wandies wall

wall
Originally uploaded by peas on toast.

Oh my god. Last night was absolutely hysterical. Started off by a boozy lunch at Wandies, in Soweto, evidenced by my name on the wall.

I went to bowling club last night with my bitches and met two hilarious men by the names of Sexypants and Voooooogie. Yes with that many ‘o’s.
After many a drinkie-poo was bought, paid for and had, and while conversation flowed like the River Severn during the Welsh flood of 1978, I actually managed to reverse my car up an embankment on two wheels. The back right wheel and left front wheel.

Dude.

I had no idea that I had a semi-tow jutting-out thingie under my back bumper that drilled its way into the grassy knoll on which I had unwittingly reversed. How embarrassing. Especially since Sexypants and Vooooogie witnessed the whole thing from the parking lot, while I was playing “When I dip, you dip, we dip...if you ain't dippin', you must be trippin'...” loudly on my CD player, while I roared up the hill backwards, wheels a-spinning in mid-air. The whole drunken evening I had charmed them with my endless wit and finesse, only to park my vehicle halfway backwards up a 55 degree fucking bowling green slope.

Not to mention Man I Have My Eye On coming especially to say hello to me at the bar, which I managed to pull off with the poise of a bloody elephant. He tapped me on the shoulder, I turned around and for two seconds (one Mississippi, two Mississippi) I couldn’t for the life of me remember who he was. Odd, since he is the fellow I have been masturbating over for the last…like, forever.

The only fertive explanation I can come up with, is, well, I’d spent the whole of yesterday in Soweto researching stories to write while having to usher a tour group around (do I look like fucking David Attenborough?? I’m a journalist for Christ’s sake) and as lovely and as vibey and beautiful as Soweto is (and I say this with sincerity, it really is a place in which I’d love to spend more time – like that Hector Pietersen museum – I really need to go there), but seriously, I was overly-tired and pissed, which is a bad combination with hot men, although I was admittedly, drinking with the girls.

So the three drinks I consumed oh so fucking liberally hit me like a Greek shithouse falling from the heavens. Perhaps it’s cos I chugged too much wine at Wandies, and wrote my name(s) all over the wall, just like what tourists do.
Vooooogie and Sexypants were honestly just the biggest cards ever, two great guys with which to shed my madness, and were jolly good sports to have dealt with our table of chaotic girls at that. And they went to Rhodes – which is coincidentally catastrophic – since I avoid those guys like the plague at the minute. But hey, whatever.

So, my car looks like I reversed it up an uncharacteristically large pile of bovine manure. I sulked and pulled into the Engen garage and bought myself three strawberry milkshakes and the heat magazine, and then realised I had left the bowling club without saying cheerio to Man I’ve Had Eye On, but then, perhaps this retains an air of mystery around me. Since I’m so fucking out there – this does me no favours – perhaps, perhaps, he wondered where I had gone to.
(Truth being, I was trying to rub off chunks of embankment off my car using a stiletto heel in the garage at midnight – was it even midnight?)

Then chugging three strawberry milkshakes ad liberatum, then, well, wanting to play with myself, but instead falling asleep like a narcoleptic as head hit pillow and dreaming of manure, Soweto, Man Have Eye On, and strawberry milkshake fields forever. Not to mention my poor car, Ludwig, who is fine, but full of grass and mud. (The car-guard's eyes were on stalks. Who knew a 2-litre Beetle could take it up the ass?)