I’m not a member of the EFF but I actually think that Julius has the best election poster. Red is sexy and it works. But more importantly, the EFF poster promises the voter absolutely nothing. It simply says VOTE. How very fabulous.
Most of the other election posters are just annoying as hell. Reactionary and Boring. I think we should insist on a ridiculous theme next time ‘round. Just to spice up our lives while we are stuck in traffic and forced to stare at the poles. Themes like “Bond Movies” (Live And Let Die” comes to mind). Or “Under the Ocean” (aunty Pat as a Mermaid – not a Snoek). Or “Garden of Eden”. Yirre. Slange. (Snakes in Afrikaans).
That “Cape Independence Party” Poster seems to have come close to a “Charlie’s Angels” theme. Three people on the Poster. Staring directly into camera. Two white people and one almost-white person. The words on their very intriguing poster: ons huis, ons werk, ons mense. What the Fudge. Ons. Julle. Hulle. Pille. Exactly what every country needs in order to heal: Safe Separate Cages. Ma my fok Marelize.
I’ve noticed at least 3 parties just going along the lines of no more masks, no forced vaccinations, no more lockdowns, and so on. Yirre Bronwynn. You couldn’t have at least one more strategy meeting where point number one on the agenda was let’s not be lazy and predictable.
And the thing is this man. Some of us have become quite comfortable hiding behind our masks. Ja-Ja it’s flippin irritating when it’s clashing with your hot outfit. Jaaa it’s flippin irritating when you get to your car and realize that you left your mask inside and have to walk back. Jaaa it’s flippin irritating when you forget that those masks need to be washed regularly. But still. We kinda got used to it. I mean, there are some positves to the mask story:
if you are strolling alongside a friend, you can now skinne about people who are walking towards you without them being able to lipread;
you can easily pop into the shop for milk in the morning without having to shave (I want to say that this applies to men only but…jy wiet mos);
in Woollies, you can threaten your demon-possessed laaitie behind your mask without fear of arrest – carry on performing like this in front of the people and you see how mommy moer you when we get home!
But fear not, the election posters will be down soon. And hopefully the only posters on poles will still be my very own one, promoting my show LOOT which is currently on at the Baxter Theatre in Cape Town. Book on this site. It’s via Webtickets. I’ve been back on stage for a week now and I’m telling you it’s been kak lekke, as they say in the classics. There’s nothing like seeing real people and hearing them laugh. There’s even been a standing ovation or two. For my Gqeberha luvvies, I am there on 10 and 11 Dec at the Boardwalk. Tickets for that one already selling via Quicket. Joburg, Durban and East London, I am looking at early next year. I shall keep you posted.
I wish you a beautiful day. Today is my off day which means I could drop off my yellow suit at the dry cleaners at 8am this morning. The dry cleaners in Gardens where it says on the window in big print SAME DAY DRY CLEANING HERE! I walk in this morning and say I’d like this for same day please. The lady looks at me and says let me just go to the back and ask Fouzia if that’s possible. Huh? She leaves. Comes back. Fouzia says ja ok – but only because it’s you. WHAT!
I much prefer Hotels to Guesthouses. I was reminded of this whilst surfing the net yesterday for a quick li’l getaway spot. (Because that currently seems to be the trendy thing to say: o my word I can’t wait to just getaway for the weekend again! I have looked at some friends who have been saying this and I’m thinking: ma jy gan nooit nêrens nie – over the last few years you’ve only gone as far as canal walk!)
So some of my friends frown when they hear how passionate I am about preferring Hotels to Guesthouses. Well just you hold on to your stolen slippers. I can explain.
Many Guesthouses these days are fancy as hell and are run like hotels – I get that – but that’s not necessarily the case for all of them. The kind of Guesthouse that freaks me out is the kind that is run by a middle-aged couple and a chilled German Shepherd. They’ve been married for very many years. They have 3 kids, all of whom are married. They dearly love their kids and were most perturbed when the kids left the nest to make a life with lovers and children and stuff. What now!? Just the two of them left alone in the empty house!! This would mean that they now have to talk to each other!! Hell no! How do you suddenly start talking to someone you’ve not really really REALLY spoken with for 20 years?! And so the plan is hatched to start a little Guesthouse. Because in so doing, they mos never have to stop looking after their “children”.
And that is how I felt in many of those Guesthouses. Like I was spending the weekend with my Mommy and my Daddy. Like a laaitie. And it’s like they get disappointed when I don’t play along. It starts with a gentle welcome at reception when you arrive around 3pm. Harmless. What can go wrong? So far, so good.
You then get asked by Mom what you would like for breakfast the next morning. You also get asked: what time would you like to have breakfast? These are trick questions. The thing is this – when someone asks you at 3pm what you would like for breakfast the next morning, you deliciously rattle off all sorts of things because it’s like someone asking you to fantasize about your best breakfast everrrrr. And at that 3pm moment, you really believe that at 8am you will want poached eggs and sausage and mushrooms and yoghurt and watermelon plus a croissant. Mommy is beaming as she says no problem – and I’m adding muffins as well – you have to taste my muffins which tripadviser is always raving about. And there it is – a contract has been entered into.
(I must just add here that I’m sometimes convinced that some businesses get their chommies to write those tripadviser reviews – because seriously man…one or three of those five stars are often not there by the time I check in).
Back to Faulty Towers. Mommy hands the room key over to Daddy who shows me to my room, just down the passage. Close to theirs, mind you. Before we get to the room, Daddy shows me where we will have breakfast. In the intimate dining room. With about 5 other people. Strangers. O shit. I’m going to have to make conversation with 5 strangers at 8am. What if they all work for that organisation that tries to sell you sand from the Dead Sea! Disaster looms.
Daddy is as kind as Mommy. The usual small talk. How was the flight. Is that grey patch real. Is Jacob Zuma really sick. Daddy shows me into the neat room with the blue Bible next to the bed. Next to the Bible, a Mr D menu booklet thingie. Flip. Of course. Guesthouses. No room service. Urrrrrrrgggggghhhhh. There’s a silver tray with sherry and sealed little mini pack of shortbread biscuits. The third glass of sherry tastes lekke.
My chommie Robby calls to say we must go out for a Joburg dinner. I can’t wait. Because the tiles on the floor are not my favorite. I mean come now, we are in 2021. Shortbread is kla. I take a sherry nap. Uber arrives at 7. I walk pass Dad who’s sitting in the lounge eating biltong. Next to the “honesty bar”. (Yirre Bronwyn!). Dad reminds me which key is for the trellidor and which button on the remote is for the outside gate and which key is for my room. (Yirre Bronwyn again).
We have a great dinner. I’m stretching the evening because no room service mos. Starters. Main Course. Desert. Tequila gold. And one more round for the Uber.
Next thing I hear, is a knock on my bedroom door. It’s Mommy. It’s 8am. She melodically chirps from the other side of the door – and what time did we get home? – somebody was out late! – almost sure it was half past two in the morning because Rover barked and woke me up – see you now now! – muffins baked especially for Cape Town’s funnyman!
The funniest meme I saw last week went something along the lines of: for my wedding, I’m having a bring-and-braai, so that you when go home you can skinne about your OWN food! Lol. For our non South African friends, skinne means gossip.
If you grew up in South Africa, and more particularly if you grew up on the cape flats, you would know that guests have a juicy skinne about the food that you served at your wedding. And they don’t even wait until they get home. It happens in the uber already. Essentially, your wedding was fabulous if your food was fabulous. But weddings are a discussion for another day. This past weekend many of us seriously got involved with braai’ing. Heritage Day mos. So if you will, allow me to shine the spotlight on the drama around throwing a bring-and-braai in Cape Town.
The rest of the world calls it a barbeque which is just not quite the same thing. A braai is a braai ok. And we will not call it a barbeque. Everrrr.
Before I get stuck into the rules of a bring-and-braai, allow me to say that the most wonderful thing you can do is throw a braai and provide everything. Meat, Salad, Drinks, Alles. But that can prove to be quite costly if you’re a normal hard-working, tax-paying South African whose not been granted a tender. So bring-and-braai it is.
There are rules people.
The Babalas. Don’t arrive at my bring-and-braai dik babalas. Heavily hungover. No no no NO! You knew it was my birthday – and you knew long ago – why was it necessary to get gesuip the night before! Babalas guests annoy me. They just sit in the corner with shades on and contribute very little to the conversation, while painfully sipping on a beer, patiently waiting to start feeling lekke again. And they look terrible on the photo’s. And then actually, to take it back just a few steps, don’t arrive at my braai drunk. Especially if you have relationship issues that you think everyone should be privy to. We are not that interested. Yet. Let’s all stay on the same page. Yirre. We are baaing chops ma jy’s al in jou chops.
The Salads. When you say you are bringing along a particular salad, please fulfill your promise. It’s usually up to the host to provide the salads but you always have that one guest who insists on bringing along her famous creation. Because “nobody makes noodle salad like me”. Well you offered baby – you can’t just wake up on the day and decide that you don’t lus to make that noodle salad that boasts your secret ingredients – noodles and mayo. So please know that I am upset when you just rock up with a tin of baked beans that you bought at the engen garage. Nancy. We relied on the noodle salad. Do the right thing man. Don’t go on.
The Time. Respect the host kanalla. There’s a reason the host said 2pm. It’s to ensure that by 8pm, everyone has had a lovely time and is ready to hit the road. Corona has taught us that it is possible to not end up doing karaoke at 1am with the neighbour whatsapping us to please be respectable. So if the invite says 2pm, it means that you must arrive by 3, for the latest. This nonsense of strolling in after 5pm as though you are Drake is unacceptable. This is also usually the kind of person who says I’m popping in but I won’t eat ne – I’m coming from a thing. This usually turns out to be bullshit because we almost always see Drake later, next to the fire, with a stuk boerewors dangling from his mouth. Yassis.
The Music. Check here, it’s my house. Rented but irrelevant right now. I’m the host so you are only allowed to play the role of the DJ if you are requested to do so. And you would usually receive such a request days before. But you can’t just take over the decks because you lus to hear your numbers. I like Whitney and Wham and Bruno Mars and Elton John. Did I mention Whitney? So you must ma also enjoy them, just for a few hours or so.
The Chommies. Ask the host if you can bring along friends. And the answer usually is No. There’s a pandemic, bladdywill. Also, some gatherings with close friends are precious and we don’t want to use time and energy to get to know brand new people. Plus, one in every 9 people is a kleptomaniac. OK I totally made up that stat. My point is, if your house is full of complete strangers, then you have to lock things away. And then the next day you can’t remember where exactly you hid your sunglasses. And then you start accusing innocent people of theft. It just gets messy. So no, kanalla, don’t bring your new friends.
The Meat. If you brought dodgy meat, be bold enough to eat your dodgy meat. You know for a fact that you did not bring the Woolworths braai pack. You have absolutely no business nibbling there.
Your Playstation Children. No they can’t turn on Uncle Marc’s TV because they are bored and brought along their games that sound like Lucifer revving his car just before dicing near Canal Walk. Oe nee. Your children’s games get played at your house. I’m not going to finish that equation. Lol
But jaaa. We love a good braai. And we absolutely love our friends. Hope you had a great Heritage day! x