Weekend at C's farm was a peach.
The great thing about leaving the Big Smoke to park off on a cattle farm for a weekend is this:
1)You smell bovine manure the whole time.
Why is this so significant?
It ultimately means you're not in the city anymore. And the wonderful, natural, if not steamy stench of cow by-product is a constant reminder of this.
Hits the lungs like a sharp spank on the ass.
Also, being C's farm – we didn't milk cows, hoe fields and fanny about with combine harvesters.
We went clay pigeon shooting, and luckily, squeezing triggers has become a favourite pastime of mine.
We had a double bender until 3:00am both Friday and Saturday. We drank the Free State dry. Every type of alcohol known to mankind was involved – gin shots, rum and vodka, tequila, Jaegermeister, the list goes on. We drank until we were flying across the room and landing on bar stools, making a train up the stairs, crawling on the floor, undressing and diving naked into the pool.
People were drinking wine and tequila together, gin and cane straight shots, cane and Fanta Grape.
Juvenile behaviour is always nubile. I'll give it that much.
The boys who came with us were all very beautiful. One pranced around in a black Speedo like a German tourist – yummy.
Fruit Guy showed me how to pull the trigger good and proper, while aiming at clays in the recently ploughed meilie fields. That was nice, even after recoil bruise in the shoulder.
We had Air Supply Hour, after popping on over to a certain Gerrie's Bar – a place that plays the De La Rey ryperd conglomerate and throws out Springboks like a fast food joint, wedged neatly in between the Viljoenskroon silos and an abattoir.
I did a lot of sitting on the stoep, drinking Mozambican rum, listening to birds.
Like a true chav.
Occasionally the howl of a pregnant bovine would break the silence, or a tractor would trundle by.
It really is the most beautiful farm.
(Chav, I learnt, stands for Council House And Violent, which is a bit bovvering)