Cripes. Feeling like I’ve been hit by a Bundey’s Ball of Fun tour bus.
We’ve shown Miss Reginald Dwight and Miss O a fair bit of Dubai this weekend, but due to the stinking weather it was more an immersion into the lifestyle experience than a jam-packed sightseeing extravaganza. It’s been marvelous. One more of these tours and I will dethrone Robin Leech as the best host in television history.
Sleepless in Seattle
Man I am dog tired. You know that under water vibe? Today I am a salmon, swimming upstream in an inbox full of inane Polish query-mongering. Insomnia is something I would only wish upon All Blacks supporters, and maybe Mugabe.
Arbitrary thoughts, normally tossed aside, always seem worth exploring at 01:30 when you are lying awake like an ADD child on a glucose rush after a Fizzer binge. Underlining most of them is a pressing need for decisiveness. Ironically, at 02:00 you are no longer decisive anyway. Pros become cons, cons become neutral, and the bastards wash indiscriminately over your conscious mind, which by now has become as unruly as a Russian shot-put champion’s bikini line*.
Daniel Carter vs Schalk
What to wear to work / what not to wear
[Shit it’s late. I am going to DIE at work tomorrow.]
When to take leave for which trips. Trips vs other trips. SA in September VS London in October, or both? Skiing vs Sri Lanka, etc.
[I love my life.]
Is my current job worth a damn in the scheme of things?
This week’s gym timetable. Spinning vs yoga. VS VS VS.
[Intermittent analysis of the weekend. I love my life.]
Analysis of Scar Tissue and Anthony Kiedis’s farked up life. Imagining I am him. Realization: I’m not an addict, it’s cool …
Pondering Life as a Polish salmon.
Was Blood Diamond another one-dimensional Tears-of-the-Sun-in-sheep’s-clothing / Ra-rah America load of horse poo, or a fair attempt at least, at telling the African story. I suspect it was the former. But it was worth it to hear Leo call some chap a doos.
*I always feel like Adrian Mole when I write these posts about the inner workings of my mind. Sue me.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Great words
For unknown reasons, certain words hold immense appeal for me. Mention one of them, and it is all I can do to prevent myself from cracking apart at the sides with pure mirth.
Sometimes it is not even necessary for someone to even physically utter the words to induce hysteria. There are days when I will be brushing my teeth/applying mascara/pulling up to a four-way stop, and out of NOWHERE a Tourettes-like guffaw will escape me at the mere thought of any of the following [note: disturbingly, most are Afrikaans]:
Boep (SO much better than ‘paunch’)
Possum (the creature)
Vatlappie (oven gloves – shit what a pearler!)
Boskak (why, why is it such a funny goddamn word?)
Maybe my subconscious dredges up associations based on memories of funny farkers actually saying them with particular relish.
In the same way, it is amusing calling people by other people’s names.
From: Heddles
Sent: 21 June 2007 07:52 AM
To: mate
Subject: Dank Die Here Dis Donderdag
Hi Bob Marley
Thanks so much for a smashing dinner, I swear that was the best lasagne EVER. Garfield would have DIED!
Once I was called Bok van Blerk before I even knew who Bok van Blerk was. I laughed for days.
It is hilarious to throw random names like Salman Rushdie/ PJ Powers/ Kenny Rogers / Queen Latifah into emails/texts. The good Lord only knows why.
Sometimes it is not even necessary for someone to even physically utter the words to induce hysteria. There are days when I will be brushing my teeth/applying mascara/pulling up to a four-way stop, and out of NOWHERE a Tourettes-like guffaw will escape me at the mere thought of any of the following [note: disturbingly, most are Afrikaans]:
Boep (SO much better than ‘paunch’)
Possum (the creature)
Vatlappie (oven gloves – shit what a pearler!)
Boskak (why, why is it such a funny goddamn word?)
Maybe my subconscious dredges up associations based on memories of funny farkers actually saying them with particular relish.
In the same way, it is amusing calling people by other people’s names.
From: Heddles
Sent: 21 June 2007 07:52 AM
To: mate
Subject: Dank Die Here Dis Donderdag
Hi Bob Marley
Thanks so much for a smashing dinner, I swear that was the best lasagne EVER. Garfield would have DIED!
Once I was called Bok van Blerk before I even knew who Bok van Blerk was. I laughed for days.
It is hilarious to throw random names like Salman Rushdie/ PJ Powers/ Kenny Rogers / Queen Latifah into emails/texts. The good Lord only knows why.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Life Scrabble
Bless my mother’s dear little cotton secret sockies. In the midst of my sorting out visit visas (AGAIN) pandemonium, answering inane Polish queries, taking mind-numbing inventories of lists and lists of word documents, and keeping my social email banter up at a respectable tempo, I received the most delightful interruption:
Email Scrabble from my mother, sent to all our relatives.
>
> CHANGE ONE LETTER OF THE BOTTOM WORD POSTED AND SEE WHO GETS STUCK AND
>
> CAN'T CONTINUE!
>
> RULES:
>
> YOU CANNOT ADD LETTERS
>
> YOU CANNOT USE FOREIGN LANGUAGES
>
> YOU CAN ONLY CHANGE ONE LETTER
>
> Send it back to the person that sent it to you, plus 10 new people.
>
> STARTING WORD: foot
>
> Hannah - boot
>
> Mary -bout
>
> Dan - boat
>
> Taylor- coat
>
> Nat - coal
>
> Brian - cool
>
> Bryan – fool
I will leave it at Bryan. What a rockstar.
I particularly enjoy the CAPITALISED instructions. Just makes me want to get stuck right on in.
Anyway, severe dehydration has set in as I have now retuned to my desk after hoofing it to the Arabic Typing Office. It’s a 10 minute walk in the sun and it’s got to be at least 100 degrees out there, and I am pushing beads like an Arabian mare at the Desert Classic.
So I have now got Miss Reginald Dwight’s visa application form in right-aligned, illegible italics. And because my A-rab Sugardaddio is in Hong Kong this week, Kotters is her proud sponsor. He has kindly agreed to meet me at Immigration to sign the form. He is now classified in my books as indispensable.
Email Scrabble from my mother, sent to all our relatives.
>
> CHANGE ONE LETTER OF THE BOTTOM WORD POSTED AND SEE WHO GETS STUCK AND
>
> CAN'T CONTINUE!
>
> RULES:
>
> YOU CANNOT ADD LETTERS
>
> YOU CANNOT USE FOREIGN LANGUAGES
>
> YOU CAN ONLY CHANGE ONE LETTER
>
> Send it back to the person that sent it to you, plus 10 new people.
>
> STARTING WORD: foot
>
> Hannah - boot
>
> Mary -bout
>
> Dan - boat
>
> Taylor- coat
>
> Nat - coal
>
> Brian - cool
>
> Bryan – fool
I will leave it at Bryan. What a rockstar.
I particularly enjoy the CAPITALISED instructions. Just makes me want to get stuck right on in.
Anyway, severe dehydration has set in as I have now retuned to my desk after hoofing it to the Arabic Typing Office. It’s a 10 minute walk in the sun and it’s got to be at least 100 degrees out there, and I am pushing beads like an Arabian mare at the Desert Classic.
So I have now got Miss Reginald Dwight’s visa application form in right-aligned, illegible italics. And because my A-rab Sugardaddio is in Hong Kong this week, Kotters is her proud sponsor. He has kindly agreed to meet me at Immigration to sign the form. He is now classified in my books as indispensable.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Goose
My friend (my special friend) is getting hitched.
The Goose and I have known each other since we were size 0’s with grasshopper legs, sliding down muddy banks in cardboard boxes. We were both accompanying our Heroes (hers, her big brother, and mine, my two big cousins). At first I eyeballed her with suspicion. She wore a floral skirt. On a fishing excursion. I was muddier than she was and wearing boy’s shorts.
I warmed to her when I discovered we shared the same interest in dressing up (me in my grandmother’s crimpalene dressing gown, silk gloves and high heels 5 sizes too big, her in a silky blue number and kilos of lipstick, fanning herself with a feather duster). We looked like two emaciated, underage drag queens.
Our pursuits gradually became more versatile – we played with dinkie cars but we also had dolls. Baked cakes but rode BMXes. Barbies and pool-cricket.
We were conned into hours of tickling the Heroes’ backs for zero payment. It was a slow learning curve – the R2 coins we were promised per ten minutes’ graft never materialized (we were so happy it didn’t occur to us to toyi-toyi).
Goose did ballet and I did horse-riding. We created the best damn hotel in KZN at age 10, for her little sister and her friend to come and stay in: Hotel Pearson. We made the most killer promotional video for it. It was Freddy Mercury meets Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous. The service was astounding.
We waitressed together. We went to Westville Boy’s High socials together, not knowing a soul, and would end up slow dancing with the same two dorks every time (me with waistcoat-and-glasses boy, her with a little child-gecko who came up to her shoulder, transfixed by her beestings).
We painted our nails Tippex-white and read Blush magazines and talked about boys. A lot. Ad nauseum.
Then we went to Varisty and held each other’s hair while we chundered. Ever the control-freak, she insisted on having a bath once when we were 17 sheets to the wind. I demanded that she sing to me so I knew she wasn’t drowning. She picked ‘I luuuurve Paris in the Springtiiiiiiiiiime …’ Special.
After Varsity I missed driving around Grahamstown in her hunk of junk listening to tapes. The Goose went to England with her family and I moved to Jozi. That didn’t really separate us, in fact, for a while, we were closer than ever. We both found ourselves in the stinking armpit of hell regarding the men in our lives at the same time that first year, and there were large quantities of mutual snot and trane spilt down various cathartic channels (phone/email/text).
Since then it hasn’t really mattered how often we’ve spoken/emailed/texted. We still see each other’s inner grasshopper every time we meet.
And now she is getting married. I suppose this is where our parallel lives dramatically diverge for the first time. She has found a wonderful, crazy, funny, intelligent guy who adores the pants off her. And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.
The Goose and I have known each other since we were size 0’s with grasshopper legs, sliding down muddy banks in cardboard boxes. We were both accompanying our Heroes (hers, her big brother, and mine, my two big cousins). At first I eyeballed her with suspicion. She wore a floral skirt. On a fishing excursion. I was muddier than she was and wearing boy’s shorts.
I warmed to her when I discovered we shared the same interest in dressing up (me in my grandmother’s crimpalene dressing gown, silk gloves and high heels 5 sizes too big, her in a silky blue number and kilos of lipstick, fanning herself with a feather duster). We looked like two emaciated, underage drag queens.
Our pursuits gradually became more versatile – we played with dinkie cars but we also had dolls. Baked cakes but rode BMXes. Barbies and pool-cricket.
We were conned into hours of tickling the Heroes’ backs for zero payment. It was a slow learning curve – the R2 coins we were promised per ten minutes’ graft never materialized (we were so happy it didn’t occur to us to toyi-toyi).
Goose did ballet and I did horse-riding. We created the best damn hotel in KZN at age 10, for her little sister and her friend to come and stay in: Hotel Pearson. We made the most killer promotional video for it. It was Freddy Mercury meets Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous. The service was astounding.
We waitressed together. We went to Westville Boy’s High socials together, not knowing a soul, and would end up slow dancing with the same two dorks every time (me with waistcoat-and-glasses boy, her with a little child-gecko who came up to her shoulder, transfixed by her beestings).
We painted our nails Tippex-white and read Blush magazines and talked about boys. A lot. Ad nauseum.
Then we went to Varisty and held each other’s hair while we chundered. Ever the control-freak, she insisted on having a bath once when we were 17 sheets to the wind. I demanded that she sing to me so I knew she wasn’t drowning. She picked ‘I luuuurve Paris in the Springtiiiiiiiiiime …’ Special.
After Varsity I missed driving around Grahamstown in her hunk of junk listening to tapes. The Goose went to England with her family and I moved to Jozi. That didn’t really separate us, in fact, for a while, we were closer than ever. We both found ourselves in the stinking armpit of hell regarding the men in our lives at the same time that first year, and there were large quantities of mutual snot and trane spilt down various cathartic channels (phone/email/text).
Since then it hasn’t really mattered how often we’ve spoken/emailed/texted. We still see each other’s inner grasshopper every time we meet.
And now she is getting married. I suppose this is where our parallel lives dramatically diverge for the first time. She has found a wonderful, crazy, funny, intelligent guy who adores the pants off her. And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Stop the fun bus Dubai City Tours
Peggy and I are insanely good entertainers. Besides our enormous capacity for partying, we are in touch with what the people want when they come visiting the Middle East.
We gave the Racoon and the Boxman the tour of their bleeding lives earlier in the year. They arrived from Mud Island pasty and wide-eyed (Bless them, we said). They left tanned, kitted out in designer gear and henna tattoos - generally far cooler beings. In four days we had covered it all – camel rides, boat rides up the Dubai Creek, kayaking attempts, golf, belly dancing, shisha pipes and hummus, and managed to flick the odd hoof on the odd dance floor.
This weekend we’ll be called upon to cook up an itinerary for the arrival of Miss Reginald Dwight and Miss O, this time tailoring a summer package to allow for the current outdoor discomfort levels as the region becomes increasingly inferno-like. We will be accommodating both ladies’ fondness for the acquisition of goods and chattels by providing access to a cross section of UAE malls. Like Trinny and Susannah we’ll able to provide advice on What Not to Wear in certain parts of the inner city (all feminine flesh should be covered).
If we don’t say so ourselves, we are ridiculously adept at providing the fullest possible tourist experience - from the planning stages (designing itineraries) to hands-on execution (providing accommodation and personally guiding the tour groups) - all while paying special attention to the varying tastes and special needs of our visitors.
Hence. We have conceptualised a new, soon to be outrageously successful, entrepreneurial foray into the world of adventure and explorations of the UAE.
We’re calling it Bundey's Ball of Fun Tours.
We'll have our own Jeep Wrangler (lumo orange), which will be able to ramp pavements better than any Hummer’s wildest dream. There will be flame-throwers and shirtless man-bitches in the back. We'll be blaring Busta Rhymes tunes from our 6 x 9’s and our logo will be a camel with a bottle of Crackling under its armpit.
Sweet titties. It’s going to be a killer!
We gave the Racoon and the Boxman the tour of their bleeding lives earlier in the year. They arrived from Mud Island pasty and wide-eyed (Bless them, we said). They left tanned, kitted out in designer gear and henna tattoos - generally far cooler beings. In four days we had covered it all – camel rides, boat rides up the Dubai Creek, kayaking attempts, golf, belly dancing, shisha pipes and hummus, and managed to flick the odd hoof on the odd dance floor.
This weekend we’ll be called upon to cook up an itinerary for the arrival of Miss Reginald Dwight and Miss O, this time tailoring a summer package to allow for the current outdoor discomfort levels as the region becomes increasingly inferno-like. We will be accommodating both ladies’ fondness for the acquisition of goods and chattels by providing access to a cross section of UAE malls. Like Trinny and Susannah we’ll able to provide advice on What Not to Wear in certain parts of the inner city (all feminine flesh should be covered).
If we don’t say so ourselves, we are ridiculously adept at providing the fullest possible tourist experience - from the planning stages (designing itineraries) to hands-on execution (providing accommodation and personally guiding the tour groups) - all while paying special attention to the varying tastes and special needs of our visitors.
Hence. We have conceptualised a new, soon to be outrageously successful, entrepreneurial foray into the world of adventure and explorations of the UAE.
We’re calling it Bundey's Ball of Fun Tours.
We'll have our own Jeep Wrangler (lumo orange), which will be able to ramp pavements better than any Hummer’s wildest dream. There will be flame-throwers and shirtless man-bitches in the back. We'll be blaring Busta Rhymes tunes from our 6 x 9’s and our logo will be a camel with a bottle of Crackling under its armpit.
Sweet titties. It’s going to be a killer!
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?
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?
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
VIVA THURSDAY VIVA!
It’s Thursday and I am flaming thrilled.
My head would probably be hurting less now if I was banging it against a wall. My pet woodpecker is hammering away at my left temple and I would pay someone a lot of Dirhams to end its life.
Last night the Expats found the most smashing Italian restaurant in the heart of Deira (central Dubai). We knocked back one or two breadsticks, followed by 6 bottles of wine. Then we got into an exhilarating Mars/Venus-type debate. I think it was mostly about the best way to meet decent men in this place. Maybe I started it. Kotters confirmed that no man worth his weight in beef would be likely to approach one of us birds in our usual intertwined koeksuster formation on the dance floor, cackling like sari saleswomen at the souk, gooi-ing suitcases down each other’s throats. The lady-clique is impenetrable, fair enough. But we have fun that way.
Everyone is hanging like bats today. Most have had their A game on in the email banter thus far. Kotters reckons he has Cosatu toyi-toyi-ing in his head. Peggy Bundey nearly coughed up a lung on the treadmill this morning. King K had to do an emergency Starbucks run, Jeanpant is sending filthy jokes, and no-one has heard from the Paki.
Besides my mini hangover I can hardly walk - delayed reaction from that BodyPOMP class day before yesterday. I’m currently stalking around like I have a pool-cue down the leg of my pants.
If it wasn’t for my restricted motor abilities I would break into a toyi-toyi. Since Agent mentioned it, I’ve been craving one.
I know tonight’s going to be a biggie cos Peggy has deleted some key men’s numbers from her phone. That is of course, and aggressive Dop ‘n Dial precaution. Out of respect for ourselves, we don’t want to be sending SMSes to people we shouldn’t be thinking of.
TGIT everybody.
My head would probably be hurting less now if I was banging it against a wall. My pet woodpecker is hammering away at my left temple and I would pay someone a lot of Dirhams to end its life.
Last night the Expats found the most smashing Italian restaurant in the heart of Deira (central Dubai). We knocked back one or two breadsticks, followed by 6 bottles of wine. Then we got into an exhilarating Mars/Venus-type debate. I think it was mostly about the best way to meet decent men in this place. Maybe I started it. Kotters confirmed that no man worth his weight in beef would be likely to approach one of us birds in our usual intertwined koeksuster formation on the dance floor, cackling like sari saleswomen at the souk, gooi-ing suitcases down each other’s throats. The lady-clique is impenetrable, fair enough. But we have fun that way.
Everyone is hanging like bats today. Most have had their A game on in the email banter thus far. Kotters reckons he has Cosatu toyi-toyi-ing in his head. Peggy Bundey nearly coughed up a lung on the treadmill this morning. King K had to do an emergency Starbucks run, Jeanpant is sending filthy jokes, and no-one has heard from the Paki.
Besides my mini hangover I can hardly walk - delayed reaction from that BodyPOMP class day before yesterday. I’m currently stalking around like I have a pool-cue down the leg of my pants.
If it wasn’t for my restricted motor abilities I would break into a toyi-toyi. Since Agent mentioned it, I’ve been craving one.
I know tonight’s going to be a biggie cos Peggy has deleted some key men’s numbers from her phone. That is of course, and aggressive Dop ‘n Dial precaution. Out of respect for ourselves, we don’t want to be sending SMSes to people we shouldn’t be thinking of.
TGIT everybody.
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