Solo performance of the song "Broken Inside" by my band Green Robots. Green Robots play a brand of African-flavoured punk rock. If you dig this, you'll dig us...
Monday, May 31, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Race of doom II: Touchdown
“My friend. David. Here is my phone number. Remember my face. Somewhere in this airport is my driver’s licence. Please! Please try to find it for me. Please!”
I’m still racing to my doom.
I’m on the plane. It’s 7.30. A miraculous save. I should’ve been flying at 6am, though. So I’m an hour and a half behind the curve.
On my crazed, running-late scramble through OR Tambo, I’ve managed to lose my driver’s licence. So now I’m traveling to Cape Town without ID.
I’m not going to be able to fly back, because they don’t let you on a plane without ID. David is my only hope. A minute before I got on my plane, I grabbed the nearest security guard and begged him, please find my ID. Please!
For now, though, that’s a subsidiary nightmare. I first have to get to this bloody conference. I’m so late!
This may yet be salvageable. If we touch down in Capeys at 9.30, I could taxi it to Stellenbosch pretty quick.
But first, two hours in the clouds, in transport limbo. Alone with my terror. So bladdy late…
A fitful sleep. A blank, uncomprehending flick through the in-flight mag. Finally we’re touching down…
I sprint through arrivals. They’ve rebuilt Cape Town international. Like a target on the run from a sniper, I sprint aimlessly through the terminal, scanning for a taxi logo. Quarter to ten… There! Taxi! With this intense, urgent vibe I’ve recently developed I round on this oke with a walk-talkie and a bib. “I need to get to Stellenbosch. Fast!”
Suddenly I’m hot property. Trip to Stellies must be lucrative for the drivers. After a tug of love, I’m bundled into a taxi and we head. I’ve got my phone out, trying to download a map, plan a route and explain it to my driver. It’s a cunning one through Kuilsrivier, then you hop on the M23 and come into Stellenbosch the back way.
The M23! Ah, we missed it! Missed the turn-off! We gotta get off this highway. It’s after ten. I’ve officially missed the start of the conference. Phone’s losing charge…
It rings! “Hallo! It’s me David. I’ve got your ID!”
“Awesome! You’re my hero! Can you get it Cape Town? Find someone who’s getting on a plane to Cape Town. Any flight! Anyone.”
“Get off here!” to the taxi driver, “Take the M23!”
“Hello! Who’s this?”
“My name is Angela.”
“Angela, please. I’ve left my ID in Joburg. Can you do me a huge favour and bring it down to Cape Town with you?”
“Here! Here! Bottelary Road. The M23”
“You will? Angela, thanks so much. Please leave it at baggage enquiries at Cape Town airport. Thank you, you’re a lifesaver!”
I may yet get back to Joburg. In the meantime it’s 10.20 and I’m lost on the Cape Flats, trying to find Stellenbosch, so I can burst into a conference in mid-stream pale as a ghost and looking like I’ve gone through hell backwards.
Will my boss be angry or even worse, “disappointed”? So bladdy late.
Still shvitsing. The taxi meter’s on R500. Racing to my doom. And paying top dollar for the privilege.
The price of an education. If you’re gonna set your alarm, Make sure you do it properly.
I’m still racing to my doom.
I’m on the plane. It’s 7.30. A miraculous save. I should’ve been flying at 6am, though. So I’m an hour and a half behind the curve.
On my crazed, running-late scramble through OR Tambo, I’ve managed to lose my driver’s licence. So now I’m traveling to Cape Town without ID.
I’m not going to be able to fly back, because they don’t let you on a plane without ID. David is my only hope. A minute before I got on my plane, I grabbed the nearest security guard and begged him, please find my ID. Please!
For now, though, that’s a subsidiary nightmare. I first have to get to this bloody conference. I’m so late!
This may yet be salvageable. If we touch down in Capeys at 9.30, I could taxi it to Stellenbosch pretty quick.
But first, two hours in the clouds, in transport limbo. Alone with my terror. So bladdy late…
A fitful sleep. A blank, uncomprehending flick through the in-flight mag. Finally we’re touching down…
I sprint through arrivals. They’ve rebuilt Cape Town international. Like a target on the run from a sniper, I sprint aimlessly through the terminal, scanning for a taxi logo. Quarter to ten… There! Taxi! With this intense, urgent vibe I’ve recently developed I round on this oke with a walk-talkie and a bib. “I need to get to Stellenbosch. Fast!”
Suddenly I’m hot property. Trip to Stellies must be lucrative for the drivers. After a tug of love, I’m bundled into a taxi and we head. I’ve got my phone out, trying to download a map, plan a route and explain it to my driver. It’s a cunning one through Kuilsrivier, then you hop on the M23 and come into Stellenbosch the back way.
The M23! Ah, we missed it! Missed the turn-off! We gotta get off this highway. It’s after ten. I’ve officially missed the start of the conference. Phone’s losing charge…
It rings! “Hallo! It’s me David. I’ve got your ID!”
“Awesome! You’re my hero! Can you get it Cape Town? Find someone who’s getting on a plane to Cape Town. Any flight! Anyone.”
“Get off here!” to the taxi driver, “Take the M23!”
“Hello! Who’s this?”
“My name is Angela.”
“Angela, please. I’ve left my ID in Joburg. Can you do me a huge favour and bring it down to Cape Town with you?”
“Here! Here! Bottelary Road. The M23”
“You will? Angela, thanks so much. Please leave it at baggage enquiries at Cape Town airport. Thank you, you’re a lifesaver!”
I may yet get back to Joburg. In the meantime it’s 10.20 and I’m lost on the Cape Flats, trying to find Stellenbosch, so I can burst into a conference in mid-stream pale as a ghost and looking like I’ve gone through hell backwards.
Will my boss be angry or even worse, “disappointed”? So bladdy late.
Still shvitsing. The taxi meter’s on R500. Racing to my doom. And paying top dollar for the privilege.
The price of an education. If you’re gonna set your alarm, Make sure you do it properly.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
FHM High Maintenance!
FHM vs Ramblin' Jay Bones, featuring Khanyi Mbau. Co-directed by Hagen Engler and Erik Verster.
Racing to my doom with no ID
My day starts 13 minutes after my plane takes off. Sadly I’m in bed when that happens, and SA 603 is taxiing into position on runway 14 at OR Tambo.
Oh my god! I’m late! I’m late! I missed my flight! I missed my flight! My god! But I set my alarm. I set my alarm. I thought it was getting late! It was supposed to go off at 4.15am!
I pack in 35 seconds, and I’m out the door within a minute. I scramble into the car and I’m on the highway in a freaking state! Oh! My flippin’! God! I missed my flight. We’re off to Cape Town, our whole management team, to go to this conference. And I missed my flight!
I don’t even bother checking my phone, but I know what happened. I set the alarm for 4.15pm by mistake. Hallelujah, the traffic hasn’t quite started, and I’m able to absolutely plant it down the N3, over Gillooly’s and onto the R21. I park in the expensive parkings right at the airport building, and sprint over the boardwalk. I stop at the flight-schedule board. It’s 7am. There’s a 7.30am flight. It’s already boarding, but it might be possible…
I sprint to the SAA ticket-sales counter and meet Arushan. “Dude! You gotta get me on the 7.30 to Cape Town.” It’s R341 for the flight change. By fluke I’ve got cash on me.
“Just go to the check-in counter…”
I lurch across there and immediately forget the flight number that Arushan’s just told me. “I’m on the 7.30 to Cape Town!” I’m schwitzing like a rapist.
I show the guy my driver’s licence. Come on, come on, come on. Ag, no. He’s a rookie. My stress transmits to him, and he starts fumbling over his keyboard. “Er, I’m having a problem with the system…”
After an eon, he hands me my boarding pass and my driver’s licence and I lurch into middle-distance stride across the marble check-in hall. I show my boarding pass to the lady, then ram my phone and keys through the scanner. On the other side I stuff the things into my pocket and…
My drivers! Have I got it? I check my money clip… no. My pockets… pants, jacket, inside and out… Oh god, where’s my driver’s! I’ve lost my driver’s! I’ve dropped it somewhere in the check-in hall. (Tick, tick, tick…)
I’ll end up in Cape Town without any ID! They won’t let me on my flight back!
I grab the nearest security guard. David, his tag says…
“Calm down,” he tunes me, “Calm down!”
I’ve got him by both shoulders, I’m six inches from the end of his nose. My flight takes off in a minute’s time. I’m not got missing two flights in a row. I’m not!
“My friend. David. Here is my phone number. Remember my face. Somewhere in this airport is my driver’s licence. Please! Please try to find it for me. Please!”
Tears are coming. I’m at a low ebb. I’ve got thirty seconds to make the flight that’ll take me to a meeting I’m late for anyway, so my boss can kak on me massively. I’m racing to my doom without any ID.
It is 7.12am on the worst day of my life.
Oh my god! I’m late! I’m late! I missed my flight! I missed my flight! My god! But I set my alarm. I set my alarm. I thought it was getting late! It was supposed to go off at 4.15am!
I pack in 35 seconds, and I’m out the door within a minute. I scramble into the car and I’m on the highway in a freaking state! Oh! My flippin’! God! I missed my flight. We’re off to Cape Town, our whole management team, to go to this conference. And I missed my flight!
I don’t even bother checking my phone, but I know what happened. I set the alarm for 4.15pm by mistake. Hallelujah, the traffic hasn’t quite started, and I’m able to absolutely plant it down the N3, over Gillooly’s and onto the R21. I park in the expensive parkings right at the airport building, and sprint over the boardwalk. I stop at the flight-schedule board. It’s 7am. There’s a 7.30am flight. It’s already boarding, but it might be possible…
I sprint to the SAA ticket-sales counter and meet Arushan. “Dude! You gotta get me on the 7.30 to Cape Town.” It’s R341 for the flight change. By fluke I’ve got cash on me.
“Just go to the check-in counter…”
I lurch across there and immediately forget the flight number that Arushan’s just told me. “I’m on the 7.30 to Cape Town!” I’m schwitzing like a rapist.
I show the guy my driver’s licence. Come on, come on, come on. Ag, no. He’s a rookie. My stress transmits to him, and he starts fumbling over his keyboard. “Er, I’m having a problem with the system…”
After an eon, he hands me my boarding pass and my driver’s licence and I lurch into middle-distance stride across the marble check-in hall. I show my boarding pass to the lady, then ram my phone and keys through the scanner. On the other side I stuff the things into my pocket and…
My drivers! Have I got it? I check my money clip… no. My pockets… pants, jacket, inside and out… Oh god, where’s my driver’s! I’ve lost my driver’s! I’ve dropped it somewhere in the check-in hall. (Tick, tick, tick…)
I’ll end up in Cape Town without any ID! They won’t let me on my flight back!
I grab the nearest security guard. David, his tag says…
“Calm down,” he tunes me, “Calm down!”
I’ve got him by both shoulders, I’m six inches from the end of his nose. My flight takes off in a minute’s time. I’m not got missing two flights in a row. I’m not!
“My friend. David. Here is my phone number. Remember my face. Somewhere in this airport is my driver’s licence. Please! Please try to find it for me. Please!”
Tears are coming. I’m at a low ebb. I’ve got thirty seconds to make the flight that’ll take me to a meeting I’m late for anyway, so my boss can kak on me massively. I’m racing to my doom without any ID.
It is 7.12am on the worst day of my life.
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.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Turns out the okes can still jol
The ales started going down at three. The paintball was at five. The weed came out at six. We got the bus to stop for brandy at six-fifteen.
The first arguments started at half-past seven. We were back at the bar by eight-thirty. The oke in charge got kicked out by nine. He was passed out in his car by 9.05pm and we were on our own after that…
We started losing each other around 9.30. I’d made friends with two strangers by ten. Tried to blag my way on stage at someone else’s show at 10.15. We fluked back into each other around eleven. Still in the same parking lot where we started.
One oke was still able/prepared to drive. The rest of us let him. By 11.15 we were in another parking lot. Footwear became an issue. Visible drunkenness too. There were some like us in the parking lot.
We made it inside by midnight. There were guys from school days in there. Bouncers were unimpressed. Talking to them only gave the game away.
At 12.20 I met another guy in the toilet from the old days.
At 1am I went to check the place round the corner. The search party found me at two. The driver went missing at 2.10am. He was found at 2.25. We were at the nudie bar at 2.40. Again, footwear. We dummied them by splitting up. Two went in, the rest went to the ATM, then we returned individually. The ATM slip says 2.46.
We were watching the stage show by three. There were guys from the old days at the bar. We needed a chow. There was no chow. There was a 24-hour down near the beach. But first there was a lapdance in the office.
At 3.17 there was an awesome song on the car stereo. By 3.22 there were police. By 3.30am there was a compromise. Somewhere between 3.30 and 4.11 there was a hamburger.
Some time after 4.30 we were back at the house. There was a brandy poured before 5am. The television was turned on, loud, at 5.02am. Phone calls were made at 5.11. The hi-fi was on by 5.12. Everyone in the house was awake by 5.14. Harsh words were spoken at 5.22. The hi-fi was turned off. Also at 5.22.
A sandwich was made at 5.24. Marmite and apricot jam. A brandy was spilt at 5.23. A broken glass was quietly discarded in the kitchen bin at 5.26.
A sandwich was used as a pillow at 5.28. A television was turned off at 5.29. A blanket was cast across a sleeping figure at 5.31pm. The lights were turned off at 5.32am.
A short goodnight was spoken at 5.33am. “Ja boet. The okes can still jol.”
The lord of the house went to bed at 5.37am. A bachelor, for now. But not for long.
The first arguments started at half-past seven. We were back at the bar by eight-thirty. The oke in charge got kicked out by nine. He was passed out in his car by 9.05pm and we were on our own after that…
We started losing each other around 9.30. I’d made friends with two strangers by ten. Tried to blag my way on stage at someone else’s show at 10.15. We fluked back into each other around eleven. Still in the same parking lot where we started.
One oke was still able/prepared to drive. The rest of us let him. By 11.15 we were in another parking lot. Footwear became an issue. Visible drunkenness too. There were some like us in the parking lot.
We made it inside by midnight. There were guys from school days in there. Bouncers were unimpressed. Talking to them only gave the game away.
At 12.20 I met another guy in the toilet from the old days.
At 1am I went to check the place round the corner. The search party found me at two. The driver went missing at 2.10am. He was found at 2.25. We were at the nudie bar at 2.40. Again, footwear. We dummied them by splitting up. Two went in, the rest went to the ATM, then we returned individually. The ATM slip says 2.46.
We were watching the stage show by three. There were guys from the old days at the bar. We needed a chow. There was no chow. There was a 24-hour down near the beach. But first there was a lapdance in the office.
At 3.17 there was an awesome song on the car stereo. By 3.22 there were police. By 3.30am there was a compromise. Somewhere between 3.30 and 4.11 there was a hamburger.
Some time after 4.30 we were back at the house. There was a brandy poured before 5am. The television was turned on, loud, at 5.02am. Phone calls were made at 5.11. The hi-fi was on by 5.12. Everyone in the house was awake by 5.14. Harsh words were spoken at 5.22. The hi-fi was turned off. Also at 5.22.
A sandwich was made at 5.24. Marmite and apricot jam. A brandy was spilt at 5.23. A broken glass was quietly discarded in the kitchen bin at 5.26.
A sandwich was used as a pillow at 5.28. A television was turned off at 5.29. A blanket was cast across a sleeping figure at 5.31pm. The lights were turned off at 5.32am.
A short goodnight was spoken at 5.33am. “Ja boet. The okes can still jol.”
The lord of the house went to bed at 5.37am. A bachelor, for now. But not for long.
My directorial debut!
This was the video we took to the FHM conference in Thailand. My directing, and Gord starring. Soundtrack by Zola!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)