battery acid & adam's chick

So there we are, a whole bunch of us on a Kulula flight last night, and we reckon:
‘Hey man, let’s drink champagne.’

It happens.

Sometimes because we’re a feisty bunch of yacks, we do stupid shit.

I mean you gonna get more bang for your buck if you drink, say the mini white wine bad boys for the same price as the champers per glass, but whatever – we’re feeling festive, we’re all together ( 6 of us), and it’s all good up in the sky, like.

Problem is, Kulula serves their sparkling wine in cans ok. Tins. And it’s called ‘Eve.’ This pink, rose type carbonated fermented merde, whereby by the time you land, you’re already hanging.

Two hours later – we all have a massive headache. We’re hanging man. Before dinner.
C2 reckons JC Le Roux is the same price for a whole bottle and the headache isn't like a migraine.

So it went something like this: Damager (C2’s boyfriend) and I decide to klap one of those cardboard, bread-like-a-Sealy, faccacio bad boys because our stomach linings are discintegrating from hunger. Smash an Eve, and then get hungry again and smash all the Pringles the air hostess has to basically offer. Poen’s boyfriend, Game Ranger Deluxe, is running down the aisle asking the air hostess for more Pringles.

Because we‘re mowing like it’s a sport.

And I mean we’re mowing, chowing all the plane food Kulula stocks, and he’s getting those wild dagger looks from hunger passengers who are ready to gauge his eyes out because we’re eating everything we can see.

The Fritos were ten bucks a bag.

Game Ranger reckons, after deflating the chip bag to reveal like 10 grams of corn sensation: ‘There’s no mark up on these bad boys.’

I’m sceptical.

The plane is very restrictive on my lifestyle, because after two Eve's, you wouldn't mind breaking out a shnaftie.

We blame the ‘Eve’s’, which Damager points out is ‘Harvested not in the Western Cape winelands, but in…Centurion.’
This stuff is made from battery acid in a place called ‘Techno Park’ in the lesser-known fruity viney backdrop that is Centurion. Says so on the can. And everything.

8000 Eves later, we stumble off the plane, hit Café Paradiso on Kloof, for a few mojitos and collapse in bed.

The air in Cape Town was fishy. Chinas, we were smelling the fish in the air something chronic. And can I tell you - it was good.
That sea air, tingling the old nasal passages, the coloured dude who chills on the pavement and screams obscenities at passers-by, with the word ‘Poes’ as the fundamental architecture of each sentence, Slaapstad does have it’s foibles, let us not lie.

Good friends, good location, good wine, battery acid champagne…it’s awesome to be here.

Except the fucking noise. Crisis. There’s this cement machine, 8000 loud and screaming workers and a whole lot of noise going on downstairs right now.

Cape Town is meant to be chilled. But C2 and I sit here bitchin’ and mornin’ because, we're more hung than a pair of donkey's testicles that were born oversized.

It’s the Eves.

Cement mixers on an Eve headache. And Damager was on a conference call at 6:30, like in the middle of the mixers, C2 looking very upset because she was woken up, and then told to shut up.

'Shhh! I'm. On. The Phone.' Yes Damager, we can see that.