Tryst me..

Managed to drag B out of the house on Sunday, and we headed over to Magic's to listen to some music and relax. Cedric and Ian of Tryst fame were playing, and as always they played with passion and a clic that I find enjoyable.I've only ever had one gripe when it came to their music. With unquestionable talent and a ear for music one rarely finds with bands playing in pubs and biker venues, I find it difficult to fathom why they do not play more of their own music. Cedz has an incredible talent to take a cover version and mould and twist it in such a way, that you wonder how come you've never heard this before. And In that lies my complaint. Bikers have the inane ability to get stuck in a rut when it comes to rock music, and with this comes the unending requests for Creedence, Smokey and other boderline Country Rock songs, that have me twisting in my seat.


And although the guys handle it with with aplomb, it is not my cup of tea. Ask for some Santana, or a touch of Moore, and Cedric really comes to the fore, plucking the strings and displaying a voice that is in every way unique among S.A. musos. Stroke the ego's a bit and ask for original music, and again you're left amazed at the deep-felt lyrics, complimented by a strong voice and great guitar work.
Accompanied by a versatile Ian Brady on Base guitar and backup vocal, I'm left stymied why they don't just fuck the requests and play what they know best. Because that is what makes me come back every time.

Hope that wasn't whining too much. Always a Fan.

Cheers!

Hey Dude!

B almost stepped on this fucker last night. Our house is just a regular haven for these buggers.

A Farewell to Arms

The world is one big fucked up place, and no matter how much I tell you fuckers about it, you'll all just go right out and fuck up anyway.
You're all fuckin stupid, and trying to teach you the ways of the World is just one big motherfuckin waste of time.

So as of today I will no longer try to educate you fuckers. I'll post the occasional photo of your idiotic exploits with a short caption denoting my infinite wisdom.

I no longer wish to point out the banality of religion to fanatical fart-asses, who cannot experience the simple displeasures of life without searching for someone to blame.

You fuckers that just can't leave me the fuck alone when I sit on my Ace at a bar. Your choice from now on as to what my reaction will be when you walk over and ask me stupid questions.

And all you fuckers that are just plain fuckin stupid; Good fuckin luck out there.

Fuck all the politicians, fuck cry babies ; fuck traffic hog's and fuck the politicians.

Fuck Taxi drivers; fuck religion; and fuck stupid Dutchmen.

Fuck Shabir Shaik and Fuck Jacob Zuma; fuck the President and fuck Jackie Selebi.


There's only one God, and he's laughing his arse off.

Now fuck off and get to work.

Traffic Problems? ..Blame the Public!

In the past I’ve readily blamed the traffic authorities and government, for most of our problems on the roads of South Africa. Yesterday, however I witnessed the absolute stupidity of the public when it comes to causing congestion on our roads.

Take for instance this scenario, which played itself out on the motorway going home yesterday;

As we join the highway at Kibler Park going south towards Alberton, the traffic almost immediately slows down to a crawl. B and myself already discuss alternate routes and decide to leave the highway at the first turn-off at Randhart and cut under the highway, using a different route, which we’re both familiar with.

So we crawl along and finally we reach the turn-off at Randhart. I look a bit further and see that directly after the turn-off the traffic is flowing smoothly again. What the fuck was the reason for the congestion?

A truck had gone off the road at the on-ramp to the highway, completely out of site. Only a total fucknut, who just happened to crane his neck to near breaking point, could have noticed it. Now everyone was slowing down to stare at the accident.
On the top photo - Orange Arrow:Traffic. Yellow Arrow: Accident (Click on photo to enlarge for better view)

Total time wasted travelling 5km: 20 minutes.

During the past two months or so, the road works agency have installed steel plates on the M2 going East and West, and the speed limit is 40km/h over these plates. So what does the public do? They fuckin stop dead at every fuckin plate and creep over. Wake up South Africa and smell the traffic signs. They’re there for a reason.

The Accident.

How Bona!

This Taxi tried to take the slipway at a high speed and rolled in front of oncoming traffic. Scary!

Tick ,tock... tick, tock

If you wanna know when your sorry ass is gonna visit the six foot beyond, go to the link below.

Apparently I'm going to die in August, 2032. That's just way to much time to live. So I'll be there for the first Mars landing. Time travel? Or perhaps visiting aliens.

The King, of Crap Blog servers. Mweb South Africa

When I first ventured onto the blog scene, I was looking for a place to vent my anger on everything from people to politics, and everything else.

I stumbled upon Blogger, and after a few tentative steps, took the plunge and haven’t looked back. I’m no Computer programmer and my technical skills are sufficient to get things done. I liked the clean-cut pages and enjoyed the fact that No-one had access unless I said so. That was particularly relevant with advertising
(my pet hate). Should I wish to clutter my pages with crap or sell something that was my prerogative to do so.

What I enjoyed most was being able to post photos. I’ve been a keen amateur photographer for my entire life so putting it ‘out there’ was a personal pleasure for me. No more boxes full of photos and shopping for albums. The digital age was here and I was ready to embrace it with both arms and legs.

******

During December of last year I wanted to have a blog with access to local readership in South Africa and opened a blog at Mweb.co.za. You cannot for one moment imagine what hell that was. The fuckin thing hardly ever works.

They have no system to block unwanted anonymous comments and have a ‘most recently updated’ list, which leads to the most incredible phenomenon, bloggers continuously repost articles just so they can remain up top to get readership. Changing simple things like commas and full stop’s just to be able to remain on top of the list for as long as possible. Further to this they have counters, and some bloggers are so obsessed with having the highest count, they do their utmost to blog as much as possible, mostly cut and paste rubbish like jokes and poems.

Posting photos is a fuckin nightmare, the fuckin photo’s take bloody ages to load and even when they do, you’re not guaranteed they’re gonna stay on your blog for any amount of time. They keep appearing and disappearing at the will of some spiteful shit at Mweb, who clearly has no fuckin clue how to run a Blog server. Mweb also only allow the minimal amount of editing and no editing of the html at all!

On top of that they clutter ‘your’ blog with so much advertising, it totally fucks up the page diameters. And to add salt to the wound bloggers are not allowed to put advertising of their choice, or advertise anything on their blogs.

A few bloggers at Mweb really don’t deserve this kind of treatment as they run interesting blogs with good subject matter and minimal use of weird colour text or cut and paste rubbish. They’re the ones complaining the most. The rest are either ignorant or too busy pasting to notice.

Want to see what a really crap blog server is like? Go visit www.mweb.co.za and go to the Blog pages.

Technology Kills

Twice over this weekend I was witness to head-on collisions on the road to and from home. In both instances it was a luxury vehicle and a low end of the market commute.

Admittedly one accident involved a mini bus taxi, and we all know the fuckers drive like fuckin lunatics. But, it had me thinking about the safety features built in to the latest model cars and how it improves a driver’s chances of survival in an accident.

Even new cars at the lower end of the market have, at the very least, driver and passenger airbags, and crumple zones up front. Move higher up the market and you have added airbags in the doors and window frames with perhaps side impact protection. At the top of the range you have all the interior protection plus driver aids like anti skid ABS brake systems, impact sensitive Head Restraints, Impact absorbing interiors, Traction control, Electronic Stability systems, and some, even Night Vision with Heads up Display.

Top end cars also have the latest Xenon headlights that follow the curve of the road, allowing you to anticipate upcoming obstructions at the peripheral of your line-of-sight.

Not to mention those annoying fog lights that especially the BMW drivers are so fond of, even on clear evenings.

All of this makes your chance of surviving in almost any type of accident, including head-on’s, much better than the poor fucker in the Beetle you just T-boned. And that is exactly the point I’m trying to make. If you can afford it, you’re fine and dandy, but those of us who drive around in our affordable runabouts don’t stand a fucking chance, do we now?

On top of that, the fuckers that drive their expensive NHTSA-Approved Mercs and BM’s at excessive speeds, flashing their Xenon’s at unsuspecting nerve-wracked commuters, who’s only ambition is to get home to spend a few hours with their kids and make supper before passing out from exhaustion, I have this to say; Fuck you!

Carry on blaming the Taxi’s and un-roadworthy vehicles for as long as your speed control remains at 140km/h, but hear this; one day you’re going to be the cause of an accident, and although you’ll be a bit shaken and annoyed at your insurance excess, the family in the fully paid-up Corolla, on their way to the coast for holiday are not going to be so lucky.

Think about that, and if you have even the slightest feeling for your fellow man, keep your new toy in line and take it easy with the headlights. I know they’re nice and shiny and make you see the Polar Regions on Mars, but it makes it impossible for an approaching vehicle to see the road.

In my experience you can’t even see the yellow emergency lines, as a last resort to keep your car on the road.

Your luxury vehicle has a ton of added features, they just don't all have to be on at the same time.

Enjoy your 650 iesxtdi, but keep it humble.

Demons Day Jol

Fuck, but it’s been so long since I’ve been able to go to a Biker jol, never mind a Rally. So me and the missus leathered up and made a turn at the Demon’s day jol in Florida two weekends ago.

To hook up with old friends again and rub shoulders with the West Rand bikers was befuck, and well worth the effort. Since the Buffalo Rally, money has been a bit on the short side, and we’ve had to make do with the occasional venture to the local for some well deserved socialising.

The jol itself was no better or worse than any other I’ve been to, but the fact that all my buddies were present made for a great day. It was time to sit back, talk shit and down a few cold Black’s. Herbie supplied the music, and he hardly ever disappoints, with a good mix of Rock and mellow chick music. One thing can be said for us bikers. No matter how time marches on, the personalities stay the same and you never have to feel uncomfortable if you haven’t seen someone for a while. Conversation just carries on as if you last saw each other only yesterday.

Being hooked up with a girlfriend has paid due to my wild, free roaming days, but hell, I miss it so much I’m prepared to take the odd rap over the knuckles if I could do it more often.

See you at the next one. Red knuckles and all.

The most powerful No..

..in the Universe, after America’s veto right in the United Nations, must belong to parents, or so I thought.

When I was growing up in suburbia in the seventies there was no more-powerful word to be heard from a parent.
No meant No. If you asked for something and was given the No, you ventured no further. There was no back chatting or crying or even pleading. The word No meant the end of the matter, and you got on with life. Some children played parents up against each other, and often got a Yes by just asking the other parent at the appropriate moment.

For some reason or another when the word No exits my mouth, it changes matter, much like the transporter beam in Star Trek. Even when I raise my voice, add a grating rumble from my throat, and give a stern look at the recipient, it just has the opposite effect. I’ve always known this, but I continue to hope that just once the No would have the desired effect, and the person would say, “okay” and move on.

Since September last year I’ve been dating the most wonderful woman I could ever have asked to cross my path. I had my eye on her for almost two years, before she finally became single again, and I found out that she had liked me for almost as long. We hit it off immediately and I was convinced she was my soul mate. Not only is she beautiful, she also has an amazingly spontaneous personality that had me smiling silently on more than one occasion. What I had forgotten was that although my love was single, she was the mother of two young children, and things would change, dramatically.

I made a choice early in life that I do not want to get married and have children. Much of my decision stemmed from knowing that I had put my parents through hell for at least 20 of the 40 years of my life. I just couldn’t envisage myself as a good parent, and I was certain I had none of the skills to be a great parent. So for most of my life I avoided child minding, even during the briefest of confrontations.

Now I find myself living with the woman that I love, and two children. The girl is 5 years old, and the boy 7 years old. From the start I said to my love that the kids are no problem and I can deal with it. Was I ever wrong? Never was I more confused as to the meaning of the word No than ever before. I thought it would be simpler. Not dead easy, just simpler. The boy would ask me for something, and if I thought it inappropriate, I would say No and continue with what I was doing. Soon I’d hear crying come from the children’s room, and I’d go over to investigate. The boy would be sitting on his bed sobbing his heart out. When I ask what was wrong, the boy would reply that he wanted this or that and that I had said No. I’d be stymied! I’ve tried to explain to the boy that he was very wise to ask if he wanted something, but then he would also have to accept that if the answer was No, he should be grown up about it and accept that sometimes his requests will be denied.

Asking permission to do something meant there was a certain amount of doubt in one’s mind whether it was the right thing to do, hence we ask permission. For instance; if he had asked me if he could play outside, I could say No because a) His clothing was inappropriate, and I would tell him to change, or b) it was late or getting dark, and he would soon have to go bath or have supper. Also I explained that No today did not necessarily mean No tomorrow. A parent weighs the pros and cons of a given situation and responds in a manner appropriate to the well being of the child. Is it no so? The boy was strangely calm and understanding, and I thought I had finally made a breakthrough.

But by tomorrow, everything would be back to ‘normal’, and I find that migraine creeping up from around the eyebrows again. I’ve even had paranoid moments where I’m certain it’s a deliberate attempt by the kids to make me mad and thereby get me to pack up and get the fuck out. It made sense sometimes, as I move from punishment to shouting, screaming and more often lately to quiet talk. I’ve even tried ignoring them completely, but nothing helps.

For the most part I find myself feeling helpless. I cannot begin to tell you how it pains me to see the sadness in my Love’s eyes each time I loose it with the kids. I love her so much, it is indescribable, but a parent I am not. There is nothing in the world I want more than to make her happy every day, but my mind is fucked. It can’t be easy for her to see this all the time. How she does it I don’t know. The kids listen to her, and hardly ever is it even necessary for her to raise her voice even 1 decibel.

Every evening I promise myself to give her all my attention, as I do every morning, and all goes well until we pick the kids up after work, or they get up in the morning. My mind has no time to rest, to even think. Its just turmoil after turmoil, after turmoil.

I cannot stand the thought of loosing my one Love. I go back to the grindstone and try again.

Rest in Peace

Your steps I follow
My feet sink in the sand
. .and through my toes
the blood red of my future merges with your past

As far as I see there is no glimmer, only the darkness of your scowl
that guides me in my search for your acceptance

Nor a hint of hope or word of praise as I struggle to make my way
through the quagmire of your despair

I must be shackled to your shadow and I cannot break free

All I ask is for a chance to make this future mine, but your testament
to the past will remain the reality of my future

In the eyes of a young child, I now see how afraid I was

I’m sorry dad, but I cannot find your smile.

Rainbow of Mediocrity

During the recent first cricket test against Sri Lanka, commentators were saying how brave South Africa was in their attempt to reach the insurmountable 700+ target the opposing team had set.

Brave my ass! Say things as they are. We were crap, and as is the case with the Rugby and Soccer, no amount of good-boy-at least-you-gave–your-best, is going to make our national teams pull their fingers out of their Asses and step up a gear. The players are a bunch of fuckin Prima Donna’s, and all they’re interested in is the pay package and bonuses. As much as I hate administrators digging in to the affairs of sport, I think it’s high time the players earn their keep. No more extravagant pay packages, and fuck the bonuses too. Until players can prove their worth and stop prancing around like movie stars, I say they should be paid minimum wage. You get a fixed salary, say R5000.00 (too much?) a month and R500.00 a game. If that’s not good enough, then fuck off and let someone who has passion for the game take your spot. Alternatively take sport back to amateur status and pay only match fees.

Our sportsmen think they’re gods, and instead of thinking of the game, their heads are filled with Armani and Tag Heuer.

It doesn’t help that our broadcasters keep telling you the ref was at fault. Players are being paid an enormous amount of money to, supposedly, do what they love. Do you think perhaps knowing the rulebook back to front isn’t part of the deal or what? There shouldn’t be a sentence in that book that you cannot recite word for word when asked. Then how come I still see dumbfuck forwards going into the scrum from the side? Or idiot backs tackeling players who jump in the air to catch the ball. Why is it so difficult for the lineout to move a metre away from the opposing team? Stay on your feet in the scrum; don’t hold the ball after a tackle.
Take the ten most transgressed rules and drill them into your head, and you’re halfway there.

I'm tired of hearing "they did their best".

To quote the wisest man on earth. "Doing your best is no longer good enough" -chihuahua

Where's Lebanon?

If you're in any way interested in the Lebanon Crisis please read this blog. Forget about CNN.

You can get his first person viewpoint of what it's like to be in the midst of a war. He speaks from a Lebanese point of view, but if you're narrow-minded the comments are from all over the world and reflect the World's opinion on the subject. He's not always connected to the internet so he draws and writes down what's happening most of the time.

Click on the heading or the drawing to go to the site.

Happy Birthday Madiba !

Morality - Integrity - Compassion - Humility

The World Cup is over, but as the Italians celebrate over the next few days, another world cup plays itself out at our home on the farm.

We’ve had our fair share of wildlife in and around the house over the past months, with the passing of summer into autumn into winter, and we will have our share of newcomers as spring breaks, just over a month away.

I’ve had crickets in my shoes and spiders in my stack of Jerseys. We found one snake between our feet one summer’s day, while I was cooking, and another seeking warmth from the approaching winters cold, behind the refrigerator. They we’re all photographed and returned to the veld.

We’ve always had field mice in the ceiling and lived with it, as we do with the mosquitoes and annoying flies during summer.

But the newcomers are downright intrusive and noisy. With them they bring filth and disease, not to mention the ability to spread wanton destruction wherever they make their home. Not unlike Nazi vandals let loose in a Jewish cemetery.

Yes, fellow citizens. Rats have invaded our home!
At first we tried to ignore the scurrying, up and down the length of the ceiling of the house. But, when they continued noisily into the early hours of the morning, and started entering the house, I decided to have a look see what can be done about the menace. Two nights ago I grabbed a ladder and armed with a piece of rubber piping, climbed up the ladder and eased open the trapdoor.

I had no idea what to expect, but visions of a fat albino rat in the corner, popping out newborn rat-vandals, every few seconds, did pass fleetingly through my vivid imagination.
So I decided to get the lead-light from the garage first. You know, so I can see where I’m going and not fall through the ceiling and land at dearest’ feet in the lounge. I should mention here that I have an absolute hate for the furry fuckers. I don’t fear them, I just hate them. (Some dignity restored, I hope)

Anyhow, back at the ladder, I opened the door, and shone the light around. I heard them scurrying in all directions and saw shadows rising and falling as I called back to my brother to hold the light so I could move freely.

In the middle against the nearest wall was The Nest. A large mound of grass and twigs, with a few dead mice in various stages of decay, scattered nearby. After we established that the rats had left the building, we started by plugging all the holes and cracks along the roof.

Little did we know that they were in fact hiding under the foam insulation around the geyser, and would be back to their semi-final playoff the moment we had closed the door and returned to the lounge.

The following night we returned to the lair and removed the nest and all the foam insulation, and closed more holes we missed the previous night.

And finally last night there was no noise at all. The rat poison we had left was all but finished, and the dead rats in the garden was a telltale sign that at least the stuff works. I will do some more cleaning over the weekend and lay out some more poison

Seb Blatter closed the 2006 World Cup Final on Sunday. Hopefully the Rat final ended last night.

World Cup Final

At first I thought I would support France to win the World Cup Final, as I was very impressed with their improvement over the course of the Cup.

But within minutes of hearing that France were the favourites to take the coveted Gold Trophy, I changed my mind and decided to support the underdogs, as is my nature.

It was a brilliant final and with Italy levelling the score, I knew it was going to be a cracker. Not even Zidane’s head butt-episode marred a thrilling Kick-off to Penalty-kick final.

What A twit Zidane must have felt like anyway. Either, a Not-Too-Pleasant comment was made of his Algerian Background, or mention was made of his mother making a killing in the red-light district.

I couldn’t care less if you had bad-mouthed my mother, I would have had a one on one with you, after the match.

It’s not the first time either. Back in Oct. 2000 he head butted Jochen Kientz in a Juventus vs. Hamburg, UEFA champions league match. Also remember the stomping of a Saudi Arabian in the ’98 World Cup finals.

Not to worry. He’s sure to apologise, if he hasn’t already, and be forgiven by his millions of adoring fans. That is the way the soccer-cookie crumbles. Marradona’s fans still blame everything but the man, when it comes to his wrongdoings. Why should Zidane’s fans be any different?

Putting pen to paper..

The whole world just loves to blame everything on the United States, and in particular George Bush, as he leaves himself open to so much criticism. For once however, I have to agree that his failure to push for the ratifying of the Kyoto Protocol makes the US no worse than those countries that have signed the treaty.

163 countries for instance, have ratified the Kyoto Protocol, yet those countries do no more or less, than the US or Australia that have not ratified the treaty, to reduce emissions.

South Africa was one of the original signatories, yet every morning and evening I’m treated to the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets to and from work, which are only more remarkable because the pollution accentuates the colours so well. The pictures(click to enlarge) are not of low cloud cover on the western horizon, but pollution formed into lines by a slow northern breeze that blows in from Soweto and the surrounding informal settlements

The most remarkable thing about this is the fact that all these households, including the informal settlements have electricity. Yet, they continue to buy dark coal from the street to burn in drums and old coal stoves. And how does Mbeki propose to teach newspaper vendors not to burn tyres by the side of the road to keep warm at 5 in the morning?

Sign what you want, but if you don’t make a concerted effort to educate your population as to what the long-term effect of their little indiscretions are, you can tear up the documents and use it to keep yourself warm in your corner office at the Union Buildings.

Have a nice day, and remember.. don't blame me for your second-hand smoke inhalation!

My fortune for peace and quiet.

It seems that just as I slide into happydom, something always comes along to fuck my day up, right and royally.

It’s pretty much a fuck up from day one, when you’re just not interested in people and all you want is to be left alone and do as you please. Wake up early, switch on ‘NFS-Most wanted’, and while away a few hours, pissing off cops, as you race around in a Lamborghini or Aston Martin trying to get to the top of the “blacklist”.

It’s never going to happen. People have different agendas, and no matter how much you try to appease everyone, there’s always a missing happy-chromosome somewhere, and my sweaty palms soon turn to dried up frustration. The house fills with other beings and I give up.

Maybe if I fix some things around the house, I’ll be rewarded with some free-time to do some work on my computer, but fixing the bed leads to fixing the bathroom door to fixing the timing on the car to being too damn irritable to change the channel on the TV because my free-wheeling brother ‘tells’ me to, and I fold back into the black velvety folds of my safety zone, for a minute or two before the screaming starts again.

From that which is mine, I get no pleasure anymore.

Take it all; just give me back the peace and quiet that is me.

Whooosh! ..crackle ...pop

One day we're gonna get home and the whole bloody place is going to be burnt to the ground.

I just hate the fuckers that burn the veld just for the fuck of it. They have no fuckin comprehension of what disaster can be caused by a not-so-innocent match thrown into the veld. Especially at this time of the year, when the grass is drier than a spinster's fanny.

Twice now we've had veld fires bordering on our property, with the last one coming right up to the northern wall, and literally melting the bathroom windows. Okay, some plastic sheeting we use to cover a hole in the window, but nevertheless, what the fuck. It could easily have ignited the curtains inside, and laid everything we own to waste.

Some locals also use the grass for thatching, but do you think these brainless fuckin arsonists give a fuck that they're also putting their brothers out of work? I don't fuckin think so.

Let nature take care of business. If it's meant to burn it will burn. Otherwise keep your arsonist depravings for the braai, for fuck sakes.



Cheers!

Born to Porn

I read on a blog how this woman was getting worried about the amount of porn her boyfriend was watching. He’d be up in the early hours of the morning and late in the evening, while she was supposedly asleep, and surf porn sites. She wrote that he was virtually obsessed, and he would get defensive whenever she mentioned it to him.

After confronting him about it over a short period of time, he eventually ‘normalised’ until he no longer surfed porn sites at all. She was actually frightfully worried about his ‘deviant’ tendency, and asked fellow bloggers to comment on the subject. I’m not going to go into the comments, suffice to say that this blog server has an 80/20, female to male ratio of bloggers.

Personally I see no harm in people watching or reading Porn.
It is Porn, as seen from a female perspective, that I have a problem with. Some women feel the reason why their better half watches porn as an inadequacy on their part. Maybe I don’t give him what he wants; maybe he wants women with bigger breasts, or perhaps younger women. Blah de fuckin blah.

Whatever the reasons for their thinking, I’m going to tell you the secret, so the few women that actually read this fucked up blog can go home tonight, and relax, knowing that all is well with their hubbies, and that he’s not a deviant sexual predator, or kinky leather-and-bondage freak.

Apart from a small percentage of men whom enjoy sex of a ‘deviant’ nature or crave for “The kinkier the better” –pleasure zones, the majority of us just love woman, and everything they consist of. In flesh that is. I’m not going to elaborate on loving the spiritual and the mind and all that, as the sole purpose of this article is carnal.

Men love women. That is the crux of the matter. We love your bodies, with their small impurities, blemishes and shortcomings. After all, we are not perfect either, and not counting the ‘over-comb of the bald-spot’ bothering some men, we get along with our bodies quite well, and just wish that you would do the same. The reason we watch porn, is… yes you guessed it! There are naked women. Sometimes there are two or three, or even more together, but we don’t care. They’re women and they’re naked.

Since loosing my virginity at an early age, I’ve had the pleasures of an array of women. Some were stunning, some average. A few leaned towards plumb, and some were rather thin, but I enjoyed the sex with each and every one of them. Can they say the same about me? I would have difficulty believing that. Most of our inadequacies as men stem from the high expectations women have of us. Since childhood they’ve been under the spell of the “White Knight Syndrome”. Someday my knight in shining armour will come, etc, etc. Leaving us with a mountain to climb even before we attempt the first kiss.

It therefore goes without saying, that Porn is also a learning curb for us. It’s an easy stepping-stone, without the rejection and mood swings. I can say without a doubt in my mind, that porn has made me a more versatile lover, and will continue to help many a pimply, pubescent boy on his way to manhood.

Ease up a bit. Perverts may click on the photo

Keep your eyes on the back.

Some years back while checking my Boney before a Rally, I realised that the starter was stuffed, and that I would have to make other plans to get there. So I phoned around asking if anyone had space for a pillion and a sleeping bag. The only luck I had was in a car; with a chap I had made friends with at some biker jol.

He was a spindly fellow, with muscular dystrophy and a passion for talking. He has since passed away, and I mean no disrespect to him or his family in writing this.

As luck would have it, my best friend was also going in the same car, due to his Harley giving him uphill as well. So ‘John’ arrived promptly in morning with a jolly demeanour and a cubbyhole full of Mary Jane. I packed my stuff and off we went to collect my buddy. What was meant to be short drive became a bloody nightmare for me, and when we got to my friend’s house I was a wreck, man.

I’m just the worse kind of passenger. I’ve been in many accidents, and I therefore tend to be nervous as hell, especially in a car.
We picked my buddy up, and I asked if I could sit in the back. It was to get no better.

John had the annoying, and downright scary compulsion, of having to look at you while he was talking. Not so bad when you take the odd glimpse at your passenger, but when you look away from the road for sentences at a time, it becomes fuckin piss-in-the-pants goose fleshy. To make matters worse, he would do the same when talking to me. And I’m sitting in the back!

I asked him if he could please look in the mirror, if he absolutely had to look at me. He’d be okay for a minute or two, before resorting back to practically craning his neck to see me. To make matters worse he smoked Jay, while driving, so the more I ask him to chill out with the driving, the bigger joke it would become with him. Eventually I stripped my moer and asked him to pull over.

I walked around to his window and asked him to get out. He obliged, and I told him to get in the back. I drove the rest of the way and back after the Rally.

Thereafter, whenever John picked me up to go somewhere, he would get out of the car and let me drive. We became good friends and he was a great passenger; passing me a shorty, while I concentrated on the road.

Miss ya, buddy.

Don't Stand So Close To Me

The World is getting smaller, and with this ‘our space’ is getting smaller and smaller. We need to exercise tolerance in crowded places, and give people the little space that they require to maintain their individuality.

I believe this to be especially true in the bigger Cities, where people are constantly harassed, pushed and shoved, and herded like cattle. And I’m only talking about the Ladies toilet at the local Mall. Don’t get me started on the queues at the licensing department. The government are intentionally late when they send your new licence disc in the post. I think they like to see us stand in queues, getting irritated with each other. I’m certain they have running bets in the back-office, as to which individual will be the first to have a tantrum fit when he or she reaches the counter.

I would probably do the same, since the ‘clampdown’ on governmental corruption has put a stop to the ‘backhands’ employees receive under the counter. Another plan had to be made to pay the new lounge suite from Ellerines, or the Mercedes Benz JUV (Jacob’s Utility Vehicle).

But, they’re unaware of the consternation they cause to the Chihuahua. You see; I do not enjoy people.

In the past I’ve admitted to having an ingrained hate of stupid people, when in fact, I dislike most People. Because of this shortcoming, I’ve learnt to maintain a space around me, to safeguard ordinary citizens, lest I become irritable when they venture to close. I’m constantly aware of this silly weakness of mine, so every day I take steps to avoid contact, and heaven forbid, conflict with people. Yes, I know it’s sad, but so far it has worked for me, and unbeknownst to many people, it has worked for them as well.

My hate of all things governmental, stems from having to queue every time I have a billing query, or have to pay my car licence. They’re aware of my ‘problem’ as I’ve explained to the lady over the telephone numerous times. All I ask is that they handle my query in person. Just meet me at the nearest coffee shop and we can sort things out in a jiffy. I’ll have my space and you’ll have yours. I’ve even offered to pay for the Coffee and a sandwich if they’re hungry. The lady said that if they do it for me they’d have to do it for everybody. I didn’t get past explaining to her, that I’m not everybody.

Not special, just very different. A vegetarian Tiger maybe.

My Pet Hates. Chapter One

Often I’m told that I’m too impatient, and get upset about the smallest of things.

Yes, I’m guilty as charged. But, I will defend myself and enlighten you on some of the idiots whom I have to thank for my shortcomings.

Firstly, I have a serious problem in Movie houses. Mostly it is because so many deaf people go to watch movies these days.

Please don’t be shocked and start your accusations with crap like bigotry. You’re thinking; how the hell do deaf people watch a movie? They do, and no, it’s not foreign arty stuff where they’re able to read the subtitles.

You explain to me, how there’s so much fuckin noise while you’re trying to concentrate on following the dialogue in a suspense thriller. The fuckin speakers are huge! If there weren’t walls inclosing the damn theatre you’d be able to hear the sound in fuckin Nigeria, for Christ sakes. Yet, the louder the sound, the louder the talking and rustling of chip and sweet packets. What the fuck? You can only think that these moviegoers have to be deaf. How else can they be that inconsiderate to other people around them?

But, just as I think that deaf people are the problem, a cell phone rings, and then another. Deaf people don’t use cell phones. Do they?

I therefore have to surmise, that there are just a shit load of stupid people in the world. How else can you explain three people having a conversation on their cell phones, in a full movie house, while the movie is on? Hey, Hey?

Next… Don’t stand so close to me.

The Great North

Pollution To The South















Pollution To The West















Pollution To The East















And To The North? Sandton, Bryanston, Pretoria.
Mmmm.. Oh yeah, hardly any. I'm sure emmision
levels are strictly inforced. After all, most of our
politicians and fatcats live there.

Workers Rights vs. Animal Rights

As the Security Strike goes into it’s second month of insecurity, I wonder whether the government had any idea what they were letting themselves into, when they decided to include the ‘right to strike’ clause in our constitution.

Let’s face it, it’s one thing to be considered (by the government) to be the most liberal and democratic country in the world, but quite another when you have to balance liberal freedoms against actions that verge on anarchy. The constitution is very clear about the fact that although strike action is legal, it must be conducted in a peaceful manner and within legal parameters.

Yet, every single strike I’ve witnessed on the news or in person had gone beyond anarchic. Thousands upon thousands of strikers roam the streets with total disregard for property or person. Rubbish bins are upended, cars are damaged, windows smashed and buildings vandalised. Certain individuals defecate and piss in the streets and bystanders are taunted for adverse reactions.

What the fuck! I believe you have the right to ask for wage increases or better working conditions if that is what you need to better your productivity and your living standards, but fuck me, do it in a way that reflects the good of a democratic society.

No, strike action shouldn’t be legal. You shouldn’t be allowed to behave like a fuckin animal and damage and destroy property at you or your union’s whim. Who the fuck do you think pays for the damage after you and your cronies have been on strike action? The very fuckin companies that you’re assigned to ‘Secure’.

After all is said and done, the wage increase is negotiated in boardrooms and courts, not on the street, with pick-axes and screaming like fucking animals. If you had to include the damage that the strikers do into the wage negotiations, you wouldn’t get a fuckin raise at all, would you now? But that’s not what the cunts think of when their Unions let them into the streets to behave like animals.

Viva democracy, Viva!

Road Trips and Desert Graves

Since my father took us on that first holiday down to Amanzimtoti back in the seventies, I’ve been hooked on road trips. We always left at some un-godly hour in the morning, and while the rest of the family slept in the back seat, I’d be sitting, wide-awake, watching the road with my dad. We’d never talk and I never asked how far we still had to go. I was too afraid he’d say “just around the corner”, and the adventure would be over.

You could say it was as early as my 5^th birthday that I started learning to drive as well. I’d watch my dad working the clutch, changing gears and maintain a steady speed as we drove through mountain passes and flat stretches of nothingness. The radio would be playing softly in the background, and all you could see were the lights piercing the darkness.

I always knew when we were nearing our final destination, as my father always planned our trips so that we would arrive sometime in the mid-morning, and the rising sun would be the telltale sign that we were on the last stretch. Those in the back seat would start to rise and my mom would offer my dad some coffee. This meant that we would pull over at the next roadside picnic spot, and mother would break out the sandwiches and coffee. My mom asked about the trip down, and my dad would give her the run-down on the traffic, and how the car was behaving. You see, the last stretch belonged to my mother. She enjoyed driving with the windows open and inhaling the crisp ocean air, while singing her favourite songs. We’d be nose to the windows, trying to be the first to see the ocean.

Those were great times, and the start of my Road trip addiction. Ever since then I’ve travelled this country from one end to the other, up and down and across. I’ve been to almost every town you can think of, or randomly pick off a map with your eyes closed. From Pongola to Port Nolloth, and from Alexander Bay to Coffee Bay. I’ve been to little known gems like Pella, and stretched on the beach at Tsitsikama. I’ve seen all the beauty this country had to offer before the developers spoiled the view.

I always thought that the Karoo would be the last bastion of country life, but the rich are buying out farms quicker than you can say “city life”.

It was during one of my road trips that I looked for that piece of land in the middle of no-where, which no one can touch. I don’t care if you offer me twenty million dollars, it’s mine and it’s staying mine, till the day I die.

My dad paid a pittance for it 30 years ago. I inherited it 2 years ago, and it’s mine. Even if I were to put it on the market for R5 today, no one would want it. You see it’s a ten acre outcrop in the middle of the desert, and there is no running water or electricity. If you were to run electricity to the place, it would cost you a small fortune, and even Eskom’s most hardened workers would refuse to put up the required pylons, or dig trenches in this inhospitable place.

To me it's paradise and I love it. If you’re able to dig even a half a metre into the ground you can bury me here.

Thanks.

It's Black and White again.

After many years riding for my favourite Motorcycle Club, I handed my colours in on Friday.

This was not as easy to do as I thought, and it took me almost a year of contemplation to take the final step. Our club has been in a bit of a rut lately and it would seem that no-one was prepared to step up to the plate and get things going again. The club has slowly digressed into more of a social club, and it was many a month past that any of us had ridden together. There were many reasons for this, but I’m not here to judge or accuse.

During my years riding for the club, I was part as well as creator of many memorable moments. We had some hairy moments with other clubs, but for the most part I feel comfortable with the fact that I met some amazing people and made friends with people I would ride through sleet or snow. I will continue to do this.

I met some great ladies, and I met some downright scary females. I had more fights than I can remember. Some I’m not too proud of, and others I’d fight again. - Simply on principal.

I was a scavenger by name and method, and since leaving those days behind have met many more scavengers whom were not as gentlemanly as I tried to be. Those were lean years, but I pushed through and came up smiling.

I’ve left many people behind who were not prepared to lift themselves up from their disparity, and who will continue to live their lives on the fringes of underground society, stuffing their noses with powder and stealing to maintain that hopeless and degenerative lifestyle. Good luck with that!

As a biker I’ve never sold myself as knowing better, or taken the higher ground on moral issues. I had equal disdain for idiots in biking as I had for the idiots in mainstream life. Some of those idiots were willing to listen, and although I made no impact on their lives, I thank them for taking the time out to listen.

Just as in life, it is not all bikers that are bad; it’s just the bad in some bikers. And I can vouch for that.

To my brothers;

Thanks for raising the tolerance level to accommodate me.

Cheers!

Trollmeister, or the Anonymous twit to the rest of you.

The Anonymous Twit now has his own blog. I'm so exited I could crap myself.

Trollmeister
You're probably here cos you saw one of my comments. If it was on your site and didn't include the F word, consider your blog a success. If you've don't have a trollmeister comment on your site yet, I probably haven't visited.

The Troll says:

. So what now?

Well, I've been impressed by the response. Some people actually think this is a good idea. Cool. Can't believe no-one has done it before really. Or maybe they have. Who knows? Who cares?The plan is to pick one or two sites from each day's trolling and highlight them on here - screenshots maybe or just a link - I haven't really decided.Look - I have other projects to work on (2 other sites), I have a busy job, I have a family. So I can't be spending all my time on here sorting out the internet's problems. It'll just be as and when I have the time and inclination, OK?Once again - I'm not out to assassinate anyone here. All I want is to make the internet more reader-friendly and bearable place for your average surfer by pointing out the odd shortcoming or two on sites I stumble across via traffic exchanges (none of which this site is registered on, incidentally). I expect a bit of backchat - I look forward to it, in fact. I want people to respond and do something about tidying their blogs up.

Chihuahua says:

If you’re going to pass critique on someone’s blog, at least do it with some style, wit or pizzazz.

And since you asked, yes it has been done before. To death. For as long as there has been Internet, there have been idiots who slate other people’s work. If we go further back in time you’ll find anonymous critics or trolls, since the beginning of time. And they’ve always hidden behind anonymity or silly pseudonyms like Trollmeister.

The Troll Says:

“I’m not out to assassinate anyone..”

Chihuahua says:

Then how come I get this from you?

Catch ya later, poes.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006

And this:

you fucking ill-educated fuck?

The Troll says:

What happened this week...
(Or why you shouldn't blog unless you have something interesting to say)3 things happened this week.
It snowed in some bits of the usa.
It was April Fool's Day.
The clocks went forward in the usa.
How do I know?!? Cos every f*****g blogger is writing about them.
"I thought it was Spring and then it snowed" [whine, moan]
Yeah - I think you'll find that Mother Nature doesn't (and has never) worked to a day-specific schedule when it comes to seasons. You live on the Canadian border and have done for the last 30 years. And this still surprises you.
The best (i.e. worst) April Fool post I saw was one girl who said she'd been robbed and then the next day told everyone it was an April Fool. What's funny about that? She wan't even injured. Boo.
Every yank is complaining that their body can't handle the hour they didn't get in bed. It's a f*****g hour, FFS! 1 hour! 60 minutes! Do you all live your lives byu the second over there or something?"I got up late and missed breakfast cos of Daylight Savings..." [whine, moan]
GOOD! You might lose some weight then, you fat cow.
Tip: If nothing interesting has happened in your sad little lives, don't post on your blog. Your post will be about as original as your sudden realisation that you breath a gas called Oxygen. (Yes, you do, you ill-educated tosspot - now, don't go and write about it...)
posted by Trollmeister at 1:54 PM 1 comments


Chihuahua says:

It’s what a blog’s there for. To write about your everyday life. No matter how boring or mundane it might seem to the rest of the world.

The Troll says:

Why Troll?
People who leave "nasty" comments on other people's blogs ("Trolls") are just exercising their right to free speech and to not have to put up with the dreadful array of blogtrash that's out there. I'm not advocating hate speech, I'm just wanting to read something more intelligent, something better written, something worthwhile and interesting. That is my right as a surfer. I shouldn't have to trawl through all that bad spelling, terrible grammar and same old "I don't like George Bush much" rubbish.
THAT BORES ME!
I've had enough. So welcome to Trolling For Fun. If your blog is crap - I'm going to tell you.

Chihuahua says :

Why Troll? Because you don’t have anything meaningful to write yourself. Because you have nothing better to do with your free time than to disrespect other bloggers right to freedom of speech. And since there is no Personal Profile on your blog, you remain an anonymous twit.

The Troll says:

Warrior Dog - Chihuahua's Bite. Man, but you're so SCARY!!!!

Chihuahua says:

Are you ten years old or what? My dad’s bigger than your dad.. blah de blah. Fuck, how pathetically childish.

So yes fellow bloggers, this fucker has really impressed me with his style and educated critique. I’m going to be a better person from this day on. I promise Trollmeister, I do.

http://trollmeister.blogspot.com/

How the West (rand) was lost.

When I first went to Europe back in ’98 I had a bit of culture shock.

I consider myself pretty well read so it could have been much worse. I always lived outside the box, and during the Apartheid years I took whatever the government said with a huge bucket of salt. My father always said that if something feels wrong then it most probably is. Shooting people and depriving the majority of a decent living, felt wrong, and I hated the Nationalist Party tenfold more, than my contempt for the current league of incompetent fools we call the ANC. But, anyway I’m drifting away from my primary topic of conversation. (As usual)

Europe was an eye opener for me, and if I were able to take at least ten people with me, it would have made my neighbourhood a better place. You see, a small percentage of people on The West Rand are caught in a time warp, and these people are obsessed with a bygone era.

Some men still believe the Mullet is fashionable, even though even I can’t remember that it ever was. Fat women insist on wearing tights, and even though Olivia Newton-John has left the eighties behind and changed her image a long time ago. Certain women on the West Rand just won’t let go. They still have that ridiculous, almost-beehive hairstyle that just looks like crap. Ankle warmers always looked ridiculous and still do. Never mind the over-the-top blue and green trashy makeup, which women still wear.

The thing is; there are places all over the Country (World) where people have difficulty moving on and leaving the ‘good times’ behind, but I’ve only lived on the West Rand so I can’t talk about Germiston or Sasolburg, or other less progressive places in the World. In the West Rand however, these few have turned looking and acting stupid, into an art form.

I grew up in the eighties and enjoyed the club scene as well as the music, but let’s face it, New Romantic suited the times, and the time is gone. I no longer find Yazoo foot stomping good, nor can I tolerate more than 4,5 seconds of Footloose. And if I hear Bette Davis Eyes one more time, I’m moving to a cave. If one more person tells me Steve Hofmeyer is actually a nice person, I’m going to savagely beat them to death. I couldn’t give a shit that he’s a nice person. His music sucks and by ‘Reviving’ (Can’t believe I wrote that!) the music of every crappy musician that ever existed, he’s holding people back from discovering the incredible musical era they live in right now.

As much as I enjoy the music of Led Zeppelin, Dire Straits, Kiss, Metallica, Fleetwood Mac, etc, etc. It does not hold me back from finding new talent every day. You’re not gonna find that by listening to 94.7 or 5FM.
94.7 are holding you back because they’re still caught in the eighties. 5FM has so much Kwaito on the Radio these days, I might as well listen to Kaya Fm.

Okay enough about music.

The West Rand is also the place where people feel comfortable to come and die. The reason for this is two-fold. Firstly, you have three generations stuck in the west. The sixties, the seventies and the eighties people. Very few people move beyond the eighties. Just as a new generation grow up; they’re quickly pulled in, by, whatever era of people can get their hands on them first. They have no time to discover a niche for themselves before they’re dragged down and get stuck in the rut. So it only makes sense that a fifty-year-old man can sit in a pub together with an eighteen year-old, and have a good time. They’re only different in age. Their minds have been closed to progress, and it is a comfort zone they’ll dwell in for the rest of their lives.

The second reason Is the comfort zone; West Rand people don’t get out.
I’m not talking about bikers here by the way. Bikers get out all the time. We travel all over the country to get to Rallies, and we experience different cultures all the time. Bikes and Music are our loves, and we keep up with the times. (Whish I could say the same about their women sometimes)
I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count how many people I’ve met in the west who haven’t been past its boundaries. As funny as the Passport joke (you need one to enter the West Rand) might be to us, it would seem some people take it literally to mean that they should live out their lives within the confines of their immediate neighbourhood.

I remember joking to a friend in the eighties, how Pretoria is 40 kays away from Jo'burg and as many years behind the times. This is no longer the case. Not only is Pretoria/Tswane’s youth, amongst the most liberal in S.A., but they are also sowing the seeds of a hip culture, that’s pulling the younger generation in droves across the ‘border’. They’re experimenting with Music, Sex and Literature in such a free and continental way, that it makes you want to stand up and shout; I’m Alive!

I’ve always said: There is no Progressive thought in The West Rand, and I stand by that.

So get off your fucking ass, and go somewhere!

The Legend Lives On.

On the Highway Near Booysens.

The Buffalo Rally - 2006

The Buffalo Rally is more than just a Rally. It's a trip of note, and many bikers feel that it is perhaps the one they have to do at least once in their lifetime. It's almost like a pilrimage of sorts. Similar to the Sturgis in America, the Bulldog in England, or the Faro Rally in Portugual.

It is far smaller(6800 entrees) than The Rhino(15 000+), but what it lacks in numbers in makes up in location, the laid back attiude, and it's total willingness to forgive stupidity. The Rally is run by Bikers, and they know what bikers want. Good music, good food, and entertainment to keep us out of the kak.

Music was supplied via the bands; Addictive, Back on Track and the Flaming Zephyrs. All fuckin briliant!

It was sad to break camp on Sunday, and we prolonged our trip along the coast for as long as possible.

See you all next year! ..and next ...and next


Click on the Buffalo Rally link to see the photos.

From the parallel universe..

Another comment about a comment
I was going to answer in the comment section, but this has always bugged me.

Piscante wrote a comment under my article -A comment about comments.
"Very good opinion. For once I agree with you, enjoyed your post, and didn't cringe at all the swearing.
Very well done. Hope to have some more of the quality stuff."

Okay. First of all, thank you for your comments. Glad you enjoyed it.

However, I have to say that I find your comment pretty condescending. Very well done? You forgot to stick a golden star on my forehead.

I needed to make a point, without a swear word creating an alternate reason for someone to bitch about.

I do swear and I do use so-called profanity in my writings. Somehow -I'm really cross-, doesn't quite cut it like -I'm fuckin pissed off-.

I will continue to use "profanity" in my articles where I feel the need, without feeling compelled to withold it because I might offend someone.
Unless you live in a cave or wear earplugs, I really find it difficult to believe you still cringe at foul language.

Some language is only considered profane, because certain members of society find it a moral necessity to shelter us from the realities of life. To close your ears or eyes to reality is naive. Hiding under a mantle of religious contentment is Phantasmal, and merely weakens you and your offspring's chances of making it to the next centuary.

Life is the drug, Religion is placebo for the ignorant.

Thank you for giving me the vessel to get that out. It's been bugging me for a while.

Three birthday free

During my hard times I allowed myself three birthday's a year. My 'birthdays' were moments during the year where I might have felt sorry for myself, pissed off with something or just felt like drinking myself to death.

I take break from the usual, and visit pubs in my area with only a packet of cigarettes, and enough money for one beer. I almost always got totalled.

Now, during my actual birthday, I like to remember who my friends were and those who weren't worth shit.

On the day of my last 'birthday', July 10th 2003(My father's birthday. Bless his beautiful soul), I had been unemployed for two years. I ended up getting slaughter-drunk and woke up on a carpet in a strange house. I was covered with a blanket had a pillow by my side, and what looked like a bowl of half finished soup. A woman walked in, and greeted me by name. She was huge! I remember quietly feeling if I still had my clothes on. Thank God I did.

Anyhow, If she were ever to read this article, I just want to thank her for not having sex with me. I would also like to thank her for putting up with me for another 4 months, while I found my feet, got over being miserable and went out to find work.

Like to buy you a bowl of soup sometime.

A law onto themselves

Yellow line anyone. Anyone. Going going gone.
This happens almost everyday on the highway between work and home in the afternoon traffic. Law-abiding citizens sit back, turn up the music and patiently idle all the way home. Taxi's do not.

Highwayman Law Nr. 4 4895 2344 8994 00 Sub Article 2.34567937 - States: Any vehicle of a mini-bus catagory transporting ten or more people(as if you'll ever find less in a taxi), does not have to abide by the rule of law as it pertains to any other vehicle on South African highways, byways or suburban roads. Any vehicle in a favourable postion to follow such a vehicle at a reasonable distance, or not, may fall into this catagory as well.

It might as well be law. Taxi's don't wait for the Traffic light to change to green. Taxi's don't stop at red lights or Stop signs. Whether there be other vehicles or not. They travel left of the yellow line when it suits them, and they exceed the speed limit at will. The scariest part? The cops do fuckall about it. Because they're shit scared.

We're asked to vote, be law abiding citizens and tolerate our fellow road users. Fuck them, and their Governmental hypocritical oath. Bunch of swine. Lynch the lot I say. If Anarchy get's you home earlier, then I say go for it. No more Mr. Nice Fuckin Guy.

Toot, toot!

'Rocking' at the Lido

I was driving home on Friday when I saw a banner that advertised a Rock Concert at the Lido Hotel. As luck would have it, it was the kid's weekend with dad, so I asked B if maybe we could get out for a bit of alone time. I told my friends about the concert, and with nothing else on over the weekend, all agreed to meet us there.

I should have been suspicious when I got to the entrance and saw the 'kiddie' parade hanging around. But, with my luck always takng a back seat, we paid and entered. My brain should have heeded the second warning, that was the teenagers screaming their rehearsal grunge on the stage, but I put it down to the band members' kids fooling around.

So by the time the first 'band' came on stage I was perplexed, to say the least. The strumming and drumming was pretty okay, until the kid opened her mouth and screamed for the next 20 minutes, trying to raise Hell itself, I'm sure. B could see by the look on my face that I was not happy, and it's normally at a time like that, which she immediately starts placating me, as I desperately search the crowd for a authoritive figure(organiser). B mentioned that it might just be a 'guest' band. You know, giving the kids a gap to get some airtime of sorts. I chilled and sat away from the band to wait for the second group to start their stint.

It was no better. In fact I've never in my entire life heard such crap, and I used to be doorman at a Goth club. The music was actually quite good at the start of each new song. But, just as I started tapping my feet, the fuckers would open their mouths and cause me to spill my beer. Time and Time again. So when our friends rocked up(he, he), we thought it better to piss off somewhere else.

We ended up at the local driving range(yeah as in Golf), where we could have our own Rock concert via the Jukebox. That was, until the Rugby started, for fuck sakes. We all waved our goodbyes and ended up at home on a Saturday night.

Whomever on earth, told those kids they were playing rock, needs to get a serious wack on the head from yours truly.


You can never predict having a good time. Even at 'Rock' concerts

Chi-Shirts

The first TEST Chi-shirt is off the press. Still experimenting with the transfers and materials, but they should be in full production by next week or so.

The idea is that readers can choose their favourite passage from one of my blogs, and this gets printed on either white or black t-shirts. Once the passage has been used it may not be used again. Making yours a collectable of sorts. The URL address will be on the back with the passage chosen, printed below. The front will have a chihuahua cartoon at pocket height with the URL above and A Biker's Take On The World printed below. Will post the 'pocket' cartoon tomorrow. Also still working out my costing, but I expect the Chi-shirt to be affordable.

My Lord is here, and He's judging already

I Received a call from a friend's lawyer two weeks ago asking me to appear in court to serve as a witness in an RAF case. He asked me to come in to his office on the Monday before the case, so that I could be prepped for my appearance. During prepping he advised me to act as humble as possible and be respectful to the Judge, and call him Your Honour. I've been to court once before so I was quite aware as to the 'Humble' bit.

So, on Tuesday we head off to court, and after breakfast at a coffee shop(paid by the Lawyer), we gather outside court, where I'm asked to wait until it was my time to appear. After about 10 minutes, the lawyer comes rushing out and says that this Judge was a particular nasty customer, and that I should call him My Lord. I couldn't fuckin believe it. Was this guy on a ego trip or what.

After another 5 minutes I'm called in and led to the booth where I was to testify. The Judge was this timid black dude who spoke so soft, I had difficulty hearing him speak most of the time. He then proceeded to shit me out because I wasn't wearing a jacket, and told that next time I appeared, I should dress accordingly. Unless it's my destiny, I'm certainly not going to make a habit of going to court, so I played humble pie and apologised profusely.
I also thought that the "...so help me God" bit was over the top, since he was sitting right there, and any help I was gonna need was just an arm-stretch away.

Fuck, I had difficulty calling this fucker My Lord. I kept slipping into the Honour thing, and the Judge gave me quite a few unhappy glares throughout the proceedings. It fucks my nut that we're supposed to be equal by law in this country, and that I had to dress up for proceedings where I was, not to be Judged, but a witness in a civil case, for fuck sakes. The same thing appears to be the case with our politicians. They think they're above South African citizens, and it's only during elections time that they find it in their rotten hearts to stoop to our level and lick arse for votes.

Fuck all of them, and fuck the judge for thinking he's better than me. I wish I was a Christian just for that one day so that I could tell him what the fuck I think about who's Lord in this fuckin place.

Asshole.

Rock vs Rock & Roll

Elvis is dead, and yes, he couldn't sing. He was a closet gay and his clothing was an extention of his gayness.

Why is it that everytime I request a DJ to play Rock at a jol, they put on Rock & Roll. There is a major difference between the two, and I wish people who call themselves Dj's would wake the fuck up, and learn the difference.

No, Elvis is not Rock, nor is Paul Mcartney. I'm doubtful that Smokey is, and I'm certain Shakin' Stevens isn't. Meatloaf is Andrew Lloyd Webber theatrical crap and so was Rocky Horror. What the fuck's up with that shit anyway? Everytime a new generation leave high school, I find myself listening to the twats rave about that fuckin movie. It sucked, and just because one confused, smoked-up critic classified it as a cult classic, we all jump in the fire as well? Bullshit. The movie sucked and the music was a disease ridden, trance gendered bunch of shit.

I'm positive that Seether is Rock, as I'm certain that Nickleback is, and Creed and Live. Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Guns & Roses, and AC/DC all Rock. Certain songs may verge on Metal, there's the occasional ballad, but essentially It's Rock.
And please!, for the last fuckin time! Dozi's Rock album wasn't original, people. I think his original to cover ratio is about 80% in favour of cover versions.

If you want to define Rock & Roll, think Chuck Berry, Ducktails, stovepipes(tight pants) with white socks and girls that wear pink dresses that look like church bells. They swing, and throw each other around and shuffle their feet like they're killing roaches or something.

It's not Rock, and it hasn't been since Shakin' admitted the King was dead, discovered drugs and moved on. Maybe it's time you do too.