Awê ma se kinnes.

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!

Jesus must come back. Enough now.




Awê Ma Se Kinnes!

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: oh 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. Oh 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!


I prefer Hotels.



Awê Ma Se Kinnes!

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, Wham; 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


Awê ma se kinnes!

Check here. I kinda have to go to gym. Otherwise I’ll just die suddenly, while eating something that I bought at drive-thru. Gosh. Which means I will then die in a parked car, in my drivers’ seat. Alone. At like 20-to-2 in the afternoon. How totally sad and uneventful.

I sometimes wonder how I’m going to die. Like most people, I hope it will be quick and painless. And that my last outfit is fabulous. In case it gets widely reported and there are pictures and stuff. And that is why we need to pay attention to our late grannies and mommies who used to tell us to always leave home wearing a clean underpants “in case you get involved in an accident”. I spent a great deal of my childhood waiting to be involved in an accident. I spent a great deal of my youth wearing a skoon onnebroekie.

And not one car accident, come to think of it. All that Omo for nothing.

But ok the bigger point is: leave home looking lekke. You just never know. Could be your last day. Reminds me of one of my favourite motto’s: always dress as though you’re going to bump into your ex. Because you know, when you bump into that one, you want rivers of regret to be flowing. Jaaaaa, cry me a lotus river.

And on the topic of always looking like a snack: while you are alive and kicking, urgently tell your people what your wishes are when it comes to you and your coffin moment. I’ve made it clear to my nearest and dearest that I want to be cremated. And that I definitely don’t want aunties wailing in the church while looking at my very dead face in the open coffin, and then having the nerve to touch my cold forehead. No! I’m already dead! Please don’t double-dead me with those delta variant hands. We’ve all been through enough.

Cremate, kanalla. You can mos go to my instagram account if you want to have one last look at me. There lives the real me. In the right light, with the right filter, at the right angle.

Shoo I’ve digressed. Again. But so off I go to gym. Because once you pay for that personal trainer and (occasionally) sweat your moer off, you realize that in order to really get what you’re paying for, you need to gently step back from the gatsby’s and the samoosas and the daltjies. And that’s a good thing if you want to hold on to all ten fingers and all ten toes. Don’t get me started. My youthful Cape flats eyes have seen too much.

Back to Gym. It can be a very entertaining space. Let’s start with them Personal Trainers. I’ve had 4 in my lifetime. Cape Town and Joburg. All of them good-looking. This good-looking aspect is more important than you think. My sessions are usually at 8am and you need some kind of frivolous motivation to get you out of bed by 6. The entertaining part is listening to personal trainers speak to each other. It’s very seldom about global warming.

And then there are those other characters that you are bound to find at most gyms.

Delilah arrives at gym in full make up, wearing the tightest trendiest gym number, everrr. Her mission is clear. She’s there to turn on more than just the tap. Sloooooowwwwww intenssssse gradient on that step machine thingie. Ammal kyk! And she’s lurving it! Married.

The ex body builder. In his Gold’s Gym vest. He was famous when he won all those competitions in the early 90’s. He now has a coffee shop. He’s friendly. And we are all friendly back. First name basis. Because him and his chommies are also bouncers at that popular club. We mos don’t want to wait in the queue if we personally know dinges.

The gym staff who work the gym floor. We quizzically look at some of them and wonder why it appears as though they’ve never used the gym equipment themselves. One would think ne.

The unfriendly dewwwd. You’ve “known him” for years but the steroids won’t allow him to say hello. Be wary of his towel. If its’ dangling over a piece of equipment, it means he still has “one more set brewwwww”.

And then I leave gym at the end of my session. Feeling holier than thou. Looking down on my chommies who’ve not taken a trot in days. And looking forward to Sunday morning. When I will go to Bo-Kaap to get my favourite koesisters. Life is tricky. A person is only human.



Aweh ma se kinnes!

I’m sorry for not posting a story last week. My cellphone went missing on Sunday night. And found her way back into my anxious arms on Monday. Long story. Well not such a long story actually. In short, tequila was served at cousin Clinton’s birthday bash.  Now when I say “bash”, it was really only 4 of us.  Now when I say “birthday”, it really was a somewhat belated birthday dinner at a lekke smart spot. So ja, cousin Clinton’s birthday was just an excuse to leave home and wear my new blue crew neck jersey from Superdry. Otherwise a person never gets to wear these things. Lockdown Life Mos!

(Ok it wasn’t actually a brand new crew neck jersey. It was a hand-me-down from Anwar. But not actually a hand-me-down. Because he never ever wore the jersey. He bought it and when he came home from the Waterfront he realized that it totally did not look as lekka as it did in the shop mirror. And then we both discovered that it absolutely suited me. Look at God!)

The Birthday Bash. One of the four of us suggested we go to a fancy spot on the Atlantic Seaboard. I won’t say who. Tanya. Elegant setting and rah-rah enough for instagram. Slightly overpriced of course, but being Capetonian, one gets used to this kind of abuse, and one is prepared to suck it up for a fabulous night out. And also, you can’t arrive at a spot on the Atlantic Seaboard with a blue crew neck jersey from Superdry and then look at the menu and say YOH NO WAYS EKSE! No. Behave. This is not the Spur.

Wait quickly. On the subject of not acting surprised when you see the pricetag.  Last week I needed a new harness for my dog Hamilton. Not sure if he’s outgrown the other one or if I just don’t know how to flippin adjust those horrible things. Probably the latter. Anyhoo, off I trot to get a new harness for dikkes. This time ‘round I decided not to act clever and to be completely honest in the pet shop.

Me: I don’t now how to put this thing on the dog and I don’t know how to adjust it.

Assistant: No problem Marc. Let’s decide exactly what kind of harness you’re looking for and then let me get the toy dog and show you step by step how to attach the harness onto the dog.

I was moerse impressed. Chose a sexy looking grey harness. Yes grey can be sexy in a pet shop. Credit card goes through. Thank You Jesus. Assistant asks for selfie and I love him even more. It’s a good day.

I look at my credit card slip in the car and see that sexy grey came in at EIGHT- HUNDRED-AND-FLIPPIN-FIFTY RAND! Huh! That much for a harness! Hamilton is a rescue from De Doorns! Don’t get me wrong, I would have had the same reaction if Hamilton was from Constantia. I just threw De Doorns in there for comic effect.  But yes he is from De Doorns and I am from Retreat and I’m sure that both of us never knew we’d witness the day that a harness valued at eight-hundred-and-fifty rand would ever enter our lives.

Now I’m in the car thinking that I obviously have to go back into the pet shop to say are you jusss. But then I thought I can’t. The assistant said my name AND asked for a selfie. He’s going to tell his friends that Marc Lottering is struggling financially. The Capetonian in me could not live with that.

Look here, I don’t want to make things up ne, but in that eight-hundred-and-fifty rand harness, Hamilton walked like a thoroughbred from overseas!

Back to cousin Clinton’s “birthday venue”. The setting was amazing. The food was tasty and expensive. The service was seriously shit. Which may be why we went for those rounds of delicious tequila. So as to forget about poor service and go for fun, fun, fun!  And fun was had. The pics looked amazing, Insta was lit! Mission accomplished.

Except I got home and my phone was missing. I called the venue and they said it definitely was not there. Of course my mind instantly went to shit service plus phone theft,  just wow!

Found my phone on Monday afternoon, next to my bed. Where I always put it when I get home. For years now already.

Yoh, but that tequila was lovely.



Awê Ma Se Kinnes!

We have not been back to puppy training classes because our dogs are gangsters. In the words of Aunty Merle: “they embarrass a person”.

They have great names, Hamilton and Phoenix. Both handsome. And they are amazing for pics on facebook and instagram. It stops there, much like a beautiful ex.

We’ve had dogs before, Dachshunds. And aside from the emotional “woe is me” blackmail in their eyes every time you picked up your car keys, the Dachshunds were perfect. Because the thing about brown sausage dogs is that they are completely unaware of the fact that they are dogs. Nobody has ever really sat them down to explain to them that they are not people and that’s mostly fabulous. Sadly the two 4-legged humans left us for doggy heaven 7 years ago. (Holly ha can you imagine their shock when St Peter pointed them in the direction of the doggy section).

Enter Hamilton and Phoenix. Hamilton is from De Doorns, lean and athletic; Africanis. Basically mixed, or as my cousin said “Hamilton’s mos a coloured dog”.  We adopted Hamilton via Sidewalk Specials, a totally amazing organization, check them out on insta. I look at the ridiculously important and amazing work that the Sidewalk team does and I have to sit back and say: “shoo God was in a great mood when he made those people.”

Phoenix is a chocolate lab, he arrived as a gift. Just about everybody falls in love with him when they see him. The most beautiful droopy eyes that would make you give him your left lung if he asked nicely.

We were highly optimistic when both Phoenix and Hamilton quickly learnt to pee outside. Then we excitedly started taking them for walks, on their leads. Well that didn’t go so well. They would dig their heels in, particularly when other dog lovers were close by.  Because then we could not say fokkin walk!  No.  We would then need to gently kneel down and sweetly say “what’s wrong baby?”  But of course, behind my buff I would whisper to Hamilton “ek gat jou lekke moer byrrie huis!”  Translated, I’ll be giving you a few smacks when we get home.  Now don’t go calling the spca please, I never followed through on those threats. Those are just idle threats that flow from my sanitized lips, familiar phrases from my upbringing in Retreat.

Off we trotted to puppy classes. Oh my Lawwwd, ok I will say that Phoenix was not as crazy as Hamilton. Hamilton acted as though he had never met me in his entire De Doorns life! Every other pup around us seemed to eventually be doing the right things for those little chicken treats.  Rolling on their backs, walking on one leg and doing somersaults through a fire ring. Not our dogs. You know that moment when you can even see in the trainer’s eyes, she’s thinking “oe jirre we are going to need Jesus for this opera.”

At one stage the trainer said to me “Marc you should speak to Hamilton in a friendlier, more animated voice.”  I obliged, voice an octave up  “I’m Here Hamilton.! Here Hammy!  Good Dog!  Yesss!  What a Boy! ” Hamilton froze and straight-up gansta-stared at me with a look that said what are you on tik?!

I think we went back on three more occasions until we blamed stormy Saturday morning weather. Those storms are still bravely raging on.

My neighbour has suggested we call in a dog whisperer. I may actually do just that, for my own entertainment. Because I think that, that’s one of the best jobs in the world. You are able to tell the owners any kak. How can they argue?!

Me as a dog whisperer: “Fluffy says that your hairstyle does not suit you and it pushes him over the edge.”

Watch this space

And hello, don’t forget to get your ticket for LOOT!