Die Burger

I’m in love with Schalk Burger. He is THE hottest spanner. AND Man of the Match. None of my mates get it. Hell - neither do I. Love is crazy like that though.

Wearing it today like my Grade 2 school blazer. Most of us are taking serious strain after a barely legal triple header. I’ve lost my brain. I think it may have been trampled on (on the dance floor at Bar Zar) and is now stuck like a piece of gum to the bottom of my new Egyptian gay best friend’s size 12 tap-dancing shoe.

Thursday
Attended a FRAT party. For the first time in my natural life, I felt OLD. Crikey - my mates and I brought the average age up to 20. Picture a college jol in American Pie (the movie), and imagine being one of the oldest cheerleaders there. Funneling. Dancing on the lawn. 44 degrees. Sweat – LOTS of it. Pool-throwing. A near arrest. Tequila shots through hole in a gigantic slab of ice. Three of us passed out in Peggy’s bed. Two on the couch.

Peggy and I were operating below the intelligence level of sea cucumbers on Friday.

Friday
Attended Whose Line Is It Anyway, the live show. Almost ejected myself into the row in front of me I was laughing so hard at the five John Cleeses just pulling one beauty after another out of the bag. It was pure quality. Later I was plied with red wine containing a hidden shot of cane (apparently). This led to bum-dancing (and maybe some Latin American combo’s). Superb evening all round.

The fun burglar pulled in around 9am and a tactical chunder was the order of the day ahead of my compulsory spinning class. King K’s phone was mangled and therefore I had no means of cancelling. What a godsend though. We proved that gym is the new fry-up of hangover cures. Bongezis leave the building while you sweat. You like that?