Winex, rah rah yadda yadda.
People pretending to know a little something about wine, asking the usual poncy questions which, if I owned a cellar, I'd be bored to tears. So I decided to go for a different tactic.
Not, "Ooh this is so soft on my palate," and "Is this fruity aftertaste because the cellar is on the foot of the Simonsberg Mountains?" bullshit.
Throwing my glass out there to be filled, Doc reminded me that I needed to actually feign some sort of interest and ask some meaningful questions. I didn't care that the wine is fruity or spicy or tastes like s shoeless beggar's toenails, frankly, all I cared about was that most of it was tasting fucken good.
"So tell me," [squinting at his name badge...] "Rupert Rothschild? Do you guys gently and lovingly massage the juice from the grape's constricting skins, or do you just mulch the fuck outta them?"
The Borg Family Winery took this in good spirit, if I remember correctly, and answered my question along the lines of 'we use hydraulic steel compressors.'
The rest kind of looked at me as though I was mentally insane, but generally, Saffas make good wine. Let's be honest.
Great. Let's drink.
Oh and I was wearing a marshmallow. But that's neither here nor there.
Winex is a great place to get drunk, wielding a wineglass and bumping into all sorts of people – but the lighting! Christ, they have to sort out those fluorescent bulbs man, doesn't leave much for atmosphere or to the imagination, frankly.
I went to a house party that involved all of us first going to watch the fireworks display at St David's next door. Lovely – although I always think of the poor dogs – and also watching a hang of a lot of teenagers graunching and sneaking around the tool shed for a sneaky gwaai.
It was Teen Fest 3 000 there.
Mean Mister Mustard was playing, so we jammed with a whole bunch of obnoxious little shits up front in the mosh pit.
Just being surrounded by hundreds of 14 year olds make me helluva fucken grateful I'm not that age anymore. Jesus, I wonder how we all managed to get past it alive.
Yesterday I was asked out on a day out to the Walter Sisulu Botanical Gardens, out there on the far west rand. Spent the day with the dude, drinking wine and lying on the grass. Was pleasant.
I fly to London tonight, en route to Tel Aviv. I jest it not. Twelve hours to London, then another four to Tel Aviv.
Don't mock the exhaustion and elephantitis when I first set foot in the Holy Land.
I might be going to Jerusalem when I touch down, with a couple of Russian guys.
How's that hey?
Might be jumping on a [hopefully completely bomb-proof] bus and heading to Jerusalem with the Rusky I was with on business in Dublin, to go and see the place.
He speaks very, very.....little English.
But hell, a tour of Jerusalem in Russian? Wouldn't miss that for the world – I mean, it's not everyday that happens, let's face it.
On the way back from Israel, I stay in London for the weekend. Not so sure I'm looking forward to it. But that's a whole other story.