I had a long weekend. iLong week ende. My New Year's resolution had been to cease alcohol consumption. However, it was necessary to come up with a midyear’s resolution that served as a slight adjustment to the failed New Years resolution. I had decided to drink less.
After the weekend of the infamous 'papsak’, I was reminded of the late comedian Mitch Hedberg when he said, "The other day I saw a wino eating grapes and I was like...Dude you have to wait."
However, this weekend was far too pleasant. I would gladly sacrifice many livers and pancreases for weekends like these.
It all started on Thursday at Scrumpy Jack in Obs. The R24 litre jug of beer is the main attraction and most popular choice among the patrons (who are mostly exchange students). Over time, I have established a most ridiculous ritual. After purchasing a jug or two at the bar, I ensure that I turn to the closest American girl. I tilt my head back slightly and calmly say, “Nice jugs.” My record of accomplishment at Scrumpy is dismal.
After listening to some brilliant American folk music at Mojo, we head to town. Apparently Ill-Skills will be at Zula Bar. Come on, surely not. Again? Weren’t they here two weeks ago and a week before that? We step into Zula Bar, and lo and behold. Ill skills are on the bill once again. One would expect me to be bored of these ubiquitous appearances. I am not. I like their music. I like their energy. I like their groupies.
After midnight, I always fall into the Zula trap. This is when they start selling Double brandy with coke at R16. I down many of these while I start opening up to strangers about my life’s ambitions.
Four of my friends arrive. They are round and plump. They study ‘film and media’. In a stroke of genius, I have dubbed them The Telechubbies.
Zula starts to close down. The party moves to Marvel. By now, it is a sea of drunken lunatics screaming out their most obscene lines from Lil Wayne or Drake.
After grabbing a couple of drinks for my Telechubbies I settle down on a quiet table. A guy spills his drink on my shoulder. I reprimand him in the most intimidating voice I can muster. He quickly reaches into his pocket in the most animated fashion. I fear the worst. I have always fantasised about being shot at a club. It would put me up there with the famous deaths. Unfortunately, this fool pulls out an identity card of some sort. Above his funny picture, the words National Defence Force appear prominently. He pushes the card towards my face, points at the wording, and warns me not to start something I will not finish. I shrink back into my seat. I look around to make sure no one has witnessed this embarra**ing moment.
Last Call at Marvel is the funniest. The music is faded out. Moans and groans fill the room. I tell the bouncers I will be out as soon as a finish my drink. The last stand is about to take place. The bouncers versus us, the rebels. There are many of us today and the bouncers have their work cut out for them. My comrades start singing the national anthem of South Africa. We sing in drunken unison. Unfortunately the bouncers are experienced. Their strategy is to forcefully remove us one at a time. It is a highly effective strategy. As each one of our comrades is shoved out the door, we bid him farewell. “Na-na-na-na, Hey hey hey. Goooodbyeeeee!”
I wake up on Friday morning with a legendary hang over. I look like an anorexic Masai warrior. My head feels like it has turned into rice krispies. I snack, crackle and pop out of bed. I am late for my first meeting with my girlfriend’s sister. Luckily, my charm is still intact. The innocent smile helps.
I round off my Friday night at a formal event at the Bay Hotel in the waterfront. I have never eaten starters before. My dinner etiquette is a mess. However, any shreds of shame had been removed earlier thanks to Flex Bender (my favourite Kentucky Bourbon).
Saturday we wake up and go at it again. Unfortunately, we have stretched our budget. We have to settle for SOCO (ladies) and Smirnoff (gents). We head to the TV room at my friends University Residence. We hijack the big screen TV by plugging in our X-box. We lock the door and it’s FIFA la Revolution.
Sunday, a world of pain descends upon me. My girl nurses me back to life. Through all my puking, crying, sniffing and promises of never drinking again, she rubs my back and tummy. She cleans up my mess. And fixes me something to eat. This is love.
