Went to Little C's birthday party on Saturday night (Poen's little sister), where Moogs, L and I decided thereafter we would go to the Jolly Roger for a night cap.
Once inside, it's too predictable.
One guy winks at me and gives me the galloping guns. (Oh come on. Seriously) Then sidles up next to me at the bar (Please don't do that – especially if I don't return the wink), while his mate wraps his arms around Moogs, and screams in his ear: YOU LEGEND! YOU ARE A LEGEND!
Moogs a little taken aback mutters a very polite “thanks” and sips on his Bells and soda. The guy then goes: Girls...do you think I'm a legend?
Now let's see. We could have fun with this. Let's help this man believe – with his popped up collar – that he is the king of the fucking world. This can only be fun.
“You're such a legend.” “I can't believe you're talking to me. Hug my mate Moogs again, he loves that. Ruffle his hair in fact. He loves that more.”
No doubt, there's a certain “ah but bless” about this expected juvenile stuff, a certain “Jesus. Can men grow up already” and a “it's a bit of a laugh” around the whole thing, and these guys were entertaining, no doubt.
But then there was Lusitoland. Chaps, this year, my parents came along. My mother, the Colonial French princess, and my step-father, the German. They wanted to experience a Portuguese Afrikaans “get fucked” festival. Can't deny them that experience, come on – they suggested it. I dragged 3RM for support. He's [quarter – whatever] Portuguese, so I figured he'd be the best buffer.
Every year I have done it with friends and gone absolutely crazy. My mother after two caipirinhas was dancing very liberally to a Boereguese rendition of La Bamba. My German step-dad was drinking tankards of the stuff and waltzing around in a backpack. 3RM and I were both cowering in embarrassment and rejoicing at my old ducks doing their thing.
Then, I went to the porter potties to take a slash. And I had a small altercation with three 300kg Afrikaans women who were well plastered. I suddenly realised that this is how it must be with dealing with chavs in England, and a good lesson at that.
One has to drop their heads, avoid all eye contact and pretend to be engrossed with the grass at their feet when approached by chavs.
These three Bettys were going on in high pitched sonerations about how much they all needed a leak, and then proceeded to tap my shoulder in the queue, wanting me to join in their attentive conversation. I just smiled, dropped my eyes, pretended to be doing a complicated maths formula in my head.
They continued, asking me whether I think all men are bastards. I pretended to be mute and deaf and just smiled. Because either answer, good or bad, would've resulted in a klap, most likely.
Then I'm hovering on the said toilet, and they're all in there, singing and dancing about this and that – basically being loud and rambunctious – and one comes up with a
“Dalene! DALENE! Kom ons [just buy more booze] or the likes. [I need more booze].
To which: “Nee man, EK SOEK 'N FOK. I JUST NEED A FOK.”
Then I remember why living here is an endless battle in paranoia and safety.
We almost got smash and grabbed on the way home.
I swear to God. WHAT THE FUCK. HOW MUCH MORE?
He came up the car, cupped his hands to stare into my window in the back seat – I dove across the seat and screamed at my mother who was sitting in a caipirinha daze up front: MUM THERE'S A FUCKING GUY AT YOUR WINDOW, FUCK!
He saw all our alarmed faces and...skipped across the pavement and awaited his next victim. He just fucking carried on and wasn't going to stop, because no one was going to stop him. Fuck that for a joke. This place and it's apathy towards crime has become almost too fucking FUCKED UP for me to handle.
That was me. Six caipirinhas later, being a recent crime statistic myself, and then this, I burst into tears and cried like a baby all the way home.
Fuck this. South Africa and it's crime (and that is also [worse] crime done to friends of mine, and recently my father who was completely robbed this weekend) is starting to resemble Dante's Ninth Level of Hell.