Double-decker fun bus

Spent a large portion of last night wrestling with a few bongezi’s. No, not literally. Another disgustingly enormous weekend, double-pronged attack of epic, varsity-like proportions, predictably trails off into a cesspit of psychological restlessness. Some call it Sunday Night Demons - except in Dubai, Saturday is Sunday so you don’t have the soothing voice of David Attenborough to make it all better.

In Jozi, some call it the Ponies. The Goons in London call it bongezi’s because we once thought it was hell-uva funny when someone suggested putting bricks under your bed as a one-time cure. Anyway, last night, that frikken Rihanna/Umbrella song was ricocheting around in my skull until the early hours.

Flashback to Thursday. Korn’s Night of Sleaze was cancelled. So Peggy, King K, the Paki and I headed to Trader Vic’s for a quiet tikkapukka/heavy-handed daiquiri/unnamed drink out of a porcelain vase or four, and watched some salsa dancing. There was one Swayze impersonator throwing women across that floor like human ragdolls. We were loving it. Sexy mover, face like an Alcatraz escapee.

Next thing I knew we had a phone call summoning us to Zinc and were off like robber’s dogs. Now fully out of my starting blocks, I announced that I was going to crack open the dancefloor ‘like an egg’(?!). As you do.

Somehow we smeegled our way in to the VIP lounge and were throwing free Jack Daniels into our faces. It then got gory. Trance music. A live demonstration of how to use a giant pair of hedge clippers. Peggy clutching a bottle of wine on the dancefloor. There may have been some lunging of minors. The VIP Viper-lounge setup had those schnacky-coated spotty peanut things resembling quail’s eggs – boet, HELL-uva funny … Bum-dancing to trance music (?!). As Peggy lay comatose on my lap in the cab home, King K and the Paki yapped like abandoned SPCA specials over the driver’s tunes.

Unsurprisingly, Friday’s recovery was pretty miraculous. Hangovers are halved when you have a significant build-up. That night the Faithless concert, as King K repeatedly bellowed, was almost “a religious expeeerience!”. Hell’s teeth. They are that good. Skinny-ass Maxi Jazz, you king. The craziness was epic. Admittedly, I want to be Sister Bliss. Some random chap dancing like a wild tumbleweed in front of us asked me whether I would give him my “real” phone number so he could take me on his 40,000 dirham boat (but later confessed it may have been a jetski). Bless him – clearly used to getting fake numbers. Armin van Buuren, although a little heavy-handed with the trance-button, is one hot DJ. As in, good-looking. Ridiculously. Not hit with the ugly stick. Shame.

Weekend drew to a pleasing close with the Springboks plasteration of England in the rugby. Victory, to quote a well respected Dubai journalist, was “simpler than Paris Hilton, and twice as satisfying as her prison sentence”.