The Great Milk Tart Incident

Once again, we set the bar high in terms of stellar weekends. Summer seems to have properly arrived, and with temperatures soaring into the mid twenties in the afternoons, it's the perfect time to slip into bikinis and tan in your local park. It's at times like this that I really do miss the beach, but the sight of an entire population shedding their clothing in the middle of a grassy patch in the city never fails to amuse me. Scarf and I spent a good 6 hours lying in the sun this weekend, and we both have a nice golden glow to show for it. We're now just holding thumbs that this is not a teaser like last year, where we had two weeks of great weather and that was it for the whole of "summer".

On Saturday we had our official housewarming combined with Shoes' birthday celebration. Everybody had already seen our place, and with the possible exception of two people, everybody has been drunk in it too, so this wasn't anything different. It was just bigger, better and messier! We got back from the park with a couple of hours to spare before guests started arriving, and Scarf used the time to make melktert (milk tart), a traditional South African dish of sugar-crust pastry filled with a custard-type mix. She makes each of us a cake on our birthdays, and we get to choose what type we want. Shoes decided on milk tart instead of a cake. My mother is Afrikaans, and was taught to cook and bake by my food-loving Afrikaans grandmother, so I turned to her for the ultimate milk tart recipe. This is one which has been in my family for years and is a closely guarded secret. If there is one thing that Afrikaners do exceptionally well, it is cook. Everything is heavy, creamy, deliciously flavourful and 100% full fat. You must know that dieting in a traditional Afrikaans family is like trying to stop McDonalds from taking over the world - absolutely impossible. It is very useful to have Afrikaans relatives when you want to whip up a fabulous dish to impress that special someone - not so much when you're trying to impress them with your bikini body after a winter spent siphoning thick, creamy soups and golden brown pies.

Anyway, my mother gladly passed on the recipe, and I e-mailed it to Scarf, not bothering to look at it first. If I had, or even if I'd just taken a moment to really think about my past experiences with my mother's recipes, I would have picked up on one small detail that could have headed off the Great Milk Tart Incident. Afrikaners do not know how to cook in small amounts. By tradition, they feel compelled to make enough food to feed a small army, no matter whether there are ten guests or two. This could be because they also by tradition have fairly large families, and everyone has very hearty appetites; the men especially can put food away on championship levels. Better too much than too little - leftovers can be turned into brand new creations that simultaneously amaze and stupify the eater.

As it turns out, this thought didn't cross my mind until Scarf was already halfway through mixing the filling, and I overheard her asking OJ if he could pop home and bring a bigger pot over as our ones weren't big enough to hold it all. A sense of foreboding swept over me as I realised what must have happened. I approached with caution.

"Scarf..... did you follow the recipe exactly as you see it? Or did you perhaps, um, increase it a little?"

"Oh ja, I doubled it."

"You what?"

"I doubled it. There are 15 of us, and one tart won't be enough....."

She broke off as she saw the expression on my face. I didn't even have to say it.

"Oh my gosh. It was already doubled, wasn't it? Oh my word. I thought it looked a bit excessive! How many tarts is this going to make?" Her voice had risen to a high pitched shriek.

I took a deep breath and plunged in. "If my mother has stayed true to her usual form, we're probably looking at about 8 milk tarts."

"8 MILK TARTS? BUT I ONLY BOUGHT TWO CRUSTS!!! WHERE ARE WE GOING TO PUT THEM??????????" Scarf's face had gone a brilliant shade of puce and a line of sweat beaded on her forehead.

"Ok, ok, don't panic, we'll think of something. I know, we'll just make the two proper tarts, and we'll put the rest into dishes and they can be crustless tarts. When everyone is drunk later they won't even notice."

And so, that is how we came to have enough milk tart for our entire block of flats. One of the genuine tarts got shared politely among the guests. One of the crustless ones got set upon much, much later that night, in what can only be described as a feeding frenzy. In a testament to how OTT things got, Shoes ploughed through the tray with a spoon, searching for the crust which he believed to be "somewhere under all that filling", and was flabbergasted the next day to find that there had never been a crust in the first place. The second genuine tart balanced precariously atop the salad stuff in the fridge, until someone pulled out an item acting as an anchor, and the next time OJ opened the fridge, the tart came catapulting out and landed face down on the floor. The second crustless tart is now a moosh of cinnamon and custard in a bowl in our fridge, and in our desperate attempt to get rid of it, everytime someone opens the fridge they have to have a spoonful.

Scarf is psychologically scarred and says she can never eat milk tart again. The rest of us still enjoy it, but are unable to eat even one more bite after a weekend of stuffing ourselves with it. On the plus side, the recipe is fantastic and when the milk tart moment peaked on Saturday night, everyone agreed it tasted great. Next time though, we might stick to chocolate cake.

Easy Like Monday Morning

I had such an amazing weekend that I'm not sure if I can accurately capture my enthusiasm in words. It was one of those perfect weekends where everything just falls beautifully into place. There was no excessive planning but rather plenty of spontaneous occurrences, and since I happen to have the coolest, most up for it group of friends in the world, X + Y = an explosion of fun. The one thing about living so far from home is that your friends really do become your family. In the absence of blood relatives on which to depend, you become abnormally close to the only other people you have in your life, and they become like family in every sense. We bicker more than we ever did with our friends back home, but we also are there for each other in a way that we haven't been before, and when we have fun, we embrace it with every ounce of enthusiasm and energy. I love them to death at the moment, and am very grateful to be sharing my overseas experience with them.

The weekend started fairly tamely. We've always done our grocery shopping on Friday nights, but since we moved into our new place and we have both Sainsbury's and Virgin Active less than 30 seconds from our house, we no longer have to stick to a routine when it comes to the mundane things in life. I went to gym instead, and picked up a bottle of wine from M&S on my way home. OJ and Neutrino came over, and we basically just spent the evening hanging out and chatting over a couple of glasses.

On Saturday we had a great surprise: two of our friends from CT rocked up on our doorstep out of the blue! They had been planning on coming over here in August, but decided a few months ago that they would come earlier and surprise everyone. HippieChick and Peet managed to arrange everything with the help of HippieChick's brother, Jem; right down to getting directions to our house so we wouldn't suspect anything. We already had a few people over as we always do at the weekend, so when they popped up everyone immediately went into celebration mode and we threw them an impromptu Welcome To London party. There are now so many of us over this side that going back to CT now would be a little bleak! We just need Schmokkle & Man-Bok, JR & Candz and Fish & Carebear to come over this side, and all my closest friends would be in London. And of course, my little sister and G. Watch out guys, the lure of London is coming to get you!

On Sunday I went to the pub for lunch with the Queen of Melodrama and Herman the German. Herman was in town for the weekend, having just recently moved to Germany, and had decided to come and visit his best mate QOM. I suspect I will be seeing a lot more of him in the near future. It was a perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon.... we sat on the terrace of a pub in Wimbledon and whiled away the hours reminscing about old times (the three of us were fast friends in high school for a while) and catching up on the latest in each other's lives. We bid each other farewell at around 4pm, and a scant four hours later I was on my way to the station to fetch QOM to bring him back to ours for pre-party drinks. Yes, finally the night had arrived: Astrix, Infected Mushroom and Eskimo at Briston Academy. I'd invited QOM a few weeks previously, and to say he was excited was an understatement.

My group of friends is quite cliquey, but not in the sense that we don't like new people. It's more because we have a rather unique way of interacting with one another that comes from being friends for so long. It goes beyond just inside jokes and shared experiences. We've developed certain words that are like everyday English to us, but unintelligible to outsiders. Even Schmokkle, who has known everyone for years, says that everytime we come down to Cape Town on holiday and she hangs out with us, there are new words and codes that go straight over her head. It's not a conscious thing, but it can make newcomers feel a bit left out. So as excited as I was about QOM meeting all my friends, including Shoes, for the first time, there was the slight worry that he'd feel a bit out of sorts.

Turns out I needn't have worried. He is just about the biggest instant hit I have ever seen with my group. By the end of the night, Shoes and Eyes were asking if they could keep him, and everyone was coming up to me in turns to tell me how cool they thought he was. I actually barely got to spend any time with him, as Shoes kept spiriting him away to chat and the others were commanding his remaining time. He has since been invited to our housewarming next weekend, our trip to Portugal and Spain in August, and basically anything else that we happen to be doing between now and Christmas - and none of the invites were issued by me!

The party itself was off the hook. We got there at 11pm and left at 4am, and Scarf and I danced non-stop the whole time. We haven't just let go and danced in ages, and it felt so good to move! The music was great despite the 3 power surges in Infected's set that had the crowd chanting into the sudden silence, and I've rarely seen a more excitable group of clubbers. Excellent vibe, excellent outfits, excellent music, excellent venue - the four pillars of the perfect party!

QOM stayed over, as did HippieChick and Peet, and we all woke up refreshed sometime on Monday afternoon. We made some coffee, packed a hubbly and spent the afternoon talking and chilling on our balcony. Neutrino and OJ joined us later and we ended the weekend by watching a movie called Weirdsville. It's a dark, heavily satirical comedy that suited our mood perfectly.

All of us were really sad to to see the weekend end, and if I could have rewound it and done it all over again, I would in a second. But summer has finally arrived, including blue skies and sunshine, and I know there will be many more perfect weekends to come.

Friday's Child Is Full Of Bass

Oh my goodness, I have such a Friday feeling today!

It must be in anticipation of the long weekend ahead. I don't have much planned for it actually, which is unusual, but what is planned is going to be off the hook. On Sunday night, we're off the see Infected Mushroom, Astrix and Eskimo at Brixton Academy. Not just one, but three of my favourite trance DJs in one place at one time. We have been working ourselves into a state of hysteria all week - this is a BIG party. Plus, the Queen of Melodrama will be coming with me - it will be his first time clubbing in London. I can't wait to show him how much bigger and better everything is here. No diss to Cape Town, but the London clubbing scene is insane, as is expected from such a large, international city.

I don't have anything in particular to write today. I do, however, have some more fabulous motivational posters for you, which I think is the perfect way to end off a week. Enjoy!

Ruby Tuesday

I have some free time at work this week, and I've decided to spend it reading everything relevant I can find on Africa, and what processes brought her to the point she is at today. Being African myself, I am naturally fascinated by not only by my own country, but the continent as a whole. The grating contradictions, incredible spirit and crippling problems that characterize the lands are compelling, and I maintain that despite everything, Africa is the most interesting continent on the planet. I could do much worse with my free time.

Anyway, I'm not going to be publishing essays here on my findings or views. I want to learn as much as I can about a topic that interests me; not lecture others on the facts and fiction.

What I will share with you are some of the more bizarre and/or entertaining things I have come across in my google searches today.

Things like this fabulously caustic piece in Granta Magazine, How To Write About Africa, in which Binyavanga Wainaina summarises the shallow impressions of Africa that Western writers pass off as insights. Here are some gems, for those of you who don't feel like reading the whole article:

*Always use the word ‘Africa or ‘Darkness’ or ‘Safari’ in your title. Subtitles may include the words ‘Zanzibar’, ‘Masai’, ‘Zulu’, ‘Zambezi’, ‘Congo’, ‘Nile’, ‘Big’, ‘Sky, ‘Shadow’, ‘Drum’, ‘Sun’ or ‘Bygone’.
*Note that ‘People’ means Africans who are not black, while ‘The People’ means black Africans.
*Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book.....An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these.
*In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country.
*Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African’s cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat.
*Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can’t live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love — take advantage of this......Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.
*African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life — but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.
*Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires.
*Readers will be put off if you don’t mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical — Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces.
*Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.

Actually, just read the whole thing, it's excellent!

http://www.granta.com/Magazine/92/How-to-Write-About-Africa/1

Of course, no research would be complete withouth the plethora of silly quotes sites. I came across a few which had sayings relating to Africa, and got totally side-tracked by the wide-spread foot in mouth disease that often characterises our species. I've included some of my favourites here - nothing to do with Africa, but good for a Tuesday afternoon laugh anyway:

"I didn't know Onward Christian Soldiers was a Christian song."

- Aggie Pate, at a non-denominational mayor's breakfast, Fort Worth, Texas

"Sure there have been injuries and deaths in boxing - but none of them serious."

- Alan Minter, Boxer

"I think that the film Clueless was very deep. I think it was deep in the way that it was very light. I think lightness has to come from a very deep place if it's true lightness."

- Alicia Silverstone, Actress

"Those who survived the San Francisco earthquake said, "Thank God, I'm still alive." But, of course, those who died, their lives will never be the same again."- Barbara Boxer, Senator

"Politics gives guys so much power that they tend to behave badly around women. And I hope I never get into that." - Bill Clinton, former U.S. president

"You know the one thing that's wrong with this country? Everyone gets a chance to have their fair say." - Bill Clinton, former U.S. President

"Smoking kills. If you're killed, you've lost a very important part of your life."

- Brooke Shields, during an interview to become spokesperson for a federal anti-smoking campaign.

"My sister's expecting a baby, and I don't know if I'm going to be an uncle or an aunt."

- Chuck Nevitt, North Carolina State basketball player, explaining to Coach Jim Valvano why he appeared nervous at practice.

"I have opinions of my own --strong opinions-- but I don't always agree with them."

- George Bush, former U.S. President

"And now, will y'all stand and be recognized."

- Gib Lewis, Texas Speaker of the House, to a group of people in wheelchairs on Disability Day

"I owe a lot to my parents, especially my mother and father." - Greg Norman, Golfer

"Whenever I watch TV and I see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I would love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff."

- Mariah Carey, Pop Singer

"Hey cabbie, could you turn that thing down a hundred disciples?"

- Paul Owen, Baseball player complaining about the radio being too loud

"Reports are sketchy, but we have heard that in the first heart transplant operation in Belgium, both patient and donor are doing fine." - Radio news announcer

Need more? Here's the site: http://www.armenianteens.com/stupid_quotes.php

I hope you laughed as much as I did!

Cool Summer

Aaaaah, sunshine! I feel like I've just let out a breath that I've been holding for the whole of winter. I'm talking not about this gorgeously grey Monday morning, but Saturday, where we celebrated the first day of summer with a braai in Wimbledon Park. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, the miniscule disposable braai was burning the chicken to a crisp and everyone was in tank tops and shorts, displaying luminous white pins that blinded those unfortunate enough not to be wearing sunglasses. If you saw at our group photo on facebook, you'd never guess we lived in London. Finally, the crushing sense of claustrophobia I have been feeling over the past few weeks has lifted. In its place is relief. Relief that summer seems to be determinedly on its way; relief that we can spend time outdoors instead of in front of the tv; relief at having been paid..... it's endless, really!

On Friday night Shoes and I decided to take advantage of the extra commission I got this month and go out for dinner. We chose a little spot in Richmond called the Naked Turtle. It is a cute, quaint little jazz bar featuring a jazz pianist and singing waitresses. Luckily they didn't sing when they brought your food (can you say highly annoying), but took breaks from serving to sit at the piano and belt out a number or two. It had a very relaxed vibe, and in fact in reminded us very much of Obz (to non-saffas: Observatory - an area in Cape Town known for its eclectic, semi-hippie vibe and cheap drinking spots). I had impala for mains. Impala at a jazz bar in London. How frikkin weird is that?!?!?!

The evening was lovely, but it didn't start off that way. We left home at 7pm to make our reservation for 8. Through a series of events involving missing bus routes, vastly inaccurate directions (thanks Mr Station Guard, don't ever consider a career as a tour guide) and our own self-delusion that the place was "just around the next corner", we ended up travelling for 2 hours to get to a place that was only about 50 minutes away. Add to that the fact that we walked for at least an hour of that time, and you can just imagine the mood I was in when we got to the restaurant. I was seconds away from giving up and going home, and if the station has been closer to me at the time than the venue, I may very well have done so. In the end, we were seated and I ordered an extra strong cocktail, which took the edge off. By the time we got to post dinner shots (tequila for me and jagermeister for Shoes), the tedious mission had been reduced to just a mild inconvenience. We hotly debated the Information Age and where it is going all the way home. Shoes thinks people will never stop advancing technogically and that this will have no long term effect - in other words, we will continue to become more and more reliant on ever more complex machines, but we will be happy with this lifestyle choice. I think that slowly but surely people are going to pull away from the extremes of technology and embrace simplicity - not to the extent of the Amish, but I see a movement opposing excessive technology.

When we got home, we found Eyes, Scarf and OJ all in a rather advanced state of inebriation in the lounge. Sensing a party vibe, someone cranked up the tunes and at 12:30pm we started an impromptu celebration - of what, we're not really sure, but it involved shots of whiskey (for the guys anyway) and music to rival our Noisy Neighbours' best efforts. I desperately hope they were trying to sleep at that point. The night ended with the guys doing The Freedom Dance around the kitchen. This is an entirely made up dance, consisting of flinging one's legs out from side to side whilst waving one's arms wildly around. It was inspired by our conversation about the beautiful simplicity of the Xhosa language. I believe at one point Eyes had us all convinced that a motorbike is Iratatata in Xhosa. I don't know if this is true, but it was very funny at the time. We went through our limited Xhosa vocabulary with terrible pronunciation but admirable enthusiasm.

Freak alert! Headline of the day - prepare to be grossed out:

http://www.metro.co.uk/news/world/article.html?in_article_id=145028&in_page_id=64

Friends In Low Places

It's been quite a ride this week. I've been working damn hard, to the extent that I haven't read Perez Hilton once in almost 5 days! That must be some kind of record for me. Feel free to comment and update me on the most important tinseltown gossip. I did see Ashton Kutcher though, at the London premier of What Happens in Vegas. Unfortunately it was a rather unremarkable sighting. He got out the car in front of the Empire in Leicester Square - not a limo, just a car - wearing dark glasses and a brown leather jacket, and ambled around signing autographs for a bit. Wait, scratch that - he was ushered around to sign autographs. There was actually an aide there directing him to various parts of the crowd. If it was me I would told her where she could shove her ushering. I know celebs are not like us, but don't tell me they're unable to walk around a perimeter and scrawl signatures independently of their handlers? They can't be that stupid, unless they're Paris Hilton. She probably has someone telling her when to breathe. It was far more entertaining to watch the crowd than the actual red carpet gliders. Pockets of teenage girls scattered about the square screamed themselves hoarse, and then took it up yet another notch whenever Ashton started in their direction. We can watch from our office windows, thereby avoiding the craziness of the crowd. It's really not that cool though, and that's coming from me; the girl who is practically the reason that tabloids were invented. Long live Heat magazine!

I've written so many posts in my head this week, in the hope that at some point I'd have a chance to type one out. No dice though, and of course I can't really remember any of what I wanted to say now! Instead, I'll leave you with the e-mail conversation that has been keeping me entertained all afternoon. My friends are a bunch of alcoholics, with a little perversion thrown in for good measure. Enjoy - I did!

Britney: Hi you guys, we're having the first braai of the summer tomorrow lunch time at Wimbledon park. Can you guys make it? Its going to be 21 degrees so we can chill in the park.
Mandz: Sounds good - what time?
Britney: Excellent! Was thinking about 3 but you guys can go earlier. Barbie and I have to go and buy some goldfish for the fish tank.
Scarf: The footie is on so we'll only get there just after 3, but for sure.
Neutrino: GODDAM FOOTBALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Scarf: HELLOOOO! Its like the MATCH of the SEASON! Tomorrow’s game determines who WINS the Premier league!!!
Shoes: Yeah Neutrino, stop being gay.
OJ: It's ALWAYS match of the season to you people!
Lopz: Fine you guys. Who wants to go early with me? Everyone in favour of shunning the footie say aye.
Mello: Aye!
Mandz: I'll come with you Lopz.
OJ: Me too.
Lopz: Cool, we'll get a tan first.
Scarf: Girls, are you guys wearing bikinis?????????? Don’t you think that’s a little bit too, er, like optimistic – I know its 20 degrees but is that warm enough to tan?? Or am I just forgetting what sun is like cuz I haven’t felt it for so long!
Lopz: Who said anything about bikinis?
Britney: No guys, not bikinis, just short tops.... it's not that hot!
Lopz: What's the difference, if it's too cold for bikinis, it's too cold for short tops!
Neutrino: I'm wearing my G-String ... can't start the summer with white bumcheeks.
Shoes: Neutrino. Dude. GAY!
Mandz: Hehehehehe, I can't get off this image of Neutrino in a G-String...
Scarf: Is everyone bringing booze?
Lopz: Is the pope catholic?
Mello: Of course, what's a day without the alchoholic beverages!
Barbie: Alcohol yeeessssss!
Mello: Mmmmmmm alcohol....
Lopz: Yes Mello you just said that.
Britney: Yeah dooooofus, what kind of question is that?
Scarf: TO THE PARK! TO THE SUN! TO THE ALCOHOL!

Lopz: And you wonder why Great Britain has a binge drinking problem.
OJ: I'm going au-natural.
Mello: From naked bum to naked body.... with cherry liquer on top.
Mandz: Hehehe, bums bums everywhere.....
Britney: Ewwww OJ in his birthday suit………..put it away OJ!
Mello: Not to mention the naked bods....
OJ: Hey you gotta tan your shlong somehow!
Neutrino: How do these conversations always get so twisted?
Lopz: Perverts, all of you.
OJ: Would you have it any other way?
Lopz: No, I suppose not.
Britney: You really don’t need to tan it dude - trust me, no one wants to see that thing (besides G-Days maybe).
Shoes: G to the A to the Y spells GAY!
OJ: It'll be like a hot-dog day!
Lopz: Amazing how I never seem to feel like eating after talking to you lot. With friends like you who needs diets?
OJ: Glad we can be of service Lopz!

Sex Bombs

I meant to post about my Thursday night last week, but one thing lead to another and I was distracted enough not to get around to it. This is mostly because work these days is actually busy. Obviously complaining to random strangers helps; soon after I posted about my excess of free time at work, I got given a project to run which is keeping me busy and interested.

But Thursday night is really what I want to tell you about. I haven't had a bender in a while, and Thursday definitely qualifies as a bender! It all began on Tuesday, when Miss M, High School Obsession aka the Queen of Melodrama (depending on which blog you read) and I were all facebooking each other, trying to decide on a suitable night to get together. Let me just insert an aside here: High School Obsession is just that - the guy I was obsessed with throughout high school. He is also friends with Miss M, and has dated Phillygirl, who refers to him as the Queen of Melodrama. Confused? Think we're swingers? Not to worry. I will join Philly in referring to him as QoM from now on, as I'm no longer in high school and I'm certainly no longer obsessed with him. He recently arrived in London, and we've been talking for ages now about getting together to catch up. I have only seen him twice in the last 10 years, but we have kept in touch. Anyway, moving on.

After writing all sorts of nonsense on each other's walls for most of the morning, we finally decided on the Walkabout at Temple for Thursday night. For non-Londoners, the Walkabout is a chain of Australian bars, known for serving Aussie and Saffa beers/ciders and for general rowdiness. You don't go to the Walkabout for a quiet drink.

Our night went down something like this:

6:30 - I arrive at the Walkabout only to find Miss M, Queen of Melodrama and Tonsil (another school friend) already waiting, drinks in hand - including one for me of course.
7:05 - The Evil Three order snakebites (a mix of half lager, half cider and optional blackcurrant cordial) and make me drink one with them, despite my plea to stick to savanna (South African cider). It's worth noting here that some pubs refuse to serve snakebites, because the intentional mixing of beer and cider gets you very drunk, very quickly.
7:30 - A girl walks around asking if anyone is Australian or Kiwi. We discover that auditions for Australian Idol are being held in the bar that very evening.
7:33 - Commotion ensues as we vehemently argue which song to sing. It doesn't matter that we're not Aussie, it's karaoke baby!
7:37 - We decide on Sex Bomb. Tonsil declines to join in, Miss M is forcefully persuaded.
7:45 - Snakebite number 2. I discover I can't actually drink a pint at a reasonable pace - I have a psychological block against it. Tonsil arranges to have my pint put into two smaller glasses. These go down like cooldrink - problem solved!
7:46 - We make the sublime discovery that is Naked Ass Guy. He is this total chav, hanging out at the bar, who has stuck his hands down the back of his jeans. You know the way someone might put their hands in the back pockets when they're standing around? Well, he puts his inside the pants, and then proceeds to sensually caress his own ass until his jeans are hanging somewhere down by his knees, and his naked ass is displayed for the whole room to see. He frequently stops rubbing his butt long enough to take both his girlfriend's hands in his smelly mitts, and then returns them to the treasure trove of secrets and gets his ass out for us again.
7:49 - We are laughing so hard we can't breathe. Tears are running down our cheeks, we have stomach cramps.
8:05 - Naked Ass Guy unsticks his naked ass from the bar and strolls along to the other side of the room - hands now out the jeans. Miss M and I follow him, desperate for one more glimpse of the naked ass.
8:20 - Back at the table. Snakebite number 3. We get impatient as we haven't been called up to sing our song yet, and we've had to sit through some absolute corkers, including the worst rendition of I Will Always Love You we have ever heard.
8:30 - We go and harrass the karaoke guys, demanding to be let onto the stage.
8:40 - It's our time. We perform a terrible rendition of Sex Bomb. Queen is on lead vocals, Miss M and I are supposed to sing back-up. What we actually do is dance around Queen like music video hoes, and shout SEX BOMB SEX BOMB when it comes to the chorus, as those are the only words we know.
8:45 - Back at the table. High fiving each other. We are so great - best act of the night by a landslide.
9:00 - Snakebite number 4.
9:15 - I go outside with Queen and share his cigarette. I don't actually smoke - 'nuff said.
Sometime after that - Miss M's climbing buddy arrives. Can't remember his name. We gather around him and shout rubbish in his ear.
Even later - We're dancing in the middle of the bar to some of the worst karaoke we've ever heard. But dude, it's like, the most fun we've ever had. We rock. We rock so hard.
Later still - Snakebite number 5? Could be. Too busy dancing to really keep track. Feeling a little dizzy. Oh wait, that would be the disco lights. Hold on... there were disco lights?
And later still - Man, we're awesome! We ARE the party. We are the world. We're like, the only people who can do anything and who matter and stuff. Or whatever.
Sometime after 12:30 - Leave the bar. Dodgy hotdog at the station. Miss M and I try to pay the hotdog guy with the free T-shirts they were handing out in the bar. He's having none of it.
Around 1 - Somehow we wake up in time for our stop. We're at our stop. Stumble home and ring the buzzer, waking all three housemates up.
7am - Wake up with a mouth as dry as Ghandi's sandal. Find t-shirt on my bedroom floor; it says I Am The Next Australian Idol.

Good times. ;-)