Oh dear. Oh dearie dearie dearie dearie dearie dearie me. Oh God. Oh Lordy. Oh man. Oh man oh man oh man oh man oh man oh man oh man.
Oh fuck shit fuck shit fuck.
Luckily, quite enjoyable. Bit a leeettle indulgent maybe.
And I thought Poen was just being bossy when she started making me drink Cokes on Friday night.
Blotto + lightweight = Trouble. Trust me. Woah, woah woah, what was I drinking? And it wasn’t even purposely to go out and get completely smashed – only a little bit. I actually wanted to exercise some sort of control.
I think it all first started when C and I joined a whole lot of Rhodes boys on Friday night for a couple of toots.
For me, this was just the sort of hilarious, unpretentious company I needed. And it was a good idea to begin with.
It was like Grahamstown in Rosebank, bru.
Then, some person’s name was Humpty but I kept on calling him Cuntie because I thought that was his name.
“Wow, that’s a really…pretty name.”
The hangover was unsurprisingly severe. Because man oh man oh man oh man oh man it’s just too fudging unbelievably unbelievable.
Sorry. But this is when I step down, politely surrender and get off the podium, and not talk about what I did this weekend in large detail, because all I know is: I survived it.
Sunday was even more hectic. Me and The Big T hit town. First he took me downtown to Fordsburg.
To a little curry place, wedged between the Oriental Plaza and Michael Naicker’s Car Stereo Consortium.
We ate bunny chow. It was classic.
Then we headed to the Rand Club. The Ront Club is steeped in chauvinist history, but this had no affect on The Big T. Next thing, we’re downing whiskys with pompous gentleman, singing karaoke in the library. Then he did two lines of coke on the [extensive] Encyclopaedia collection.
[Just kidding. About the coke. But scout’s honour on the other stuff.]
We ate Haagen Dazs in Madiba Square, and then Big T ran through the fountain, humped the Madiba Statue Leg, and drove home on two tyres.
Weekends. You gotta love ‘em.