I'm Not a Girl, Not Quite a Moron

I am useless today. A complete waste of space. A weak link that lowers the gene pool standards by its mere existence.

I am hungover.

With not just any hangover, but a red wine hangover.

I don't normally drink red wine when I'm out on the piss. I drink white wine, or quadruple vodkas, like anyone who prefers not to wake up to find the Sahara Desert inhabiting their mouth and throat. Because this, among other catastrophic effects, is what happens to me when I drink red wine. I also get headaches that would floor an elephant. I am sick to my stomach for pretty much 12 hours after opening my gorgeously bloodshot eyes, and my brain does this awesome thing where it ceases to engage before I open my mouth. Or write an e-mail. Or climb the stairs. Or just about anything. I trip and stumble. I babble gibberish that I try to pass off as colloquial Souf Efrican. I attempt to string words together in a sentence and find all the indefinite articles are missing. And this is all AFTER the pissed effect has worn off.

The effects of red wine during the actual being pissed phase are even more alarming. I feel more high than pissed, for one thing. I get giddy and erratic. I flit all over the place like a hummingbird on speed. I talk at people, and I laugh manically. And I'm funny. Oh my sainted aunt, I am so funny. I could headline a comedy world tour after a few glasses. Chris Rock would be opening for me. (Appendix: I have never asked my friends the next day if I am really funny or just tragically pathetic. I fear they laugh either at me, or to disguise the real pain my funny self is causing them.)

Last night when I hit the Cellar Door with TheArtyOne, her brother PJ and a group assorted friends, I was already a few drinks down and red wine was just my stairway to heaven. The Cellar Door is a tiny converted public toilet (yes, you read that right!) that is now a jazz/live music bar in Covent Garden. You can squeeze about 60 people in there at a push. Trashed Tuesdays is open mic night, with musical theatre junkies, queens and old timers reliving their glory days on stage in front of the miniscule - but very appreciative - audience. Hosted by Champagne Charlie, an absolutely gorgeous gayface with an alluring voice and a penchant for quaffing champagne, the night is smooth, silky and increasingly madcap as CC's champagne quaffing picks up speed and the singers' inhibitions are lowered by the fine selection of wine and cocktails. It's a gem - if you're ever in London, make a point of stopping by.

But back to the red wine. I was cruising at 100 miles an hour, totally rocking the joint. Flirting with the gay singers. Telling complex and involved stories (which were so funny, obviously). Laughing like a hyena (some might say drain, but I feel that is just unkind). Proclaiming my deep-seated desire for superstardom - if there is a stage in the vicinity when I am mainlining red wine, heaven help the population of the bar. I was just drunk enough to announce my intent to do my Britney Spears impression, when the mic was switched off and the PA system turned on. I scolded Champagne Charlie, who gamely told me I could go first next time. I woke up this morning so grateful for his refusal that I could kiss him. Or not - I could get one of my hot male friends to do it for me.

I also woke up with the ghost of Britney shadowing my drunken stupor. Hit me baby, one more time, I thought, as the red wine sledgehammered me over the head.

Score: Lopz - 0, Red Wine - 1 big fat self-satisfied grin.

Salut!

Communication Science 101

Three PAs sit in a haphazard row opposite our CEO's office: myself, Sammy and K. This situation occurred this afternoon at precisely 12:27pm:

Sammy: Lopz, don't you have the 8th floor booked for Client Development Manager's meeting with (Major TV Company) at 12:30?

Lopz: Yes, why?

Sammy: Oh, well, Group Strategy Director is in there now with Senior Management, and he'll be in there til 2 o' clock.

Sound of silence as ticking heart suddenly stops beating.

Lopz: Er....but....er.... (usually excellent English reduced to stutters of terror)

Sammy: Did you book the room?

Lopz: Er....yes...er (eyes are saying FUCK! but mouth cannot engage)

Sammy: You better check with K what's going on!

Lopz: (turning to K with a mouthful of bitter trepidation) K, does Group Strategy Director have a meeting on the 8th floor now?

K: Yes.

Lopz: So it's not booked out for Client Development Manager?

K: No.

Lopz: (speechless at visions of 20 suits down in reception tapping their watches and frowning)

In a blind panic, I drop what I'm doing and rush around the corner to Client Development. I'm already running through a list of Plan B's in my head - none of them adequate.

Can we take the execs to the canteen? Maybe we can give them bacon butties to smooth over the situation, while I get IT to hang up a sheet in lieu of a big screen on the canteen wall. What about goodie bags? I'm sure I can get Marketing to whip some up..... we'll even throw in some branded pens. Or maybe.... we can say we're going green this week, and take them down to Leicester Square to do an open air presentation, complete with paper handouts. Surely Engineering have a microphone cord long enough to stretch for several blocks?

I run smack bang into Client Development Manager.

Lopz: ClientdevelopmentmanagertheroomisbookedandIdon'tknowhowthishappenedI'msosorry

whatarewegoingtodo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Client Development Manager: What?

Lopz: TheroomisbookedandIdon'tknowhowthishappened -

Client Development Manager: (interrupting) Lopz! Slow down! I can't understand you.

Lopz: (deep breath) The room is booked - 8th floor is booked! Someone's in there! And (Major TV Company) is in reception and we have nowhere to take them! I don't know how this happened, I booked that room for you.... I'm so sorry, this is all my fault!

Client Development Manager: Oh, didn't I tell you? That meeting has been cancelled. I told K on Friday and she released the room for me.

Lopz: (shoots daggers from eyes)

Why don't people TELL me things?!??!!??!

Super Groupie

On Friday I talked about my status as Head Groupie for my friends' band, Wood / The Taliban (we still don't have final confirmation on the name - at this moment there is much infighting going on between the factions).

I happened upon this great honour by pure chance. A couple of months ago, I was walking past Mills and Gos' desks (those two are on the same team, while the other two hail from around the corner), and heard them discussing when they were going to have their next jam session. I stopped what I was doing immediately (ie I stopped walking) and pricked up my ears. "Band?" I asked innocently. "Did I hear you guys say you're in a band?"

Mills and Gos looked at each other uncertainly. "Well," said Mills, "we're in the process of FORMING a band. It's not quite the same thing."
"Rubbish mate!" growled Gos (he always growls, never just says). "We're a group of guys who make music. Of course we're in a band!"
"Have you actually had a jam session yet?" I asked.
Silence.
"Well..... not yet. But the first one is set for this weekend." They both looked at me in askance. Would this be enough?

"Awesome!" I responded. "Can I be your Head Groupie?"

And that is how I became Head Groupie. Apparently no-one else had asked for the position, so it was agreed that I could have it on a simple first come-first served basis (the concept of which was then discussed in lewd, graphic detail). Like most people, I am fascinated by tales of rock n roll excess. Some of the stories you can find through google about groupies and their exploits are compelling in the way that rubbernecking at a car crash is compelling. The results are horrendous, but the act of drinking in the details macabrely satisfying. Or perhaps I am just deviant, which works in my favour as Head Groupie anyway.

We have come up with a rough outline of what my responsibilities as Head Groupie will be. They are, in random order:

1) To build and manage the fan club. This includes ensuring that all members of the band get an equal number of erotic letters, nude photographs and various pieces of lingerie sent to them every week. If the number of deliveries is not equal, I must change names to make it look as if it is. In addition, I must constantly reassure each man that he is the one getting the most fanmail. It is very important to stroke each band member's ego by making them believe they are the most popular member of the group.

2) Organising hoards of screaming girls to show up at gigs. These girls must be ready, willing and able (for what purpose is entirely at the band's discretion. To be safe, I should make sure they are a bunch of slutty fetishists). These girls must be loud, enthusiastic, scantily clad and hot. Very hot.

3) Acting as wardrobe mistress. A corollary to Point 2. I must ensure that they are dressed appropriately at all times, ie in clothing that is very short, very tight and very see-through. Or in black leather. Or not there at all.

4) Managing back stage activities. I must ensure that there is always plenty of alcohol available for the band and the groupies, specifically Cristal champagne. Apparently it impresses the girls and will get them out of their skimpy clothes more quickly. Similarly, I should have several dealers on speed dial and mountains of coke piled on silver platters, which several girls who are not quite hot enough to be groupies will ferry around the room. I must also have a list of questions that I have to ask each girl as she is brought backstage by security. If a girl answers 'no' at any point, she is to thrown out of the concert venue and banned for life.

5) Sex. This is an obvious part of the groupie heritage, but we are currently divided over whether or not I should have to partake in activities, with the band being for and me being against. Fear not though, I will win this one. As I keep saying to them - if I'm doing the dirty with one (or more) of them, how am I going to co-ordinate all the other aspects of the party?

Now all we need is for them to actually get good enough to play a gig. Watch this space.

Going To The Chapel

My best friend has set a date for her wedding! Schmokkle will be getting married on 4 April next year. She's been e-mailing me all morning, and we've been talking about venues and cakes and gift registers.... I'm nearly jumping out of my skin with excitement! It's so sweet, when I said we were coming down, she couldn't quite believe it. She said she felt it was way too much to ask, but as I said to her, I wouldn't miss her wedding for the world, and I'd move heaven and earth to be there if necessary. I would even sell my wardrobe for flight money. Ok, so I'd be admitted into a clinic for depression shortly afterwards (how very Hollywood of me), but I'd do it if I had to.

So now Shoes and I can get on with planning this holiday. We'll probably fly home on 27 March, just in time for my dad's birthday, and stay in SA for two weeks. We always have to divide our time between our 2 families when we go home, as mine are in Cape Town and his are in Jozi & Creighton. Shoes' sister only recently moved to Creighton, so it will be our first time visiting them there. It's a tiny farming community, as far removed from London life as we could possibly get. I'm so looking forward to acres of open space, clear blue skies, no traffic noise and the kind of neighbourly trust that means you don't have to lock your cars at night!

The longer I live in London, the more South African I feel. I find myself focussing far more now on what's happening back home than I did when I lived there, and I feel every disappointment, setback and triumph of SA as a nation so much more strongly. I am holding my breath along with the rest of the world - ok, maybe just the rest of Africa - in anticipation of what is going to happen now that Mbeki has stepped down. Unfortunately, I think things may very well get worse before they get better. But if there's one thing that my 3 years in London have taught me, it's that South Africa is not reflected by its leaders, despite what the international press might have us believe. I know there is a sense of disillusionment among people at large at the moment, but there is also an incredible resilience that characterises South Africans. I'm no political expert, but I am a South African expert**: I think growing up there and being a part of the patchwork quilt of change in recent history qualifies me to this category. So I would like to offer my expert opinion in the face of this current adversity: South Africa rocks, and Zuma and Mbeki can't take away the basic awesomeness of being South African, no matter how hard they try!

**I'm also available for public speaking engagements for a small fee....might as well hop on the gravy train and scam people for their hard earned cash while everybody else is doing it!!! (Disclaimer: I am all for positivity and hope, but I think both are better served with a healthy dose of irony.)

I'm With The Band

My friends at work are starting a band. Actually, they have already formed a band and had a few jam sessions - they have just not revealed themselves to the anticipating public yet. There are 4 of them, all guys between the ages of 30 and 38.

Out of the 4 of them, only one of them looks and sounds like what you would expect a musician to look and sound like - Len, the bass player. Len lives and breathes rock n roll. He wears a t-shirt to work that says "I listen to bands that don't exist yet" - a two salute fingered to anyone who dares to challenge him on music knowledge and trends. He has a wild mop of curly black hair, skew teeth and pock marked skin, but he handles a guitar like a dream. Mills is the lead guitarist. He is the kind of guy who you'd never imagine would play guitar, but once you find out he does you're like, oh, but of course; every band has a mild mannered good guy. He is an absolute sweetie, known for not holding his liquour very well. He gets clumsy and giggly, and tells all the girls he loves them; it's very un-rock n roll. Ricky is the drummer. He has an Irish accent, big blue eyes and a way of talking you into doing things you wouldn't normally do - an ace trick when you're hoping for masses of screaming groupies. Finally there is the lead singer, Grumpy Aussie, or Gos for short. Gos is a gem of a man. He's Australian. He's grumpy. He's a horny bastard, despite being happily married. And he is the perfect definition of a bloke's bloke. You don't ever speak to Gos about chick flicks, "spirit coolers", emotions, love (he is very much in love with his wife but will never discuss it, lest it lose him his horny bastard tag) or anything else that does not involve sex, beer, music or sport.

This rag tag bunch are in the process of deciding on a name. Top of the list until last week was Wood. I'm sure I don't need to expand on this, but for your amusement I will.... here, in random order, are the reasons why they think Wood is a great name:

1) Groupies shouting "I love Wood!" or "I want Wood!" or "Give me some Wood!"
2) Introducing themselves: "Put your hands up if you want a bit of Wood tonight!"
3) Creative photos and fan letters. The name gives that added bit of incentive.
4) Album covers. For example:

So the name Wood was very nearly a sure thing. And then someone - Mills, I think - came up with an alternative. The Taliban. Because they can:

1) Play gigs with turbans on their heads
2) Cause havoc wherever they go - something every rock star aspires to do
3) Get into fights with people who are anti-Taliban (ie everyone)
4) Get arrested (another pre-requisite for being a rock star)

In the midst of the moniker madness, I got a delightful surprise. I have been named Head Groupie of Wood / The Taliban! This is a great honour. I shall discuss my duties and expectations in detail next week.

Have a great weekend!

Made For This

I have had a brief moment of respite from the boredom that is my "job" today. In an unexpected and rather wonderful turn of events, Shoes got paid today. 5 days early. Not only is this fabulous because we literally had no more money for the month (as in, we're eating sandwiches on week old bread for dinner on Sunday and Monday night), but also because I got to relieve my boredom by SHOPPING!!!! Had to use capitals to convey my extreme pleasure. I feel energised and full of hope for the future - it's a total 180 degree turn! Shopping should be used as therapy for men hell-bent on starting wars. I challenge any testosterone overloaded male to go on an unlimited spending spree in wihch he can buy whatever he wants... with all those ferraris and speed boats at his disposal, why would he want to waste time getting mucky in the trenches? I choose to ignore the slight logistical issues of poverty and the fact that men by nature do not like to shop. This is my fantasy world, if I say they must shop, they will shop! And be happy about it!

I have personally spent a few awesome hours deliberating over which mp3 player to buy, and finally settled on the very latest Creative Lab, with 4GB of delicious space just waiting to be flooded by the latest in cheesy pop. For the iPod army out there, I'm sorry but I choose to support the underdog (ie I don't have enough money for an iPod, so could the peanut gallery please be quiet!).

I hate to cut this post short, but I am in the middle of buying some sunglasses for Shoes, and after that I'm off to purchase a digital frame for my dad - oh how I LOVE pay day!

I Have Nothing

I'm bored. BORED. B.O.R.E.D. Even the spelling of the word bored is boring. I have been bored now for one week and counting. I'm starting to wonder if extreme boredom could lead to a life-changing epiphany, or if it will merely drain me, slowly but surely, of all enthusiasm and lust for life.

The reason for my extreme boredom is the departure of my boss 2 Fridays ago, which I've neglected to write about as I was too busy crapping on about Mallorca, which now seems like it happened in another lifetime.

As I mentioned ages ago in a previous post which I can no longer find, my company is in the middle of a takeover. Not a merge, but a buy-out by a smaller but wealthier company that is trying to take over the world. Oops, I mean the radio industry. Except you'd think it was the world, the way they're approaching it. My boss, having decided to leave the ruthless new regime for greener pastures, has left me stranded and directionless, like a boat without a rudder, only with all day internet access. And thank god for that, otherwise I might be in much worse shape. It is only the endless stream of gymnastics news and youtube videos that keeps me sane these days.

The only reason I have not been pink-slipped and sent packing is because we are in the beginning stages of the restructure, and right now no-one is being let go until they've decided exactly what positions will be available to us. Over the course of the next few weeks, we are all expected to interview for our jobs, at least 60% of which will be contested by the employees from our competition. Sorry, new employer. After that, the firing of our asses will be begin in earnest.

So I am effectively being given a free pass... a few weeks of being paid for nothing while they decide whether or not I have what it takes for their new super power company. It sounds great on paper, but in practice it is like Chinese water torture (aside: why Chinese? And why do we call that awesome but really silly game, where you stop at a traffic light and all jump out the car and swap places, Chinese Fire Drill? Did the Chinese really invent these things, or are we being racist? You see what is happening to my brain.)

I have imbibed so much gossip and celeb news that I feel sick to my stomach when another picture of Britney at the VMAs flashes across my screen. I can't read anymore 'adult news' as my brain is unused to this amount of seriousness, and is in rebellion. I am tired of googling random things. I can't listen to anymore new music online - it clashes with the radio playing on my desk. I can't muster up the desire to do anything except watch reruns of old gymnastic meets, which is difficult as my screen faces, like, the whole world, and watching videos at work is piss taking of the highest degree. In short, I am considering developing a tropical disease halfway through this week, so I can at least be bored out of my mind at home, where I don't have to minimise browser windows every 10 seconds.

Any suggestions on how to combat the boredom would be welcomed.