It’s London. A bar in the most elegant city hotel. But somehow you always take the weather with you…
Like Drago here. He’s got a problem. His apartment block in Sofia is going down. The place has really seen better days. Not least because of the cars.
The rapid transformation of Bulgarian society from Eastern bloc austerity to capitalist materialism has meant every sucker with a job and a cup of ambition is driving a car.
Not a special car. A VW Passat, a Nissan Micra, a Mazda, maybe an Alfa… But of course Sofia was not design to accommodate a million cars. The roads, sure, but not the parking lots.
The simple fact is that there is nowhere to park in Sofia. So people park everywhere. The pavements and sidewalks of the city are parked kerb to doorstep with Passats and Mazdas. So tight, that you can’t walk on the sidewalk.
And Drago’s a pedestrian. He’s lucky enough to have a flat right across the road from this workplace at Radio Sofia. So he doesn’t need a car. He can get anywhere in the city on foot.
From his base in the apartment complex. This little, six-storey number here. The one with the twenty hatchbacks parked on the pavement outside. From here he can walk anywhere.
But the problem is indoors. There on the fourth floor, where that Alexander has decided to open a business in his flat. A spa! He opens a spa! In a two-bedroom flat! With Jacuzzi and tanning beds and massage tables. In the same flat where he stays with his wife and their two children!
One day you suddenly notice posters up around the neighbourhood. Radio jingles on Drago’s own radio station. Last week he found himself having to do a live read publicizing the illegal spa in his own building.
Of course it’s a screaming violation of the building’s code of conduct! But no one’s going to say anything, because Alexander is such an uncomplicated individual. Such a direct, salt-of-the-earth guy. You could never get him to sympathise with the building code of conduct. A defiant man.
The last time someone raised an issue with him was the time Kaloyan asked him to stop leaving his rubbish bags in the passage. He got a broken nose for that.
Was the new business really a spa? Not a brothel? A knock shop? A place of prostitution? How can we be sure? Well, we know, because the last brothel was the one on the third floor. When they opened that, the place was suddenly full of young ladies. That was actually rather pleasant. And there was less equipment involved, less threat to the structural integrity.
And those ladies are polite. They’re still there, for all he knows. It’s just difficult to tell them apart from the women running the home-shopping business on the second floor…
Sunday, April 18, 2010
It was like top scoring on a sticky wicket...
It was a sticky pitch. That’s my line and I’m sticking to it. It had been raining the week before and the pitch was laid with dark, loamy soil. It was almost black, that soil.
A black and sticky pitch, that day the Under-14N team drove out to play Westering. The problem was also that we relied too much on our top order.
Our captain, Dave Mallett, had played EP Schools the year before, so we were always expecting at least a fighting 30 from him.
Anthony Marriner was good for ten, and Steve Griffin could wield the long handle in the lower order. So we were always guaranteed to put together at least 50 runs, which, in the under-14 league, is a defendable total.
That isn’t going to happen this Wednesday. We roll up Cape Road and spend the customary 15 minutes getting lost in Westering. As we get out the kombi, we check out the opposition and are relieved to see they don’t have too many big okes.
Alas, big okes aren’t going to be the problem. It’s the sticky pitch, which stops the ball coming onto the bat. At least that’s how Dave Mallett explains it when he trudges back from the middle, having been dismissed for nought.
Grey are batting first, and we are one for one, with our only decent batsman already out, and dejectedly sipping on a tuck-shop Fanta. At least we still have Marrinner… Oh! Looks like that’s him – out caught ‘n’ bowled. What’s the matter Ant?
“Yussie! The pitch is sticky, hey!”
If we don’t watch out, I’m going to have to bat! Oh no! There goes Ant Foster! Good grief! Where’s that Gunn & Moore? Time to head out to the middle…
Guess we’re about to find out what “sticky pitch” means.
“Middle stump, please sir,” I enquire of Mr Crankshaw, who duly grants it. The Westering bowler stands poised at the top of his run-up. A breeze ruffles my schoolshirt, I adjust my sticky ballbox in my white Judrons. A quick glance around the field to try memorise the field placing, and here he comes. A short, tubby, tanned kid with a strange action…
It’s all side-arm. Right arm round the wicket. His first ball pitches outside off stump and bounces up in slow motion, begging to be hit. I shift onto the back foot and crisply late-cut it down to third man. We run three.
The next ball I face, I hack baseball-style straight up and am caught at mid-on.
And that’s it. I am the top scorer for the Under-14 N team. If you don’t count extras.
But when they read the scores out at school the next day, I don’t get to stand up in assembly. Because we lost by ten wickets. We were all out for 18.
A black and sticky pitch, that day the Under-14N team drove out to play Westering. The problem was also that we relied too much on our top order.
Our captain, Dave Mallett, had played EP Schools the year before, so we were always expecting at least a fighting 30 from him.
Anthony Marriner was good for ten, and Steve Griffin could wield the long handle in the lower order. So we were always guaranteed to put together at least 50 runs, which, in the under-14 league, is a defendable total.
That isn’t going to happen this Wednesday. We roll up Cape Road and spend the customary 15 minutes getting lost in Westering. As we get out the kombi, we check out the opposition and are relieved to see they don’t have too many big okes.
Alas, big okes aren’t going to be the problem. It’s the sticky pitch, which stops the ball coming onto the bat. At least that’s how Dave Mallett explains it when he trudges back from the middle, having been dismissed for nought.
Grey are batting first, and we are one for one, with our only decent batsman already out, and dejectedly sipping on a tuck-shop Fanta. At least we still have Marrinner… Oh! Looks like that’s him – out caught ‘n’ bowled. What’s the matter Ant?
“Yussie! The pitch is sticky, hey!”
If we don’t watch out, I’m going to have to bat! Oh no! There goes Ant Foster! Good grief! Where’s that Gunn & Moore? Time to head out to the middle…
Guess we’re about to find out what “sticky pitch” means.
“Middle stump, please sir,” I enquire of Mr Crankshaw, who duly grants it. The Westering bowler stands poised at the top of his run-up. A breeze ruffles my schoolshirt, I adjust my sticky ballbox in my white Judrons. A quick glance around the field to try memorise the field placing, and here he comes. A short, tubby, tanned kid with a strange action…
It’s all side-arm. Right arm round the wicket. His first ball pitches outside off stump and bounces up in slow motion, begging to be hit. I shift onto the back foot and crisply late-cut it down to third man. We run three.
The next ball I face, I hack baseball-style straight up and am caught at mid-on.
And that’s it. I am the top scorer for the Under-14 N team. If you don’t count extras.
But when they read the scores out at school the next day, I don’t get to stand up in assembly. Because we lost by ten wickets. We were all out for 18.
I should be DJing tonight
I should be DJing tonight at Taboo or Zanzibar, or Latinova, or Moloko or wherever the kids of today are jolling. I should be being flown all over the country by promoters and so I can play at dodgy events and then spend the night on their couches…
I should be on the front cover of tabloids complaining about how Arthur stole the beat for his latest song from my single, Umleqwa. I should be living the life, I should be being sued for child maintenance by some presenter on SABC1.
I should be spending a night in the Rustenburg charge-office cells after a scuffle at the Samas between me and the guy from Prime Circle. That’s what I should be going. All because I’m SA’s foremost DJ.
I’ve always had the DJ skills, sure. Great taste in music, timing, handsomeness… All that was missing was the opportunities. So back then, the key was the first big break.
Me and Bopper had been playing around town. We had a night on Mondays at the Brass Monkey. We’d been playing house parties. There was a particularly sweet one in Lansdowne Place. The night I first played Come Out And Play by Duke Mushroom and Acorn kissed this one girl under the tree across the road.
Bopper was jolling at Einsteins that time on alternative nights. But over the one December, he got a gig in Plett for matric rage. So he organizes it so I can play in his place at Einsteins.
In those days Einsteins was the mainest jol. Alternative night at Einies: Tuesday and Thursday night. The playlist never varied. It was the last days of rock music in the mainstream. Dance culture was just starting to make waves, but for now, alternative night at Einsteins was the pre-eminent social event in PE’s southern suburbs.
I’d been going there for years. I could list the playlist by memory. Where Is My Mind, Roadhouse Blues, Blister In The Sun, Loser, Been Caught Stealing, Killing In The Name Of…
Then there’s a spell where it gets more mellow, and you play a bit of a reggae/rock vibe. That’s the place where you play D’yer Mak’er by Led Zep and I Love You by Springbok Nude Girls. I knew it off by heart.
So I make my debut at Einsteins that December. There are girls there. This one blonde girl even came down from Cradock especially…
I play my first half-hour note perfect. Every song in its place. The dancefloor fills up…. Then I get to the reggae place. I play D’yer Maker, then I get out the Nude Girls CD, the one with the big eye on it. I pop it in the CD tray. And – no need to even listen on the headphones – I know this disc like the back of my hand. I fast-forward to I Love You on track 12…
As history shows… I Love You is in fact, track 11. Track 12 is a shite, self-indulgent song called Rabbit. It sounds like someone drumming on a paint tin with their fingers. It is the kakkest song on that whole album.
Its ability to clear a dancefloor is probably unrivalled in all of popular music. My major-venue DJ debut is terminated shortly thereafter. By the time I get to the bar, that blonde girl has gone. Back to Cradock, for all I know.
Suffice to say that now, a decade later, I am not in the holding cells for a shabby, drug-fuelled scrap with a celebrity. I am in my lounge. I go to work at 9am. Not as a DJ.
I should be on the front cover of tabloids complaining about how Arthur stole the beat for his latest song from my single, Umleqwa. I should be living the life, I should be being sued for child maintenance by some presenter on SABC1.
I should be spending a night in the Rustenburg charge-office cells after a scuffle at the Samas between me and the guy from Prime Circle. That’s what I should be going. All because I’m SA’s foremost DJ.
I’ve always had the DJ skills, sure. Great taste in music, timing, handsomeness… All that was missing was the opportunities. So back then, the key was the first big break.
Me and Bopper had been playing around town. We had a night on Mondays at the Brass Monkey. We’d been playing house parties. There was a particularly sweet one in Lansdowne Place. The night I first played Come Out And Play by Duke Mushroom and Acorn kissed this one girl under the tree across the road.
Bopper was jolling at Einsteins that time on alternative nights. But over the one December, he got a gig in Plett for matric rage. So he organizes it so I can play in his place at Einsteins.
In those days Einsteins was the mainest jol. Alternative night at Einies: Tuesday and Thursday night. The playlist never varied. It was the last days of rock music in the mainstream. Dance culture was just starting to make waves, but for now, alternative night at Einsteins was the pre-eminent social event in PE’s southern suburbs.
I’d been going there for years. I could list the playlist by memory. Where Is My Mind, Roadhouse Blues, Blister In The Sun, Loser, Been Caught Stealing, Killing In The Name Of…
Then there’s a spell where it gets more mellow, and you play a bit of a reggae/rock vibe. That’s the place where you play D’yer Mak’er by Led Zep and I Love You by Springbok Nude Girls. I knew it off by heart.
So I make my debut at Einsteins that December. There are girls there. This one blonde girl even came down from Cradock especially…
I play my first half-hour note perfect. Every song in its place. The dancefloor fills up…. Then I get to the reggae place. I play D’yer Maker, then I get out the Nude Girls CD, the one with the big eye on it. I pop it in the CD tray. And – no need to even listen on the headphones – I know this disc like the back of my hand. I fast-forward to I Love You on track 12…
As history shows… I Love You is in fact, track 11. Track 12 is a shite, self-indulgent song called Rabbit. It sounds like someone drumming on a paint tin with their fingers. It is the kakkest song on that whole album.
Its ability to clear a dancefloor is probably unrivalled in all of popular music. My major-venue DJ debut is terminated shortly thereafter. By the time I get to the bar, that blonde girl has gone. Back to Cradock, for all I know.
Suffice to say that now, a decade later, I am not in the holding cells for a shabby, drug-fuelled scrap with a celebrity. I am in my lounge. I go to work at 9am. Not as a DJ.
Get hip to that kind of trip
The daily commuter flight from Joburg to Cape Town departs at 6am every day. We call it the 4.30 Special, because that’s when you need to wake up, if you want any chance of making your flight.
If you’re neurotic, you’ll probably be safer setting that alarm for 3.57am. After that, by the time you’ve screamed down the R21 to OR, parked in the super South long-term parking facility, taken the shuttle bus to the terminal, checked in and boarded your flight, you’ll be in a peculiar psychological state.
Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, you might find yourself slumped in an aisle seat, defiantly ignoring the cabin attendant as he runs through what you’re supposed to do in the case of us crashing into the sea.
Emergency exits are positioned at the front and rear of the aircraft… In the case of emergency, oxygen masks will fall from the ceiling... Pull on your life jacket. Do not inflate it until you’re out of the aircraft... Fit your own mask before helping children or others who need help.
And, oh yes, the cabin staff. I find female cabin attendants among the most attractive beings on earth. And the smarter their uniforms the better. My favourites are the SAA ladies, with their navy skirt suits. Mango aren’t bad either. Those ladies go with the tight, pin-striped trousers. Virgin Atlantic is all about scarlet skirts and blazers, another highlight, especially as worn by up-for-it Brits who’re definitely going for drinks together the minute they check into the Sandton Sun.
So cabin attendants are sexy. Stewardesses, as they were. And my favourite part, I realise, as I alternately try get into my Koos Kombuis book, and fall asleep for a woozy minute, my favourite part, is when you’ve got an aisle seat, and they brush past you.
Their hips brush past you. Their hips on your shoulder as they bustle down the aisle to fetch another little bottle of Johnny Red for the guy in 26C. Proud, curvaceous black woman’s hips swing-swanging, Swing-swanging, swish-swish-swish down the shoulders of the aisle.
If they’re still aware of it, it doesn’t show. Their hips brush up against the passengers, they pretend not to notice and us, we pretend not to notice either.
You can brush up against black women’s hips in lifts, on buses, in doorways, in queues at the movies… and it’s always just so. It is what it is. We live in confined spaces, and sometimes we brush up against each other.
There’s never a “sorry” or an “excuse me” about it. Black women’s hips are a fact of life, and on the 4.30 Special, as they brush past your left shoulder while you hover between reality and dreamland, they make life a little sexier and a little more worth living.
Except that last time, just now. That last one was the dude cabin attendant.
If you’re neurotic, you’ll probably be safer setting that alarm for 3.57am. After that, by the time you’ve screamed down the R21 to OR, parked in the super South long-term parking facility, taken the shuttle bus to the terminal, checked in and boarded your flight, you’ll be in a peculiar psychological state.
Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, you might find yourself slumped in an aisle seat, defiantly ignoring the cabin attendant as he runs through what you’re supposed to do in the case of us crashing into the sea.
Emergency exits are positioned at the front and rear of the aircraft… In the case of emergency, oxygen masks will fall from the ceiling... Pull on your life jacket. Do not inflate it until you’re out of the aircraft... Fit your own mask before helping children or others who need help.
And, oh yes, the cabin staff. I find female cabin attendants among the most attractive beings on earth. And the smarter their uniforms the better. My favourites are the SAA ladies, with their navy skirt suits. Mango aren’t bad either. Those ladies go with the tight, pin-striped trousers. Virgin Atlantic is all about scarlet skirts and blazers, another highlight, especially as worn by up-for-it Brits who’re definitely going for drinks together the minute they check into the Sandton Sun.
So cabin attendants are sexy. Stewardesses, as they were. And my favourite part, I realise, as I alternately try get into my Koos Kombuis book, and fall asleep for a woozy minute, my favourite part, is when you’ve got an aisle seat, and they brush past you.
Their hips brush past you. Their hips on your shoulder as they bustle down the aisle to fetch another little bottle of Johnny Red for the guy in 26C. Proud, curvaceous black woman’s hips swing-swanging, Swing-swanging, swish-swish-swish down the shoulders of the aisle.
If they’re still aware of it, it doesn’t show. Their hips brush up against the passengers, they pretend not to notice and us, we pretend not to notice either.
You can brush up against black women’s hips in lifts, on buses, in doorways, in queues at the movies… and it’s always just so. It is what it is. We live in confined spaces, and sometimes we brush up against each other.
There’s never a “sorry” or an “excuse me” about it. Black women’s hips are a fact of life, and on the 4.30 Special, as they brush past your left shoulder while you hover between reality and dreamland, they make life a little sexier and a little more worth living.
Except that last time, just now. That last one was the dude cabin attendant.
The tip
It’s about two, which is always the watershed time of the evening. Zouk was never going to get super packed tonight, but it’s a nice comfortable kind of full. There’s room to dance, but enough interesting people to make the face-browsing fun.
There’s French okes. There’s always French okes. These guys are here on an IT contract. They like the place because of its Francophone Africa vibe. I like the place because of the sexy girls’ bums and how they gyrate like a water snake, when the DJ puts on that Lady Gaga.
So by two the Red Bull’s wearing off and it’s time to bail. Last pee on the way out, wait for my babe and then we hit the road.
The men’s room has an attendant. Hands you a paper towel after you wash you hands, and a tip box conveniently placed there by the basin. Luckily I’ve got some coins, so I drop ‘em in the box and go wait by the ciggie machine.
Still no Baby. Oh! I’m going to need to tip the car guard! I’ve just given all my coins to the washroom attendant. And besides that, all I’ve got is notes.
So, lemme see. Perhaps I can duck back into the washroom and steal, say, four rand from the guy’s tip box. Six was actually quite a generous tip, come to think of it.
So I wander back into the toilet. There’s a couple of other guys in there, so I go lurk in the stall and pretend to pee. I peer over my shoulder, where the tip box looks like it’s probably out of the guy’s line of sight…
I make a pass for it, but as I get there, the other dudes turn to leave. I quickly change plan and start washing my hands. The attendant passes me a towel. “Shot, dude.” I have to duck out of there without tipping him.
By now Baby’s back, and we head for the car. I check my money clip. It’s a couple of hundreds and a twenty-rand note. I guess I’ll have to give the guard R20. Twenty’s a serious tip, but at least the car guard’ll be stoked. I’ll probably make his night!
We’re parked just across Fredman Drive. Right opposite the club. The car’s still in one piece, so I get out my cash and hand the guard his tip. “Thank you boss, thank you,” he comes. Super grateful.
Just then I notice that, Oh no! I’ve given him a hundred and twenty bucks! No no no no no! I give an involuntary gasp and lunge for the blue note! I just can’t afford a R120 tip!
I just manage to tear the hundred out of the guard’s grasp before he pockets it, leaving him with a now rather forlorn-looking twenty.
I find myself apologizing to the oke, as I retreat into my vehicle. The guy gives me a click of disdain and trudges off without even directing me out of my bay.
I’ve been a generous man tonight, but my PR has been kak.
There’s French okes. There’s always French okes. These guys are here on an IT contract. They like the place because of its Francophone Africa vibe. I like the place because of the sexy girls’ bums and how they gyrate like a water snake, when the DJ puts on that Lady Gaga.
So by two the Red Bull’s wearing off and it’s time to bail. Last pee on the way out, wait for my babe and then we hit the road.
The men’s room has an attendant. Hands you a paper towel after you wash you hands, and a tip box conveniently placed there by the basin. Luckily I’ve got some coins, so I drop ‘em in the box and go wait by the ciggie machine.
Still no Baby. Oh! I’m going to need to tip the car guard! I’ve just given all my coins to the washroom attendant. And besides that, all I’ve got is notes.
So, lemme see. Perhaps I can duck back into the washroom and steal, say, four rand from the guy’s tip box. Six was actually quite a generous tip, come to think of it.
So I wander back into the toilet. There’s a couple of other guys in there, so I go lurk in the stall and pretend to pee. I peer over my shoulder, where the tip box looks like it’s probably out of the guy’s line of sight…
I make a pass for it, but as I get there, the other dudes turn to leave. I quickly change plan and start washing my hands. The attendant passes me a towel. “Shot, dude.” I have to duck out of there without tipping him.
By now Baby’s back, and we head for the car. I check my money clip. It’s a couple of hundreds and a twenty-rand note. I guess I’ll have to give the guard R20. Twenty’s a serious tip, but at least the car guard’ll be stoked. I’ll probably make his night!
We’re parked just across Fredman Drive. Right opposite the club. The car’s still in one piece, so I get out my cash and hand the guard his tip. “Thank you boss, thank you,” he comes. Super grateful.
Just then I notice that, Oh no! I’ve given him a hundred and twenty bucks! No no no no no! I give an involuntary gasp and lunge for the blue note! I just can’t afford a R120 tip!
I just manage to tear the hundred out of the guard’s grasp before he pockets it, leaving him with a now rather forlorn-looking twenty.
I find myself apologizing to the oke, as I retreat into my vehicle. The guy gives me a click of disdain and trudges off without even directing me out of my bay.
I’ve been a generous man tonight, but my PR has been kak.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)