So we all headed off to C’s farm in Viljoenskroon for the weekend, in Shit Hot Harriet, E’s boyfriend’s Landrover. What a ripper. In between getting slammed in the sun on Bloody Mary’s, we did the usual chilled-weekend-on-the-farm stuff.
I’ve realised I’m not actually as hardcore as previously imagined.
I’m a bloody wuss. In fact.
1) I didn’t straight-cane Cape to Rio from the bar tap thrust above my face like most of the crew (some of these people are crazeee)
2) After claiming I would drink everyone else under the table on Saturday night’s binge-fest, I certainly wasn’t the last one standing. I peaked too early, went upstairs to take a little nap and remained comatose for the rest of the evening.
3) I can’t walk around barefoot anymore, my feet have become…soft. (I blame urbanisation).
Can we actually count the alcohol units consumed collectively?
Something like that.
We had a ‘P’ party on Saturday, where people dressed up as everything from Parys Hilton (me), a Present, a Planet, a Power Ranger, a Prize Cattle, a Pregnant Polka dot, a Pest Controller (armed with a pesticide spray bottle filled with alcohol – which Smoking Legs** thrust down everyone’s faces in a ‘Let’s See Who Can Deep Throat This’, but most often missed the mouth. We all woke up with vodka soaked hair…yummy.
Came back with injuries of note.
1) Bruise on ankle from hitting the chandelier on the ceiling with my foot when I was being thrown in the air
2) Bruise on kneecap after accidentally kneeing Boyfriend in the face (he’s ok)
4) A bump on head from hitting ceiling beam, see point 1)
5) Thorns in my feet.
Smoking Legs and I, (this ties into not being hardcore enough to walk around a farm willy-nilly barefoot), went for a stroll to check out the cows, John Deeres and other farmy paraphernalia, barefoot. What dumbasses we are.
The field was a thorn-infested mine-plain.
It took us 45 minutes to cross over the field because we kept on standing on handfuls of the fuckers. It was epic. We pulled them out by the chunk full, after every step.
I lost my sense of humour.
I had to throw my towel down to take a step forward. He piggybacked me across rivulets of bovine manure, what a dude. All while holding our gin and tonics.
We even got a little sex-education to some extent: C learnt what a camel toe is. (It’s not a camel’s trotter babe, it’s what happens when chicks pull their pants up too high,) I learnt what Dobies Rash is. (Thrush for men basically, and it’s fairly prolific I hear).
Thanks to the Rhodes boys there who taught me the Baiting Game. It’s changed my life. You get someone to do something based on a twisted kind of reverse psychology. Fucking classic. The rule is you can’t bait a Baiter. They catch on.
“I bet you can’t down this bottle of Crackling.” Of course I can, watch!
Or “I hear you can’t hold your drink anymore. You used to be the best boozer in the house, and now you can’t.” That’s pants, watch this! (Person proceeds to down eight shooters and ten beers in quick succession, and thus the Baiting is successful.)
You can even bait yourself. “I bet I can’t jump off this diving board. Well I bloody well will. I’ll show the…myself.”
It’s fun. The personal satisfaction of getting people to do shit when they think it’s their idea to begin with is nothing short of hilarious.
These guys have been doing this game of cheap thrills since they were, like, five. Chicks never think up stuff like this. Again, I love okes hey. They’re always a gas.
Such a great weekend. Was a super awesome crowd of 20, a fun-loving lot really. Coulda stayed there all week.
**After previous requests, Um Boyfriend's name shall thus be called Smoking Legs from here on out.