallowed turf of the Kenilworth race track, ready to soak up the glitz and glamour that I had read and heard so much about.

“Well, this is rather impressive indeed,” I mused, as I looked around at all the pretty people standing and milling about. This lasted for approximately 15 minutes, after which I wasn’t that impressed anymore. Disinterested would probably be a good description of my feelings at that point. Bored would be an even better one.

You see, the thing with the Met is, if you are not lucky or famous enough to be in one of the corporate marquees, there really isn’t much point in being there. Sure you are able to view one of the sporadic and brief races which occur throughout the day, but watching a collection of horses ridden by brightly dressed midgets, or “jockeys” as they are also sometimes known, has never really appealed to me.

In the marquees however, you can rub shoulders with ex-Springbok rugby players, former beauty pageants, Afrikaans soap opera stars and a range of other B and C-grade local celebrities. More importantly however, you also have the opportunity to literally soak yourself in copious amounts of sponsored booze, which history has shown can heighten the mood of the dullest event.

Outside these tented havens however, you are left to fidget and try and think of subject matter to discuss with the rest of the plebs who are milling around, as you desperately wait for the overpriced whiskey you quickly gulped down to kick in and help make the day more bearable.

Through the grace of God, I somehow managed to get through the afternoon and into the evening, an evening which I was assured by a mate would make up for the mediocrity of the earlier proceedings.

Alas, I soon realized that my friend was a liar, with the highlight of the evening being harassed and felt up by a drunk woman with bad teeth, who then proceeded to vomit on my treasured crocodile shoes. So yes, I think I will pass on the Met, thank you.

Oakes signing off.

Avatar - Shaun has finally seen it.

So, after being one of the 54 people in South Africa who hadn’t seen the movie Avatar up until this point, even going so far as to lie about watching it, The Girlfriend and I finally nailed a ticket and saw it in 3D this morning.

We were both pretty chuffed with the result, and I plan on writing about it shortly. In the interim, what did YOU think about it? Did it blow your mind? Or do you think it didn’t live up to the hype?

Let’s hear your thoughts below:

Oakes signing off.

A quick and dirty update on this Saturday evening, I’ve been quietly chuckling to myself for the last few days with these clips, and thought I would share them with you.

It involves a Christian television station who take live calls and read out emails on air, and a group of people who have clearly decided to launch an extensive and hilarious campaign against them.

Have a watch, I think you will thank me for this. There are three to enjoy.

You are welcome.

Oakes signing off.

The other day I lost a bet with The Girlfriend and so, rather than contently staring at the lounge wall whilst drinking shots of Jameson as I had planned to do, I found myself walking around Long Street in Cape Town instead. For those of you unfamiliar with Long Street, you may be surprised to know that it is in fact, a rather long street, approximately 1,2 km (+ - 1 mile, I think) in length, and filled with an assortment of stalls and stores.

There are of course also a wide range of poor people, con artists and various chancers who will ask you for money, but The Girlfriend’s pepper spray, together with my surly demeanor, happily kept them at bay.

It was whilst working our way up the street and going in and out of each store, that I realized why I don’t really go shopping anymore, and am usually spotted wearing clothes I stole from my dad, my brother or anyone foolish enough to leave something behind in my flat.

I tend to find shop assistants, especially the ones who are employed at trendy retail stores, to be deeply offensive. I don’t think it’s really their fault, and they are never outright rude to me, but their mere presence is enough to make me want to punch them in the mouth, before taking one of their fashionable white leather shoes, and hitting them over the head with it six or seven times, eight if they are wearing skinny jeans. Nine if they also have those puffy leather jackets on.

And those are just the females, with the guy shop assistants I would probably be far worse.

I think this loathing is down to a combination of various things –the clichéd trance / drum and bass that simply has to be played at these stores definitely being one of them. Apparently, you can’t be a trendy retail store if you don’t have Infected Mushroom on your play list. Playing anything besides relentless hard house music will immediately see your membership to the “trendy alternative shop club” revoked.

I suppose petty jealousy also comes into play. On most occasions, these young shop assistants are incredibly well-groomed, with every immaculate hair in place, and smelling like what a Greek god or goddess would no doubt smell like, were they to indulge in expensive cologne and perfume. I on the other hand, will tend to resemble a twenty-something man on the cusp of vagrancy, with dry unkempt hair, pasty complexion, irregular facial stubble, and just the faintest whiff of Jameson whiskey.

Their barely concealed smugness certainly plays a part in my feelings towards them though, especially when I desperately try and explain that I am usually a 34 waist, and it must be the store brand’s unique style and cut, that I am now forced to try on a 36 or – God forbid – a 38 instead.

Someone once suggested I should get a stylist, after I rocked up at a party wearing sandals with socks. Now in my defense, my feet were feeling rather tender after an ill-advised game of cricket, and it was a pretty nippy night to be wearing open toes, but it turns out that sandals and socks, whilst making complete sense from a comfort point of view, is a crime of fashion punishable by death, or at the very least, complete alienation by your peers.

Not that this phases me though, I don’t really mind being a fashion reprobate, but I do draw the line at ill-advised comments about my waist.

While I may generally be a pacifist with questionable style, if you hand me another 38 inch pants again, I will surely punch you in the stomach. Smug shop assistants, you have been warned.

Oakes signing off.

Now, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I have an uncontrollable fear of rats. Seeing a rat, especially the dirty brown ones that crawl around in sewers or inside Cavendish Square, fills me with an immense fear of dread, and will have me screaming like a young school girl who has just had her copy of Twilight taken away by her mom.

I don’t think I’ve ever really been attacked by a rat to be honest, but I’m pretty sure that running into one, much like running into a Great White Shark or the South African singer Danny K, would be an unpleasant experience not worth repeating.

Which makes me a hypocrite of the highest order, as I realized this week.

You see, we have a park across the road from us, where I will often be found running around in multi-coloured tanktops and ill-fitting shorts, desperately trying to lose the excess weight around my stomach and thighs, which currently has me resembling a large oven-baked potato. It is in this park, where I will regularly collapse to the ground – partly from exhaustion, but mostly due to a weak character, bitterly disappointed that it took only five minutes of jogging before my lungs decided to resign, and wondering whether I would be able to crawl back to the loving but judging arms of The Girlfriend.

It’s usually while compassionate passers by are calling the Netcare 911 guys to come and resuscitate me, that the squirrels will come along. These ones in particular are pretty ballsy, and will literally come to within a few inches of my puffy, clammy face, curious to see what the wheezing and incoherent curses are all about.

The thing is, I don’t really have an issue with it, as they are just squirrels after all, right? I mean, they are lovely and cuddly and friendly, and are often the supporting heroes in children’s cartoons or stories written by old women with cats, sometimes specifically for old women with cats.

But has anyone ever bothered looking closely at a squirrel?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but squirrels can be best described as having brown / grey fur, long snouts, beady eyes, and long elongated front teeth which often protrude from said snouts. Mmm, where have we seen that before?

Is it a squirrel... or is it a rat?

If I were a rat, I would be pretty disappointed with the double standards society has put in place here. On the face of it, two incredibly similar creatures are being positioned on completely opposite sides of the social spectrum. Sure, there are stories of rats being aggressive, biting people and generally spreading diseases, but are you saying there are no bad seeds in the squirrel camp?

You have to believe there are some arsehole squirrels out there, who will scratch through your rubbish, nibble on your toes and spread the plague if given half the chance. Yet these guys are still getting the plum roles on cartoons and other fictional stories. Rats on the other hand, are always depicted as the bad guys, the ones who will steal from the rabbits in Magic Forrest, or lie about the whereabouts of the little field mouse they have kidnapped.

I guess it’s a bit like Apartheid was in a way, where white people were put on a pedestal, and black people were given the poor treatment, despite the fact that we all looked similar, and are essentially one and the same.

I think the time has come to address this now though. Sure, rats and squirrels have some ideological differences, but they are both rodents at the end of the day. Let’s ditch our obvious prejudice, and treat them both equally from now on, one way or the other.

There is a rat who lives by himself downstairs where we keep all the bins. I’m going to go down there later and give him an acorn to nibble on. Will let you know how it goes.

Oakes signing off.

The beach. Where you will never find Shaun.

It’s Summer time at the moment in Cape Town, and apparently the beaches around here are packed. I say apparently, because I have no idea, I haven’t seen it for myself, nor do I intend to either.

Without wanting to sound too strong on the matter, I completely and utterly hate beaches. With a passion. Think of the one thing or person you hate, multiply that by your age, and you will get an understanding of how much I dislike the beach.

I just don’t see the point of spending hours lazing about on the shores of Camps Bay or Clifton, getting hundreds of sandy granules in your ears, nose and other crevices on your body, all the while artificially ageing yourself in the quest for the perfect tan.

I would rather get a colonoscopy then spend an entire day on the beach.

The whole concept of tanning also mystifies me. As far as I’m aware, it’s meant to make you more attractive to the opposite sex, whilst also promoting the fact that you are supposedly living a healthier lifestyle. I’ve never known biltong to look sexy however, and that’s exactly what the sun will eventually do to you, turning you into a dried piece of salted meat.

The sun ages us. Badly. A recent study at a local university showed that a three hour stint under the African sun, was the equivalent of smoking up to thirty cigarettes at a time, this being regardless of wearing sun screen.

Swimming at the beach is a pretty terrible idea as well. With the amount of germs and faecal (that’s right, faecal) matter you ingest during a swim in the sea, you may as well dunk your head into a public loo. A public loo which was just used by a fat man who had dodgy Indian curry the night before.

Besides that, there is of course also the threat of getting eaten by the vast number of Great White Sharks and other sea predators who frequent our shores. I’ve always been very skeptical about these marine experts who claim that sharks don’t enjoy eating humans.

Let’s face it, at the end of the day, everyone likes a bit of variety in their diet. No matter how much you may love seals and small fish, it’s always great to try something new, and I believe sharks are no different.

I can just imagine the husband shark coming home to his shark family after a long day of cruising with his mates in the Atlantic. “Christ, baby seal again???,” he will lament to his long suffering shark wife, “ I’m going to Fish Hoek beach to get some take away instead.”

Not that you can blame sharks for eating us though. For some bizarre reason, we insist on swimming on their turf, despite regularly having one of our numbers gobbled up by them. It’s a bit like a prime steak casually walking around my kitchen and frying pan, and then wondering why I have grabbed him by the rump and grilled him to succulent perfection.

No thanks, I will rather be sticking to pools and bathtubs of cold water this Summer. I may have milky grey thighs, but they are young-looking milky grey thighs. More importantly however, they are still attached to my young-looking milky grey bum, and by me staying off the beach, that’s exactly how they will stay.

Oakes signing off.

So apparently, I will be undergoing a colonoscopy procedure sometime this year. I know this because The Girlfriend decreed that it would be so, and history has shown that it is far easier on my shins, ribs, and the softer regions of my body, to follow her orders to the letter.

Typically, having to undergo any form of punishment is usually down to an act of stupidity or gross negligence on my part, such as leaving the stove on, or drinking 17 shots of tequila at the local bar.

In this instance though, I can safely lay the full blame on my mother.

There I was, sitting outside at a family braai, contently chewing on a piece of burnt pork. Now, chewing on a piece of pork, even an admittedly burnt one, usually fills me with an immense sense of happiness, taking me to a imaginary place where I can sit in my cave and gorge on huge swathes of cured pig.

My mom – who I love by the way - decided to wrench me out of my cave, and chose to share the fascinating fact that our family and colon cancer were really good mates, and had a bit of a history together, dating all the way back to the 16th century, when my ancestors were running around in loin clothes and leaving poop under trees. Blood-stained poop as it turned out, as their colons were awry.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with colons, it’s basically the bit in the large intestine, which turns your processed waste into a semi solid substance, a substance which typically causes the birds outside your toilet window to pass up their gift of flying and instead hurl themselves four stories into the ground below.

Well at least in my household anyway.

The colon, due to it working incredibly hard and being greatly under appreciated, is thus prone to fall ill, and can develop issues such as inflamed tissue, ulcers and abnormal growth. I had an ulcer in my mouth once, and it was not a happy time in the Favourite Son household. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only thing worse than having an ulcer in your mouth, would be having an ulcer in your rectum. Colonoscopies are therefore carried out to identify these issues, and usually, are only performed on 50 year old patients who experience sore bums.

In my case however, due to there being what doctors call a “family history”, this unique rite of passage will now be moved forward about 25 years, on the insistence of The Girlfriend who, fearing my possible demise, doesn’t seem that keen on potentially having a new man spiking her drinks and feeling her up in her sleep.

Which is all well and good, except for the fact that it is my anus which will now be fully explored by a virtual stranger. Oh yes, I didn’t mention that, did I? The colonoscopy will involve a urologist inserting a large tube up my bum, upon which he will carefully navigate his way around my rectum, as the tube has a tiny camera the size of my self esteem. To make matters worse, it seems I will be fully aware of the arse exploration, save for what is described as a “light sedative” to “numb any potential pain”. I will be lying on my left side, and in some instances, may even be asked to move around a bit to give the camera inside my bum hole a better view of proceedings.

An alternative means of colonoscopy, but probably equally effective.

Finding out all of this has left me with an instinctive sense of fear, a paralyzing fear of the inevitable, especially once The Girlfriend gave me what is known by her enemies as The Look. Basically, once this facial expression has been utilized, fighting it is a bit like pissing in the wind, or watching an episode of Ugly Betty – ultimately pointless and more than a little silly.

So here we are then, I will now be psyching myself up over the next few months (I have managed to buy 6 months grace before having to bite the bullet) and will likely fill you all in on the details once the deed is done.

Suffice to say though, my mom and her stories will not be invited to any more braais for the time being. If I hear there is also prostate cancer in the family I may just combust.

Oakes signing off.

Jacob Zuma - A secret member of the X-Men?

I found yesterday’s news about Jacob Zuma having his 20th kid pretty awe inspiring. Not because I condone his behaviour - I don’t really - I think five wives is a bit of overkill and overly boastful.

It’s a bit like those guys you see at the Virgin Active gym, who will insist on walking up and down the change rooms completely starkers, on the basis that their winkies are the size of a grown man’s arm, thus making you feel deeply insecure about what you felt up to that point was a perfect and adequately sized member of your own.

We get it Jacob, you’re well into your sixties now and you’ve still got the goods, why don’t you just sit the next few plays out now?

No, what I am amazed about though, is how he manages to find the time to get his groove on. If the news reports are to be believed, this isn’t one of his five wives he has knocked up, but rather a 39 year old divorcee he has managed to wine and dine over the last 18 months. On top of all of this, he also has another woman he is engaged to, and plans on marrying shortly. So that’s approximately seven women he has to satisfy on a weekly basis, in addition to being fatherly to his 19 – and now 20 – kids.

I just can’t fathom having up to seven women to regularly please, whilst making sure the bin has been emptied, helping the kids with homework, and doing the odd-jobs around the house, like changing light bulbs, mowing the lawn etc.

On top of this, let’s not forget the small fact of Jacob Zuma being the president of South Africa, which I would imagine must take up a fair amount of his time.

Now, I’m not a president, but my work takes up a pretty decent chunk of my day. So much so that in many instances during the week, I just don’t have the time or energy to even feel up The Girlfriend, never mind wining and dining her.

Having just one version of The Girlfriend can be quite a handful, and the thought of having even two, let alone seven, is enough to make my testicles threaten strike action, and send a Labour lawyer to come and negotiate revised working hours and better pay over weekends.

Either Jacob Zuma is a mutant, with the unique ability to be in multiple places at the same time, or I am clearly taking the wrong vitamins.

Either way, a 67 year old man having consensual sex with a 39 year old woman deserves a round of applause, whether you agree with his actions or not.

Oakes signing off.

So late last year a rather interesting crossword themed t-shirt managed to find it’s way into my wardrobe. Not quite sure what to make of it, some days I think I love it, other times I want to bury it in the back yard. Let’s put it to the public vote, after Some Other Guy kindly volunteered to model it for us.

The Crossword T-Shirt.

Oakes signing off.

Although The Girlfriend and my family don’t understand it, many people seem to find me funny, or at least mildly amusing, and will often comment how great it must be to meet me in person.

In many instances though, they seem to be disappointed, partly because I am much shorter and balder than what they expected, but also because I tend to be a quiet and humble soul, rather different to the image they had of me.

In the interests of transparency then, I thought it would be fitting to set the record straight here today. If you met me at a dinner party, braai, or wild orgy, and I came across as a rather quiet, introverted and slightly overweight young man, rest assured that it’s not because I am shy.

It’s simply because I am bored and am mentally plotting how I’m going to kill you.

That is all.

Oakes signing off.

So, I think a while back I may have mentioned my Facebook Fan page and the fact that there is quite a bit of unique content there you wouldn’t see anywhere else?

Well, here is just a small taste of what you can find there - namely, amazing shots of famous celebrities rubbing shoulders with me, together with a brief write up of their vibe. Here with a small taste:

Shaun. Chilling With Obama.

Sharing a joke with Barack Obama, who is the president of the USA. He seems like a decent guy, although he totally stole a joke I told him about women with small feet, and then claimed it as his own.

Everyone in his entourage laughed when he told the joke, which kind of pissed me off, but I let him have his moment as he has been dealing with a lot of shit lately.

Shaun. At The Golden Globes With Angelina.

Chilling at the Golden Globes with Angelina Jolie. Didn’t really expect that to be honest. There I was, chilling on the red carpet, looking for The Girlfriend, who had spotted her crush, Javier Bardem, and had dashed off to speak to him.

Just as I was about to dissolve into a puddle of awkwardness, Angelina pops up at my side, and starts asking me about the orphans in South Africa, and how much she would need to pay for one.

Suddenly, dozens of photographers surrounded us and it felt like hundreds of pics were taken. Her husband Brad Pitt then showed up and he seemed pissed off. At first, I thought it was because he had a shit moustache (which he had to grow for Inglorious Basterds) but it turns out that Brad is quite a jealous guy, and the two started screaming at each other. Next thing you know, Angelina is telling him that she is through with him and he can go back to Jen (whoever that is)

Interesting night.

Shaun. Jamming With Mr Seagal. And His Shitty Band

Having a jam session with Steven Seagal, legendary action star of cult movies such as Above The Law and Under Siege.

Was a little bit disappointed with Steven to be honest. Thought he would be more of a badass and was hoping someone would pick a fight with him at the bar we were at. (Stones in Observatory)

Eventually I paid someone to go up to him and tell him that Under Siege 2 was shit, and Jean Claude Van Damme would kick his ass in a fight.

Expecting Seagal to narrow his eyes and break the dude’s neck, he instead invited him to come and listen to his folk band, where he sings about himself. He also gave him an autographed copy of his book, which he had on him for some reason. Strange vibe, that Steven Seagal.

Did you enjoy that? See more over here.

Oakes signing off.

Ugly Betty - What Is The Point?

So the other evening I crept up behind The Girlfriend and attempted to pounce on her like a ninja, as I wanted to feel her up.

“Not now” she said, whilst putting me in a headlock, “I’m watching Ugly Betty.”

As she rather cruelly refused to let me out of the hold, I was forced to contort my neck in an unnatural angle, and watch the show, which now allows me to give a somewhat opinionated view on this critically acclaimed television series. Now, apparently this is quite the hit in the States and I for one, just don’t get it.

“Is it a comedy?” - No. I didn’t laugh once, and I still laugh at the monkey who smells his finger. Simply put, it doesn’t take much to get me chuckling, and this is definitely not funny.

“Is it a drama?” - No. The show’s plot and storylines are absurd. The episode I saw involved the magazine editor’s Dad taking away his expense account, and making him pay his way for the entire month. Nothing serious or dramatic here then.

“Er… okay then. Is it an action show then?” - That would be another no. Unless you count Vanessa Williams beating up her effeminate male assistant, which seems to be a recurring theme.

So what then, is the point of Ugly Betty?

I sincerely hope that the hook isn’t just the fact that the protagonist is incredibly unattractive. (She looks like a caricature of a high school geek or loser)

Seriously? Is that the big joke?

I just don’t get it.

Oakes signing off.

Avatar - As Seen By Shaun

So I went to go see Avatar the other day, and let me just say, “Wow“. I had eavesdropped on many people talking about the movie and how great the special effects were, but I was still left amazed by James Cameron. The special effects were really awesome. And blue.

I liked the blue people, the Nav… Navel… Nav’i? Whatever. They were really good and… lifelike, and… cool.

The action scenes were pretty good as well. And the acting was also quite good. The directing was really good too. And the storyline was good. Oh and the 3D? Yes, that was also good.

So yeah, all in all I would give this a Steve O rating of 5, which is the highest Steve O rating ever.

The end.

…

Sniff.

Mmm?

What was that?

You think my review was weak and vague?

You’re implying I didn’t actually see Avatar?

How dare you, I am really offended by that. You have insulted my integrity.

Hey?

Why are you asking me about the ending now? I know the ending, I saw it. Don’t try and catch me out.

…

Okay, FINE - I DIDN’T really see Avatar yet. You got me, well done, give yourself a hand.

What? You HAVEN'T Seen Us Yet?!?

How can I watch it though? Every time I try and book a ticket, it’s completely sold out. I’ve tried Cavendish and Canal Walk (the only two cinemas who have it in 3D - I don’t see the point in watching it in 2D at the Labia theatre. That would be an epic fail)

However, despite it now being more than a month since it opened, I am still greeted by the following screen:

Avatar - Sold Out. Again.

I usually hate having to sit in a full cinema, as I hate other people, and usually will go and see a film just before it ends its run in theatres. (remind me to post my latest movie review on The Hangover - it’s a beaut)

However, I’m going to have to make an exception here - I pretty much just want to get to see the film in this life time, preferably from a middle seat near the back though.

So if you have been lucky enough to see the film, was it as good as the hype suggests?

Should I bring along a fresh pants? (I’ve been told that the sheer awesomeness of the special effects will have me shitting myself)

Can anyone confirm this?

Oakes signing off.

I was bored the other day and I thought, “Why isn’t there a crossword based game featuring facts about me”. Due to my Messiah complex, I duly then went and created one.

Have a look and give it a go. I managed to complete it in about 58 seconds flat, although I did have the advantage of being the subject matter.

If you know your facts about me, and have been reading the posts on this site for a few months, you should do okay.

Click here if the crossword doesn’t appear.

A mystery prize to whoever sends me a screenshot of the completed crossword first.

Oakes signing off.

My lofty view from The HQ penthouse allows me to view things both near and far. For example, from my vantage point, I can easily watch the young bikini-clad Swedish tourists cavorting in the pool at the Guest Lodge across the road from me.

“Why are you always standing at that window with a tumbler of whiskey in your hand?” The Girlfriend will ask suspiciously.

“I keep telling you woman, I am scanning the streets below for any suspicious characters, thus preventing crime,” I will answer defensively.

“Yes, but why is your other hand down your pants?” she will retort in a menacing manner, before making me wash both our cars wearing yellow cheeky shorts and using nothing but an old rag as a punishment for my indiscretions.

It was again whilst doing my bit to prevent crime, that I noticed that we now have new neighbours. They hadn’t moved in to the building itself however, but seemed quite content to live near the garage outside. A young couple, similar to The Girlfriend and I, except that whilst we enjoyed fine dining, taking long romantic walks, and general playful banter; they instead preferred injecting foreign substances into their arms.

We picked this up after watching them scratch and pick at sores on their arms, and also noticed the pockmarks on their faces that crack heads seem to get. Being the non-confrontational types (although they were white, they had a bit of a hardness about them, which made them a little scary) we merely “tut tutted” under our breath whenever we saw them, and left their eviction down to the company who manages the property. Unfortunately, they have again proven themselves to be as useful as the weird growth between my legs (no, not my winky before you think you’re being clever, I actually have a weird nipple like growth on my left thigh, we call him “Boris”). So much so that, seeing as they have received a relatively warm welcome, our neighbours have now gone and invited friends to come and live with them.

So now we are faced with up to 6 homeless crack heads sleeping in the little bricked off section where the washing lines are. Obviously this is not ideal, as I now cannot hang my various underpants there to dry, as heroin addicts are well know for their thievery, especially when it involves underpants.

Being crack addicts, they are also fond of wandering off during the day, so it’s hard to call the cops in to move them out, as they don’t tend to keep regular hours, and their time keeping is thus decidedly unreliable (the addicts, not the cops, I think the cops are awesome) so I’m currently facing a bit of dilemma.

How does one get rid of a bunch of heroin addicts?

Should I hire a couple of thugs to chase them away?

Do I scare them off with food? (Crack heads don’t eat apparently)

I obviously need to come up with a plan that will not have them identifying me and possibly damaging my car in the future. My car is the fastest car in Cape Town after all, and that would just be sad.

Any ideas?

Oakes signing off.

I know… I know… We’ve pretty much finished with January, and I still haven’t yet gotten (gotten? I think it’s a word) into the whole 2010 vibe as yet.

One of my “possible, not probable” New Year’s Resolutions, along with getting The Girlfriend to give me at least four sensual foot rubs in 2010, was getting more of my majestic words published in print media this year. (Mondli Makhanya of the Sunday Times, if you are reading this, let’s have coffee - well maybe a beer instead, I don’t really do coffee). Obviously, in order to achieve that this year, this blog should by now be brimming with my clever thoughts and coherent words, something which has obviously not been happening at this point.

So here goes, I have now laid down a challenge for both you and I to partake in. I will look to have a fresh post on this blog every day for the rest of the year, right up until 31 December 2010.

“But so what Shaun,” I hear you shouting, “surely we have heard similar promises in the past? You write for two weeks, and then disappear again for another three.”

“You are absolutely right,” I bellow down to you, as I sit perched on my pedestal, “but this time I will add a monetary incentive to make sure I stick to my promise.”

For every complete day that I do not put up a new post, I will give away R250 to the first person who posts it on the my Fan Page Wall. No questions asked, just say “Shaun, you have dropped the ball. It’s Wednesday morning and you have nothing to show for Tuesday. Give me my money.”

Now granted, R250 is not a lot of money, but there is not a lot of effort involved in earning it, so I think it’s a fair trade.

The only thing YOU need to do is obviously make sure you are a member of my Fan Page (join here), otherwise you will not be able to write on the wall.

Deal?

Deal.

Okay, let’s shake on it.

Mmm, you didn’t really have to spit on your hand before you did it, but okay, let’s go with that.

Chat soon then.

Oakes signing off.

The Girlfriend and I were sitting in the lounge a few weeks back, staring at a finger painting of the baby Jesus which I drew on the wall, as our DVD player had stopped working and we needed to watch something. As we were both bored and it was a Friday, we naturally decided to fly to Rio De Janeiro, Brazil, for a couple of weeks. Here with a vivid and in no way made up recount of our adventures.

This is what the Brazillian flag looks like.

For the geographically challenged, Brazil is a country situated in South America, and is famous for their soccer, samba, and beautiful beaches. (I said beaches, not bitches, I wasn’t trying to be all “gangster”)

Brazil is also a mammoth 10 hour flight away from South Africa, and is basically situated on the edge of the world, if you happened to be of the belief that the Earth was flat. I of course tend to struggle with long distances, and so required a fair amount of heavy medication in order to get through the initial traveling ordeal. So much so, that The Girlfriend reluctantly ended up slinging me over her shoulder and carrying me around as we first caught our connecting flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg, boarded the plane for Sau Paulo, before finally boarding the flight which would take us to our primary destination, Rio De Janeiro.

It was on the Sau Paulo to Rio De Janeiro flight where the meds wore off and I eventually came to, and thus made the startling discovery that air travel in Brazil seems to be in a perpetual time warp, one where female flight attendants are still expected to wear short skirts, tight white tops with push up bras, and heavy glamour model makeup.

An example of a Brazilian air hostess uniform.

To be fair, the above is probably a slight exaggeration, but you get my point. Not that I was complaining mind you, it made a refreshing change to the rather conservative attire worn by South African Airways staff, who resembled nuns or Catholic primary school teachers, and it left me with a contented semi despite sitting next to an overweight Mexican with disturbingly hairy hands.

Eventually, after what felt like a 24 hour journey (it was actually about 16) we arrived at our hotel in Rio. We would be staying in a suburb called “Santa Theresa”, which is Portuguese for “Santa Theresa” and was described in a brochure as an “artsy suburb”.

For the readers familiar with Cape Town, it had a bit of an Observatory vibe about it, minus the white hippies with dreadlocks. Think narrow roads with multi-coloured semi detached houses, plentiful trees and cobbled streets - actually, that would be more of a Bo-Kaap vibe come to think of it. Okay, imagine that Observatory and Bo-Kaap got drunk and had casual sex on the bathroom floor, nine months later their offspring would probably resemble what Santa Theresa is all about.

Santa Theresa - The love child of Obs and Bo-Kaap.

So that was that then. We unpacked our bags, tried to work out what had been stolen from our luggage during the flight (our zips and locks were damaged) and then called it a night. The following few days promised to be an exciting time, as we planned on hitting the beaches, the tourist spots, as well as some of their night clubs. More on that a bit later.

Oakes signing off.

It’s coming down to the last two weeks before Christmas and, if you are one of those people who celebrate it, than you will no doubt be aware of the pressing need to buy gifts for people, for fear of them hating you for the rest of the year.

Fear not though, as usual, I have decided to help you out, and have compiled a tactical list which you can follow which should greatly assist you in obtaining gifts for your friends, loved ones, and people you are just hoping to sleep with.

Here goes:

1) Gifts For Your Lovers
Now, I don’t know about you, but the thought of spending money on other people tends to leave me with a knot in my stomach, and a pain in my chest. Unfortunately when it comes to your lovers, you are somewhat obliged to get them a gift, it is pretty non-negotiable. A quick and easy way to get around this is to simply buy them something that you want. For instance, your girlfriend has been dropping hints about that gold pendant at the jewellery store for months now. It makes perfect sense then, to get her a PlayStation 3, or a new sound system. Sure, she may get angry at first, and may even attempt to aggressively insert the gift into an orifice which belongs to you. Realistically, she will soon realise that it is impossible - the PS3 is a large piece of hardware - and will eventually give up, leaving you with an angry girlfriend, but more importantly, a PlayStation 3 as well.

Your Girlfriend: About to receive a Playstation 3.

2) Gifts For Your Friends / Co-Workers
Friends are usually very easy from a gifting perspective. A tactic which has worked well for me over the years is simply to steal something belonging to them a few weeks before the birthday / Christmas / gifting event. To give you an example, a favourite ploy of mine is to steal a shoe belonging to one of them, usually the right one. Once their gift is unwrapped, they will be so relieved and happy to be re-united with their missing shoe that they will completely overlook the fact that you haven’t really gotten them a gift, despite the fact that a R250 gift limit was agreed upon, and they went out of their way to find you the limited edition DVD box set of the Backstreet Boys - Chapter One.

Your Co-Worker: About to receive the keyboard you stole from him a week earlier.

3) Gifts For Your Family
Gifting for family is even easier, as they tend to be incredibly forgiving, due to the fact that you are related by blood. Besides using the above tactics on occasion (my Mom cried tears of joy when I returned her stolen car, together with my Dad who I had kept in the boot) you can also make use of recycled gifts. Usually, you have one or two uncles and aunts who insist on getting you a gift as a token gesture, no matter how crap or inappropriate. It’s because of family members such as these, that I now own a special box containing Mickey Mouse underpants in various sizes, copious amounts of Blue Stratos deodorants, a luminous green money bag that tourists would wear when they want to get mugged in Adderley Street, and a large garden gnome. Depending on my mood, I occasionally dive in there to whip out an emergency gift or two.

So if you happen to receive a yellow pencil case with Hansie Cronje’s face on it, you will understand the history behind it.

Your Godson: About to receive a Hansie Cronje moonbag.

And there you go, no excuses for gifts now.

Oakes signing off.

It’s a warm yet windy Sunday afternoon in Cape Town, and instead of sitting on a beach getting sand blown in my face, I am instead sitting on my couch at the HQ, sipping on some Simonsig Chenin Blanc I found in the fridge, whilst gently feeling up The Girlfriend as she haves her afternoon nap.

In this reflective state, it’s only fitting then that I talk about the people who annoyed me over the last few days. So without further ado:

#1 - The Blonde Woman at Woolies on Saturday

Reason - For putting her jail bait daughter in the line whilst she did her shopping.

Woolworths in Gardens Centre is always a bit of a circus on Saturday morning, with long queues of people waiting to pay for their organic fried pork and free range chicken. I was standing behind a chick with a tiny denim skirt and a black boob tube top, and was in the process of checking out her well defined calf muscles when she suddenly whipped out a Miley Cyrus branded cellphone and starting texting someone. Obviously she must have been about 15 (I hope) although in my defense, she did look she was 16, which of course would have been acceptable.

Hey? It’s not? Oh, wait you obviously misheard me then, what I said was, in my defense, did look she was 18, which of course would have been acceptable.

Anyhoo, that’s not even the point of the story, she was standing in the line with nothing but her Miley Cyrus cellphone when suddenly - as she arrived at the front of the line - her mom appeared out of nowhere with a trolley full of groceries. The mom would have of course gotten SUCH an earful from me, if it weren’t for my chronic fear of confrontation.

So she dodged a bullet in that regard. But I still wanted to punch her in the mouth though. So she makes this week’s list.
#2 - The Hooligan who kicked my side mirror on Tuesday

Reason - Erm… because he kicked my side mirror on Tuesday?

No long explanation here. Basically I parked my car. Went to my dealer, who sells me imported El-Grande condoms, and returned to my car. It was upon arrival, that I noticed my side mirror dangling limply, the way your winky might hang, after you have watched porn while your girlfriend is away.

Obviously, in the five minutes it took me to greet my dealer, make arb small talk, and enquire as to my stash of El-Grande’s, someone had walked over to my beloved car (the Fastest Car in Cape Town) and had kicked the mirror with considerable force.

Granted, I may have been parked over someone’s drive way at the time, but is that really a reason to take it out on a defenseless automobile? I am presently still going through the security tapes looking for the perpetrator, but this is definitely someone I will be wanting to punch in the mouth.

#3 - The Guy who sat in front of me at the cinema this week

Reason - Because he kept laughing at inappropriate times.

We were not watching a comedy. Why did he keep laughing at serious parts of the film? Was he saying that the dialogue was corny? I didn’t think the dialogue was corny. I thought it was riveting. For that reason, he annoyed me, and for that reason, he will also be getting a punch in the mouth.
…

And that is that then. I kind of lost interest toward the end there, did you notice? The first one was fairly longish, and then I kind of trailed off a bit with the other two. I just thought you would have lost interest a bit if this post became too long and wordy.

That’s how much I care about you.

It’s not laziness, it’s empathy.

I love you. Come here, I’m going to kiss you on your cheek.

What?

Oh, I brushed your boob?

Whammy.

Oakes signing off.

It’s Friday and I’ve just come off a visit from Springboks (Jug Night - we will chat about that later)

In the meanwhile, enjoy this happy clappy little finger snapper, as we go back into the 80’s to enjoy Men Without Hats, and their smash hit “Safety Dance”.

Chat soon.

Oakes signing off.