The black man's music...

I forgot to mention. When I dropped the car back at Jo'burg airport I gave the guy a cd. A blues sampler from Uncut.

I'm sure he would of preferred a straight cash deal but he was visibly moved anyway.

"The Blues, eh", he said.

"Yea, the black man's music in America", I seemed to say out loud.

He then hugged me. Quite a tight one that went on for ages. About 5 seconds probably.

During that period I thought of a few things. The years of apartheid, Mandela, truth and reconciliation. I was thinking how much I loved the people here. It was my last trip and in a funny sorta way I was gonna miss this beautiful country.

Mostly though, I was thinking about the overwhelming smell of body odour and ways that I could conceivably avoid catching swine flu.

Private Meeting

Have you ever seen a more witless, depressing sign that this?

Very much redolent of The Way We Live Today.

Boy A

Watching the brilliant, compelling Boy A film on the flight home last night, during a period of unexampled personal airplane sobriety, I got an idea. I got it from the film and it's this. To go clubbing.

And quite possibly dancing but this is not definite. I just really wanted to be somewhere with banging music. Is it possible to go to clubs where they don't just have thumping techno? I suppose it must be. I have some kind of Samba-Calypso-Electronic fusion in mind. That can be decided later but it has to be very loud. And I'll want strobes and happy, sweaty, beautiful people on acid.

It's quite an incredible movie and, is my wont, I cried many a manly tear.

Then I thought that this idea of not drinking on the plane is way ahead of it's time and should not be repeated.

Clubbing! At my age.

The Gowf

Just got back from the gowf with, friend of this parish, Damian.

Beautiful day and we were both peppering flags with beautifully flighted approaches willy-nilly.

Damian had a hole-in-one the other week and nearly repeated the feat again. At a par three this is a mere two under par. An eagle. Hardly seems enough. Three under is an albatross.

We also had a duck.

Best Tasting Vodka

Here's tonight. I was back in the Butcher's Grill, this time, chomping 'pon some Impala.

There's some points to be made about this picture. I'm not sure how many but, later, I'll click on the numbered list button and then we'll know for sure .

1. I have five (6) waiters waiting on me.
2. They're sharing a joke.
3. The guy, forefront, is holding up his fingers, presumably, to indicate a tiny Caucasian penis.
4. There's a advertisement for Grey Goose Vodka.
5. The quality of the picture is very bad indeed.
6. Grey Goose Vodka claim to be the 'Best Tasting Vodka'
7. This is very important. More so, perhaps, in a drink.
8. I was laughing too. Equally heartily. Waugh had wrote...

Everybody else, how-ever, was there except little Lord Tangent, whose foot was being amputated at a local nursing-home.

Eight!

DECLINE and FALL

I was at the bar earlier reading DECLINE and FALL.

Chuckling over the line:

"Am I going to die?" said Tangent, his mouth of cake.

But it could equally have been any other line. I put down the book to sip my beer and contemplate Waugh's brilliant audacity.

Immediately, a black man appeared as if from nowhere. I mention he was black merely to add colour to the story. He said,

"Don't put book down. They steal it".

I told him that I thought it unlikely.

He explained,

"Some man he Australian leave down wallet in his pocket on the table. Next minute it is stealen".

"In his pocket? On the table?", I smart-arsed.

He ignored me.

"I me good judge just by looking. Always I tell good man and bad man".

"Always?", I asked.

"Sometimes it's 50-50", he admitted.

He walked away after that. I think he knew it was going nowhere.

BBC 'Entertainment'

Last night I was, as my youngest daughter once memorably put it, two hundred percent under the weather. I'll spare you the details but, suffice to say, I was lying in bed unable to do anything except look at the television which was on the 'BBC Entertainment' channel.

When I was younger I used to quite happily watch all manner of BBC drama. Nowadays I find it unremittingly awful. Last night was no exception.

We started with Ashes to Ashes which promisingly starred my old school mate, Keeley Hawes. Sadly, I have to report that, stunning as she looked, she was flippin' awful in this absurd police drama with it's annoying habit of shoehorning irrelevant eighties references into the dialogue. Yes we know it's the bloody eighties just by looking at your stupid clothes. This show was unbelievably badly plotted and written and when it was finished I was at least another hundred percent under the weather.

Next up, Mistresses which was supposed to be sexy. It's not sexy. It's just plain silly. The entire episode was basically a build up towards a sex scene with each of the four female protagonists. Not together but with separate men, you understand. And the sex scenes had barely any sex in them. So my advice would be to forget the turgid build up and just fill the entire show full of long and explicit sex scenes. Just an idea.

Last was New Tricks at which, fortunately, I quickly became fast asleep. Before I dozed off it had showed definite signs of being, amongst staggeringly stiff competition, the worst show of a very enlightening, bed-bound evening.

Am I to believe they actually broadcast this shite on British television?

Ice in Urinals

In the famous Butcher's Grill they fill the urinals full of ice. A point on this. Adding ice to urinals is only hygienic if you don't touch it.

The urinals in question were relatively low. A short man might find it difficult to avoid contact with the ice. Especially if he was in possession of a large penis.

...I'm not talking about me here by the way...

Last night I was joined at the urinals by a short man with a large penis. I could tell he was short by looking at him. He informed me that he had a large penis.

...I didn't look...

"This fucking ice. They don't think of short guys with big dicks. I'm struggling here to keep it off the fucking ice". He said.

I looked at him. "Ice is only hygienic if you don't touch it", I said.

Drinking with the kids

The last word on Jo'burg. In the lounge, waiting on the flight. Drinking, annoying Muslim smokers.

Snickered at snippets of conversation from IT types over from me. "We need to take this further up the value chain", one actually uttered. Then another, "If I have penetration I can do anything". At which alcoholic orange juice came out my nose. I was happy.

A family sat down beside me. They were South African but lived on the Isle of Man. I ignored the adults, who looked a bit iffy, and chatted to their kids. I asked them if they still had lager and lime flavoured ice lollies in Douglas. They looked at me funny and shook their heads. I told them that was very disappointing and that, in my youth, they not only had lager and lime flavoured but, also, cider ones. This is quite true or at least that's how I remember it from 1980. Much had obviously changed in the last (nearly) 30 years. And not for the better.

The Mum then asked me what I was doing in Jo'burg. I told her that I was in the platinum business. Then the Dad, Mr Sports Casual with a foppish fringe, asked me where I was from. I told him I was Welsh.

Then they got up to have a fag. The parents that is. Leaving the kids with me. "Am I in charge?", I asked them. "Yes", they told the kids, "Davie is in charge now so be good". They really liked me. I'd told them my name was Davie Bond, a platinum miner from Wales. I hated them.

As soon as they went into the multi-denominational smoking room I asked the kids if they wanted a beer.

"No thanks", said the poor saps as one.

"You sure?", I replied. "I'm in charge now".

"No thanks", they repeated.

That was the end if it.

One Religion

I took this picture, of a Muslim man smoking a cigarette, whilst I was drinking large John Martyns in the Serviceair lounge at Jozi airport. He was smoking in the smoking section alongside all the other smokers.

I was a bit drunk. I liked the look of him. He looked cool. I thought the picture would say something. Perhaps it would paint a thousand words. What those words might be, at this remove, elude me. As I said, I was a bit drunk.

Thing is, a bad thing happened. He caught me taking the picture. He definitely did, and he stared at me threateningly until I quit that place. I feel bad about it. Don't Muslim travellers have enough to contend with without bloggers with half baked ideas of painting pictures with words (and pictures) taking pictures of them?

I think what I was getting at is this. Smoking is a great leveller. There he was, smoking in the smoking lounge, with other smokers from who knows how many different religions. Brought together, in that smokey room, by a shared addiction. To religion.

Quite touching really.

A non-existant Feast

In Paris airport, early Saturday morning. I'd slept badly on the flight and dreamed that Rachel Getting Married was just a bad dream. I awoke to a stark realisation of the truth. It made me feel sick. Possibly that was the wine though.

I was tired and hungry and Paris airport on Saturday morning appeared to contain no food in it. It had some exorbitantly priced fancy boxes containing designer comestibles laid out on space age shelving. But no food.

Then I saw the sign for the restaurants. Asian, French, Italian the sign said. All I had to do was simply follow it. Past the Prada and Boss shops, soulless and uninviting, round by the toilets, up the stairs and voila! The restaurants. Ils sont la. But they didn't look very open. On the contrary.

"La restaurant. C'est ferme?", I asked an airporty woman.

This is how I always speak in French. I just make a statement and then, cleverly, add a question mark on the end. This is easy in writing, but in speech it's harder. You have to add a question mark via the medium of the questioning tone. It's a rare skill which is virtually unteachable.

"Non, non, non", she assured me. "C'est ouvert", pointing at what you see in the picture.

Are you with me here, dear reader? It doesn't look very fucking ouvert does it!

Rachel Getting Married

The guy next to me on the plane was listening to the latest Coldplay album. He went straight to it and listened all the way through with no obvious side effects. There was plenty of good movies on offer. But all he wanted was Coldplay and, I suppose, each to his very own.

There were indeed plenty of good movies on offer. But I'd watched them already. I had no desire to watch Revolutionary Road, Slumdog Millionaire or The Wrestler again. I'd enjoyed them all, to varying degrees, on the way out. I did, however, want to watch Burn After Reading again. I thought it quite excellent and I decided to save it for the wee, small hours when contemplation is best.

So I watched Rachel Getting Married. I watched it from the very start right to the very end. In growing disbelief. I seriously considered switching it off several times. I should have done so the first time. Subsequently, I just felt I'd already invested too much to give up. I was in too deep.

Surely something meaningful would happen soon. Perhaps I might empathise, just slightly, with one of the characters. Possibly, with time, the writers would put some words into an actors mouth that resonated. Felt a bit like real life. Something an actual person would say. Eventually, maybe, the film would develop and swim away, Nemo-like, from the ever increasing, steaming, brown shit-bucket of pretentiousness heretofore on absolute unfaltering display.

I looked over at my Coldplay buddy. He seemed very happy with his choice. 

Adding Value

I'm heading to the airport soon. Someone just invited me to a meeting in Egypt but that's not where I'm bound. Ah, hold on now, I've just realised something. I don't think she meant Egypt the country. There must be a place called Egypt where they hold meetings. A meeting room perhaps. Now I feel like an idiot. I'd looked at her like she was crazy. 

"Egypt", I said. "Egypt", I repeated. I seriously considered saying it one more time but, instead, plumped for "I wouldn't have thought so". Then I did say it again. "Egypt!!!".

It's a shame because, you never know, perhaps I could have added value. To the meeting. Not the country. I did add value to a meeting this morning though. The best kind of value. Betting without monetary value, arguably. Comedic value. Sadly, I fear that no-one recognised it. 

Not all meeting rooms here are named after Egypt, the country. Some, I suppose, are named after other countries. But there is one room that isn't named after any country at all. It's the most important room in the building and it's called, menacingly, the "War Room". Happily the meeting there earlier was well placed. It was very turbulent and the "players" argued violently back and forward. I didn't say much but simply enjoyed the tension. 

Suddenly, I realised that everyone was staring at me. I was being asked for of my views on the matter. I wasn't absolutely sure what the matter was but, capturing the spirit of the late, great Peter Sellers, I replied simply:

"No fighting in the War Room".

Everyone continued to stare. I looked around the room. The room looked back at me. I was hoping perhaps for a small chuckle. Part of me even hoped for a small cuddle. That peace would break out. What happened was this. Everyone stopped staring at me. They started arguing again. 

What a relief! My value had done no harm.

Blumenthal and Tampons

I was watching Heston Blumenthal this morning. Yes, this morning. There's only so much Sky News one can take. He was making a trifle. The perfect trifle of course.

One of the problems with custard, which is part of a trifle he explained, is that, apparently, it leaves a layer of mucous on ones tongue which makes subsequent mouthfuls taste a bit, well, mucousy, I'm guessing. Ever the perfectionist, Heston was trying to find a recipe 

which alleviated this internationally accepted custard problem. 

And to illustrate the issue, he took a taste of custard then applied the most absorbent artifact on earth  - a tampon of course - to his tongue. At which point the soi-disant experimental chef had a tampon in his mouth complete with string dangling down. Quite a sight.

At first, I thought this was the solution. Rather than devising a method to, say, boil the custard at 75 degrees for four minutes, remove the fat and add some freeze dried mouse droppings, I believed he was proposing we insert a tampon in our mouth between mouthfuls. This would, of course, look stupid and be very expensive but it's all about the flavour isn't it?

But I was wrong. The solution, which I'll spare you (since I can't remember it), was actually even more stupid and expensive. And, of course, hopelessly complicated and impractical.

Has been ..is somewhere. Else.

Today, at work, I was listening to Spotify when it suddenly stopped and displayed the following message.

Somewhere else? My account? Is used? Has been paused?

Believe it or not, I have more questions than this. Many more.

John Martyn's my friend?

As I walked into the marvellous Café de la Salute last night I was immediately welcomed with:

"Ah, my friend. John Martyns. I make you John Martyns, my friend?".

To be honest I couldn't face a "John Martyn". As much as I love them I'd overdone it a bit on the orange juice front the night before. He showed me the menu. They'd actually gone to the trouble of sticking my little hand-written "John Martyn" recipe into the cocktail list. I was very touched.

I apologised though and told him that I couldn't face any more orange juice for a while. I asked for a pint of Peroni. 

I assure you, it looks better than it tastes. Especially on the burp.

  

Springbok and Protea

The other thing that's changing over here is the Springbok as the national emblem. It's viewed (by some) as being symbolic of apartheid and the black man's struggle. So the national flower, the Protea, is to replace it. Thus we will have rugby players running around with flowers on their chest. It's possible that they might find this emasculating.

I've spoken to several people about this and all, black and white, think it is ludicrous and to use the tabloid term "political correctness gone mad".

It was thus-then-that, last night, I had no hesitation in ordering Springbok. My waiter was extremely surly. He treated me with absolute disdain throughout the meal. Perhaps it was because I ordered the Springbok but I don't think so. If it is indeed symbolic of apartheid and the black man's struggle then surely eating it (and literally and metaphorically shitting it out) is a good thing.

No, I just think that, like many of the waiters in the superb Butcher's Grill on Mandela Square, he's a grumpy old bastard. Doesn't bother me. I care little for the black man's mood swings. Not when the food is that good.

Coffee with MickPuck

For me, one of the surprising joys of the Twittersphere is that it allows me to discuss coffee with Mike Scott out of the Waterboys. It's very egalitarian that way.

I know, you don't need to tell me. It's pathetic. But it's the little things that get me through the day.

Mixed race marriage

By the pool yesterday were a couple with their two children. The woman black, the man white. 

The eldest kid was black, slightly less so than the mother. The younger white, slightly less than the father. Just struck me as funny how nature works out. 

I didn't take any pictures. Of the children by the pool. You'll just need to take my word for it.

Magical sparkles

I was out the other night drinking John Martyns. 

White rum (2 parts)

Triple sec (1 part)

OJ (2 parts) 

Top off with ginger ale

Serve on ice

Amazingly, they'd never heard of them in the bar. So I told them how and they made it perfectly. 

Except for the glass obviously. And the magical sparkly things that appeared around it.