Perfect timing

Perfect timing.

It's like Gonorrhea.

You either have it or you don't.

I don't. (Gonorrhea and perfect timing, I have neither.)

So I guess I should be grateful then, right? Things could be worse, I could have perfect timing and Gonorrhea, and that wouldn't be great.

Well, now I'm just saying the word Gonorrhea for the sake of it.

Anyway, enough of that.

The person who took this photo has it - perfect timing, that is - not Gonorrhea! 

There's a whole website of these perfectly timed photos over here.

Some are funny. And none will give you Gonorrhea, as far as I'm aware. You should go.

Happy Phuza Thursday.

Tree mail

Here are two letters from Sunday's column which was all about having a 'wasted' youth.

Unfortunately neither are from raging, disappointed Christians, sorry. But both are cute and made me smile, so I hope they'll have the same effect on you.

On email:
Rotflmbao!! Classic! Just read yo column and you are spot on about everything- almost like you had hidden cameras documenting my life! Playing pool, abstaining from Stroh Rum and the ability to roll a joint in 4 seconds flat! Back then you could get hammered till 4am and be in a lecture by 8am but these days if I drink till midnight I cant get up before midday! One thing I always catch myself smiling about is those old obscure songs that i can recognise and sing along to are the best reminder of how much older I am now since those days. Keep us smiling Paige.

Sorry dude, I would have credited you, but your mail came through unsigned.

and there's this one, which was a comment that appeared here on the blog. Oh Sylvie, you're too classic.

sylvie said...
ja like duh. butter knife and a doc marten :) i find the screw driver/hammer combo tends to break the glass and then you have to sift wine through a double bull cotton t-shirt) still open wine like that
LOVE IT! xxx

Such an old soak. Brilliant.

Hands up if you've ever opened a bottle of wine with a butter knife and a doc marten! *waves proudly*

Or do you have any other bottle opening secrets from your 'wasted' youth that you can share? I'd love to hear them. Or any other memories/skills from your wasted youth?

Let us know in comments section below. Any stand-out answers will win a copy of my book mailed to their post box.

A lovely Tuesday to you all. Hey, at least Monday is behind us.

Signs of a wasted youth

Here's yesterday's Sunday Times Column. Hope you enjoy. Oh and hope you had a nice weekend, too.
PS: Please, nobody piss off Monday, I'm hoping for a smooth one.

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick


SIGNS OF A WASTED YOUTH

The other day I was in my car when a song I recognised came on the radio. I immediately cranked up the volume and found myself belting it out, singing out loud like a crazy person. Yes, I’m that mad chick in the traffic.

It’s a song I haven’t heard in a million years at least. But somehow, to my surprise, I still remembered every single word of it. Chorus, bridge and verse, even the more conspicuous lyrics that you normally la, la, la, mumble, mumble to. Ask me where I put my keys half an hour ago, or why I got up and walked into this room, and I’ll be stumped. But more than fifteen years later, I can still remember every single word of Sugar Man.

A sign of a wasted youth, perhaps? Or so people say. I’m not entirely sure where the saying comes from and neither is the internet, I checked. Mr and Mrs Wikipeida say that there’s a Meatloaf song called Wasted Youth, and there were a bunch of British Punk Rock bands from the 60s, 70s and 80s who were all called Wasted Youth, but who knows which came first.

It’s something you say when someone's displaying behaviour that hints at a dodgy past. Come now, don’t act all innocent, we've all got our tattooed dirty laundry and our pierced skeletons in the closet. Still in denial? Here are a few sure signs that you might have had a wasted youth:

You know how to play pool. This is a classic clue. If you can pick up a cue after not playing for years, and double the ball off the back cushion, kiss the five ball, put a little back spin on it, and sink your stripe into the corner pocket, then it’s a sure sign you spent much of your youth in dodgy pool halls, drinking brandy and cokes, putting your coin on the side of the table and waiting your turn.

Sign number two that you may have had a wasted youth is that you can construct a bong, or some form of smoking device out of an old bottle or can, a chewing gum wrapper and a hair clip.

Another clue is that you know better than to ever drink Stroh Rum again. Ever. No matter what the bet, deal, bribe or circumstances. You won’t touch the stuff.

Or if you get sudden nervous twinges of anxiety whenever you see a cop car. Even if you’re completely innocent and aren’t going much over fifty in a sixty zone at the time. It’s an inherent feeling of latent guilt, left over from an earlier time when you may or may not have been so innocent.

But on second thoughts, maybe the royal 'they' have got it all wrong and these aren't the signs of a wasted youth at all, but rather signs of an excellently spent youth. A youth spent with nothing but time on its hands and fun on its brain. A youth before bonds and taxes and meetings at eight.

I mean can it be such a bad thing that you know how to open a bottle of wine without a corkscrew, or a bottle of beer with your flip flop, or that it only takes you three minutes to break into your own car?

If you even just half nodded at any of these, it just means that you are one of those very lucky people who had a slightly dodgy, but excellently spent youth. And if that’s the case, then please, by all means, rock on! But not after midnight okay, you've got an early start tomorrow morning.

Hipster traps

What is a hipster? 

Well other than becoming a sort of catchphrase that's developed over the last couple of years, it’s also a kind of sub culture.

We’re talking, hip, young, urban individuals.

Think skinny jeans and indie, emo, urban, hip, cool, trendy, somewhat pretentious. Often with a cigarette dangling between their fingers, and artfully posed.

Not sure who drew this, but I found it here.  

They like to think of themselves as counter-culture-revolutionaries and dig themselves a bit of art, culture and indie-rock. And I'm pretty sure many of them write poetry.

They generally think they reject the mainstream attitudes of your average consumer, and you’ll usually find them in skinny jeans, old-school sneakers, thick rimmed glasses, and maybe even a hat. And since that's what they're all wearing, the irony is that they may not realise it, but they've kind of become mainstream themselves.

This is a Hipster Trap:

Somebody in New York City set it.

It contains: one brightly-colored bike chain, one pack American Spirit cigarettes, one can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and one pair of plastic glasses.

As the website where i found this says: 'It just needs a Moleskine notebook to lure in more hesitant prey.'

I think it's hilarious, and genius.

We could recreate all sorts of our own traps for here.

BEE Traps - they could contain sushi, a woman to eat it off, expensive shoes, and a couple of tenders.

Or what about SA Man Traps? They would only need to contain a big stuk of beef biltong, rugby tickets and a couple of beers.

A woman trap? What about... hmmm.... a pair of Manolo's or Louboutin's, and your bollocks. There, we should be sorted.

There are fans, and then there's Frans

So one of the letters I got regarding Sunday's column, was this one, from a very serious man named Frans Quinton Marx:


lady i really dont like the way you put all man under one umbrella i mean like not every mans world revolves around sex make sure about your facts

So i responded:

Hey Frans, sorry if i offended you. My column really is a tongue in cheek take on the differences between men and women, so i do really generalise quite a bit. glad to hear you're not like that, though.
thanks for reading my column and taking the time to comment.
Paige.
And he responded thusly:

no problem anyway have a lovely day but i think you can try looking into more uplifting matters to write about like the christian religion now that would be great.

Oh goodness me Frans. I think we are two very different people, living in two very different worlds. I wonder if I should tell him I'm Jewish, or if that would just make his head explode?

Letters from a nut

As you may or may not know, I get massively varied responses to my column every week. Some weeks I only get responses from women, some weeks I only get responses from men. It's really interesting. 

This week's column, the one on men wanting sex anwhere, anyhow (see post below) only garnered comments from men. Some hilarious, some serious and angry, and some plain pornographic (i'll save you from those, don't worry!)

Here are a few, hope you enjoy:

Hi Paige,

I enjoyed your article of 20 March 2011, Well done!!!!
Please share Guy’s four classic pre-foreplay maneuvers with me ha ha!!!!
Regards
Peter van Wyk
 
Oooh, I think I'll save that for another column. Pre-foreplay manoevres girls, any you want to share?
 
Dear, Dear Paige!

There seems to be a misunderstanding between the genders! You see, as a man, I feel quite compelled to respond to "Let's get it on, Everywhere. All the time." "We men", if i may speak freely on behalf of my gender - "we men" are burdened with an unbelievably and awsomely tideous duty of populating the world! I don't think you know how it feels to have it ingrained in you, that if you do not pro-create, your species will dwindle into oblivion! Its not that we like sex - we just have a duty - you see, i believe that species that are now extinct, (besides human intervention), also brought it on themselves! - if the female dodo had just given it up, even when she had flu - they would still be with us today! think about it next time you say "no" - this is serious business!


ps: I am writing this from the spare bedroom, because i've got chicken pox! so trying to avoid spreading. Its been two days and i feel duty calls! - Don't know if my wife will be convinced! Help me!
Harry Ndlovu
 
You've got to love Harry. Harry the Hero! Harry the brave! Protecting the world from extinction! Go Harry!
    
And of course, no week would be complete without some hate mail. Here's this week's courtesy of a man named Frans Quinton Marx:

lady i really dont like the way you put all man under one umbrella i mean like not every mans world revolves around sex make sure about your facts

I love how he calls me 'lady'. You're a treat, Frans.

And then there's this strange letter from Isaac. The fact that he took the time to write to a WOMAN is quite something. I'm truly, deeply honoured.

Hi, Paige



I must confess that in as much as I rarely listen to or play woman music or music by woman whichever way it suits you I must confess that it took me a bit of time to find myself being interested by columns written by again a woman in your case, especially from a paper that I cant live my life without on a Sunday morning after church. I might have had the inclination to agree with your statement about men wanting it and always being in the mood for sex when I was in my early twenties and late thirties a while ago. Sadly being forty and believing that I have had all the sex I could ever have in my life and believe me with a whole lot of variety and at times with three in the same day I must tell you that your statement now only applies to probably those twenty year olds who have just experienced what an erection is and want to have it as you say-always.


Today some men of my age apart from the sushis that I read about every Sunday have more to do that to be always wanting to do the deed at any whim by any means. So I might be naïve and say that thinking of having it does not always mean I want to have it cause at times it’s sitting at home and looking at my lovely other half and seeing just how lucky I am to be loved by this special person next to me. With that comes wanting to do it in order to somewhat way also tell this person just how much she really means to you and not that I had a hard one again and as the saying goes in my mother tongue” ga e je bogobe” it does not eat pap.

Believe me this sex thing means differently to a whole lot of us especially men who now view it, see it and understand it differently now and what it means to my other half who still wants nothing to do with it in the morning when I expect to have as much of it as possible…


Thanks for a rather notable but now abnormal and not so normal score.


Regards
Isaac Molefe Sekhaolela

Crazies, you've got to love them.

Sex - anytime, anyplace, anyhow.

Here's Sunday's Column, hope you enjoy it.

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick


SEX - ANYTIME, ANYPLACE, ANYHOW.

There are a few major differences between men and women. Other than the obvious hardware variances and hair growth patterns, of course. But in my opinion one of the most obvious things that sets us apart is the fact that men are always (bar the very rare exception) in the mood for sex. Always.

Now let me state, for the record, that I actually rather like sex and I’ll generally take as much of it as I can get. Within reason of course.

And there’s the major difference between our sexes. The ‘within reason’ part.

The way I see it, surely there’s a time and a place for everything?

Nope, not for guys. It could be the end of the world, and it’s left up to you and your dude to help someone like Will Smith or Denzel Washington stop an asteroid from causing an earthquake, that results in a tsunami, that causes a hurricane, that could wipe out all of humanity if you don’t do something about it fast. And there’s a good chance your guy will want to just quickly pull into that abandoned truck stop and get busy. It won’t take a minute, just five seconds, aw come on babe. You know it helps me focus and I always perform better afterwards.

Guys will take sex anywhere, anytime, anyhow, with just about anyone.

I once dated this guy, let’s call him ‘Guy’. Anyway, we’d only been together for a couple of months, Guy and I, so we were in that new phase of the relationship. The part where you still think his morning breath is cute. (The days where you believe it capable of felling trees comes much later on in the relationship.)

So it was around then that I got flu. And we’re not talking your average strain of flu here. This was the George Bush of flu’s - powerful and stupid. The kind that makes man-flu look like a paper cut.

It was a Saturday night and since I was sick, Guy was over and we were watching a DVD. Rather he was watching a DVD, I was pouring from the nose and eyes, sneezing like it was an Olympic sport and simultaneously coughing up a lung. I couldn’t have looked any worse.

When the movie ended I turned to look at Guy and even through my Syndol haze I could tell that he was looking at me with ‘those eyes’. You know the ones. The kind of eyes that if they had a soundtrack it would be Barry White. So I immediately stepped into defensive mode and told him how awful I was feeling. I started with my aching bones and then graphically described my nasal activity.

Who knew snot could be sexy? Apparently I’d never looked hotter. I tried to explain that was because I had a temperature of a hundred and two. But the next thing I knew Guy was moving in with one of his four classic standard pre-foreplay manoeuvres. Here I was half dying, snot literally pouring down my face, and he still wanted to do it. Hey, that’s guys for you. If you’re willing to give it, they’ll take it, regardless of the circumstances.

Why is it, do you think? Perhaps it’s because men’s equipment is so out there, while ours is more discreetly tucked away underneath us, out of sight, out of mind. Maybe that’s why guys are rumoured to think about sex every two minutes or so. Every move they make their tackle is right there in front of them, leading the way, reminding them of its needy existence.

Or maybe guys are like those telemarketers, or spam purveyors, and they operate under the law of averages and that’s why they’re always trying to have sex. The way they see it it’s pure statistics. If they make a move on you sixteen times (ie: at every available opportunity in the day, regardless of the circumstances) then you’re bound to say yes at least once. Score.

Separating the men from the boys.

This is a piece that appeared in the latest issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine.

It's about how you can tell a lot about a guy from how he lives.

It's a great issue, if you haven't picked it up yet, it's packed full of stuff. I particularly enjoyed the article on 'How to Read his Orgasm Face' - on page 64. Too funny.

The text version below is unedited by the mag, so there are a couple of added extras. Hope you enjoy.

UPFRONT WOMAN – By Paige Nick
SEPARATING THE MEN FROM THE BOYS

There once was this guy. We met in a bar. After going on a series of increasingly enjoyable dates we made our way back to his place late one night. It was a lovely apartment in Sea Point. We sat in the lounge and drank a couple of expensive whiskeys from his impressively well-stocked bar, and then we retired to his tidy and tastefully furnished bedroom. I was impressed and smitten. Until the next morning when I slipped out of bed while he was still sleeping and tip-toed in my underwear to the bathroom, right past the kitchen, where his mother, step-father and fourteen year old sister were having breakfast. I guess the fact that he still lived with his mother was the tiny detail he forgot to mention. I really only have myself to blame, I should have guessed the second he poured our drinks and led me through the lounge. What 25 year old guy uses coasters!

For the observant woman who knows what to look for, the way a guy lives can really speak volumes about him.

Who he lives with:

Let’s start with an obvious one. Any male over the age of 25 who still lives with his mother is definitely still a boy. And if he’s over 35 and still living with his mother then that ramps him up from mere boy status, to pathetic boy status.

A guy who has roommates can go either way. If he lives with sixteen friends and five bongs in a house with only three bedrooms, we’re definitely talking boy. But find two or three professional guys just starting out, sharing a nice spot in a good neighbourhood and it’s safe to say that if they aren’t men yet, they’re definitely well on their way.

The wallet:

Any dude who keeps his money in anything that closes with velcro can only ever be considered a boy.

The kitchen:

Visiting your guy’s kitchen is one of the quickest and easiest ways to decide what you’re dealing with. Open the very first cupboard you can reach and if it’s filled with two minute noodles, he’s a boy.

If he owns a grater, a sieve, a garlic crusher or more than three different kinds of spices, then he’s a man (salt and pepper don’t count).

A collection of mismatched beer and shot glasses from every bar in town means he’s a boy. While matching plates, glasses and cutlery mean he’s a man, for sure. Potentially even a divorced man. Check out the crockery, if there’s any kind of floral pattern on any of his dishes there might be something he’s not telling you.

If you manage to check in the fridge that can be pretty telling too. Nothing in there but beer, butter and tomato sauce and you’ve got a boy on your hands. Not to be confused with a guy who has nothing but beer, butter and olives - he’s a man, guaranteed.

The bed:

This is a slightly trickier area. Only because if you’re in the bedroom and on the bed, chances are you’re already kissing. And if that’s the case it’s almost impossible to stay focussed and pay attention to the details.

But if you can stop bumping tonsils for just a minute, check out his bed. If he’s just got a mattress on the floor, or a sleeping bag for a blanket, then run, run for your life, he’s a boy, even worse, maybe even a boy scout.

If he has a futon then he’s a boy sneakily trying to disguise himself as a man.

And if his bed is covered in stuffed toys or dolls, then you’ve unknowingly entered the lair of a serial killer and it’s too late for you anyway.

How he stores his clothes:

If at this stage your internal jury is still out, just check how he stores his clothes. If they’re scattered all over the floor, or if he has a clothing rail there’s no doubt about it, your guy is a boy.

Anything vaguely resembling a cupboard and you’ve found yourself a man. And spot more than five hangers inside the cupboard with clothes actually on them, then you’ve found something very rare; a gentleman.

So there you have it ladies, a basic guide to separating the men from the boys and the freaks from the lunatics. Because home may be where the heart is, but if it’s also where your future mother-in-law is, you’ve got problems.

let me know if you have any to add to the list.



I didn't even start on his bathroom, and what about the dvd collection? So telling.

Letters I love

I've mentioned before how much I love all the letters I get from my column. It's my favourite part of the week.

Here are two I got from sunday's article on etiquette (the post below this). I heart them big time. Enjoy.


Loved your article ~ as an Englishman from the 'stiff upper lip' brigade the VIG should immediately have apologised blaming dental work done that very afternoon and should have gently wiped the gob from your cheek with something clean. Preferably not a snotty handkerchief!



Sorry to hear about the unwanted penis ~ but keep trying!
Chris

Thanks Chris, I'll keep on trying. If for no other reason than to bring you more stories. Hey, if I'm lucky the next guy will steal my car. Awesome.

Dear Paige,

Why do you think the ladies of 100 to 300 years ago always but always had a fan in their hands ? My friend, they used it very coyly to ward off these flying projectiles and unwanted mucus landing on their oh! so sensitive complexions. So there, and you always thought they used it for cooling themselves !!!! Moral of the story - keep an old fashioned fan in your handbag and blame hot flushes or use it very effectively as a tool to flirt.



I enjoy your column and hope I can be of help in future. You just need to ask dearie.


Kindest regards
Suzanne Bosch-Smit
Camelfoot Cottage
Sea Point
 
Hi Suzanne, thanks so much for writing. I learnt something new. I always wondered about those fans. I went out and bought one immediately. Genius plan. I see you're from Camelfoot Cottage, is that next door to Cameltoe Lodge? (I'm sorry Suzanne, I do love you, but I couldn't resist!)
 
Let me give you a punt to make up for it. Camelfoot Cottage is an awesome Antique Dealer in Sea Point. If that's your vibe check it out. Ask for Suzanne, she rocks!
 
have a good tuesday. x

Etiquette has left the building

Hey all, good weekend I assume? Good. Here's the latest Sunday Times column. Hope you enjoy. xxx
Oh, and Monday, if you're reading this, up your bum!

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick

ETIQUETTE HAS LEFT THE BUILDING.

I just finished reading a novel set in London in the 1700s. I know, so far that must sound about as interesting as having someone tell you about a dream they had. But if I told you it was about prostitution back then, would you stick around for another sentence?

Back in those days etiquette was everything (even for the working girls). There were strict rules, regulations and guidelines regarding every move you made. They even wrote detailed books on the subject, with catchy titles like ‘George Washington’s Rules of Civility and Decent Behaviour in Company and Conversation’, which covered important situations like how to cough, how to eat your soup, how to be asleep, how to be awake and how to breathe.

But now, a mere 300 years later we’re left poking around in the dark with no clue as to appropriate etiquette. And over and above that we seem to have completely lost all our social boundaries. Perhaps it’s because communication has become so easy. A few hundred years ago you had to physically handwrite letters, using an old bird’s feather and then wait a couple of months for a response. These days we SMS from the couch, to ask the person sitting next to us to change the channel. And if you don’t answer your cell phone at all hours before the fourth ring, or heaven forbid let it go to voicemail, people think you’re probably dead, or even worse, ignoring them.

Perhaps it’s time we revisited etiquette. I for one increasingly find myself in uncomfortable situations where I honestly don’t know how to act. Recently at a cocktail party I was chatting with a very important gentleman when a microscopic piece of wet matter flew out of his mouth, propelled through the air with great velocity and landed on my left cheek. It was a seriously awkward moment. I wanted to jump up and down, swearing and scratching at my face with my shirt sleeve, before dunking myself into a vat of disinfectant. But I didn’t want to embarrass the poor dude by making a fuss, also there was no vat of disinfectant in that particular bar, so what to do? We both opted for the ostrich approach and pretended nothing had happened as the particle burned an imaginary hole in my cheek.

We carried on chatting for another ten minutes, before I politely excused myself to go top up my drink (ie: run to the bathroom and scrub my face off). What’s the etiquette here, people? I’m stumped. What would George Washington have suggested?

And it’s not just in the real world where we’re lacking social skills, the Internet seems to be playing its roll in turning us back into Neanderthals too.

I recently got chatting to a chap online on the dating website I frequent. He seemed perfectly normal at every turn. Divorced suburban dad, starting over, looking to make friends, maybe more. We chatted politely and amicably via email for a few days before deciding to swap photographs. So I sent him a couple of what I hoped were flattering pictures of myself, and in return he sent me two pictures of his erect penis. True story.

How strange we’ve become. Whatever happened to our boundaries? One can only hope that as the world turns we might eventually return to a more innocent time, when men no longer email pictures of their private parts willy-nilly to complete strangers, and when we’ll know exactly what to do when someone spits on our face.

Angry Malema

Oh Ju Ju. How unhappy you make me.

Oh people of the random internetweb, how happy you make me.

Some genious wonderchild out there, who is without a doubt Einstein's second cousin, twice removed, has created a website that in it's wonderfulness has made me so happy. It makes having to drag my ass out of bed every day, a that much more pleasurable experience.

For they have created something great, they have created the Angry Malema website.

Here's how it works.

They provide you with this picture of the man himself, in all his angry, little foot stomping glory.

And all you have to do is cut him out and plop him into any situation you like. Then you share on the site.

Here are some examples:

bwahahahahahahahahaaaaa

heheheheheheheehehehhehe

hahahahahahahhahahahahahah

cackle, cackle, cackle....



and back to bwahahahahahahhahahahahahaa again.

I can just imagine him stomping his feet, and balling up his fists in an angry rage when he sees this. Then trying to shut down the internet for good. Bloody Agents, the lot of you.

He's going to throw a big floppy, something like this:

Camel toe

I have this fabulous old friend (he's not old, he's younger than me, i've just known him for a long time, hence the old) anyway, I digress. His name is Wallace, and he used to say a very wise thing; 'Every day is a school day.'

Too true, don't you think? A wise old thing is Wallace. (Again, he's not old, that's a term of endearment.)

So today was indeed a school day and I learnt a couple of things.

But here is the craziest thing I learnt.

So we all know what a camel toe is, right?

You know, when a girl wears her pant too tight, like this:

Yes, that picture was taken at the 2010 Camel Toe Olympics. And they all won gold medals.

But did you know there's also a 'Moose Knuckle'? True fricken' story. There's a 'Moose Knuckle'. I didn't know, and when I found out I laughed my ass off.

According to our friends at Wikipedia (Oh my goodness, what would I do without you Wikipedia?) it's:

Moose Knuckle is a slang term that refers to the outline of a human male's genitals showing through clothes at the crotch. It is the male equivalent of cameltoe.


Ta daaaaah:

And at the Moose Knuckle Olympics:

Oh my goodness, it couldn't be any funnier if it tried.
Did you all know about this thing all along and nobody's ever thought to tell me, or is this new to you too? Let me know.

Moose Knuckle, bwahahahahahahahhahaa.

Teabagging. Snigger, snigger.

Morning all, happy Moanday. Here's yesterday's Sunday Times column, in case you missed it. When i first wrote it I leaned over my desk and asked Karin (she's my wonderful (and brave) Art Director, who sits across from me 5 days a week, 9 hours a day) if she thought the Sunday Times would publish a piece on 'teabagging'. She scrunched up her nose, and said, 'Gross man!'

A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – BY PAIGE NICK

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE WHO NEEDS ENEMIES?

A couple of weeks ago I was woken up by a knocking sound coming from outside. It was 3am on a Sunday morning. The knocking started out quietly, and got progressively louder and more urgent, until it was accompanied by shouting, too.

I popped my head outside, but there was no one at either of my neighbour’s doors, so I followed the sound until I discovered that it came from a car parked outside my apartment. It was a white Opel Corsa, with nobody in the front seat and panelled windows, so I couldn’t see into the back. With every passing second the banging and shouting got louder and more frantic.

So I woke up the ever-alert security guard and we tiptoed back to the car together, both trying to be brave. He leant forward and opened the boot. We jumped back as a very drunk guy unfolded out of the boot of the Corsa, looking bewildered. The last thing he remembered is having a couple of drinks with his friends at the local Slug and Cockroach. I asked him if he recognised the car boot he fell out of? He scratched his head and looked confused. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘That’s my mate’s car.’

Nice mates you’ve got, dude. What did he do for your birthday, rat you out to SARS?

Then I went back to bed, very grateful I’m a girl. When it comes to friends, you can’t beat a girlfriend. We’re definitely more the hold your hair back while you vomit gender, rather than the lock you in the boot of a car, then tiptoe off to bed when you get out of hand on a Saturday night out, variety.

A girlfriend will listen to you whinge about your ex for six months to a year, non-stop. She’ll say ‘bless you’ when you sneeze and she’ll buy you a massage when things get tough. While guy friends will shave off your eyebrows if you’re the first to fall asleep.

Guy friends are way crueller than girlfriends and about a million times more disgusting. It’s in their genes, it’s all part of their boyish camaraderie and playful nature. Tea bagging is exhibit A. It’s a guy ritual where if a guy passes out first, a ‘mate’ will drop his um... er... testicles (sorry, there’s no pretty way of putting this) on the unlucky passed out guy’s face, and then take a photograph. This happens. Really it does. That’s why a guy who has passed out after a big night will often wake up with a terrible taste in his mouth.

You have to wonder what boy came up with this idea first, and why? I just can’t imagine a bunch of girls getting up to this kind of thing. Back in the day the worst thing that would happen to you if you fell asleep early was that you’d find your bra in the freezer the next morning, lame maybe, but I’d much rather have lame dangled in my face than the alternative.

The fact of the matter is that best men are very rarely that. They generally insist on organising bachelor parties that the groom is going to have to spend the rest of his marriage apologising for. While girls organising a hen night give lovely gifts of extravagant lingerie and fun novelties that both the bride and groom can benefit from for years to come.

Ah guy friends, always there for you, always got your back, always happy to be your wingman, right by your side, unless of course you fall asleep first.

So boys, you can have your mates. I think I’ll stick with my girlfriends thank you very much, right to the bitter end.

House of meat

So there I was surfing around the net yesterday, wondering what the hell to blog about, when I came across a house made out of meat! Yes folks, that's where we're at now. Domicile's made out of animals. Wow.

Anyway, so before I clicked through to check it out, being as I have a strange type of over-active imagination, I instantly imagined something like this:

Or like this:

And then I thought if there was a house made of meat, then the resident would most certainly be Lady Gaga and her posse:

And when she wasn't dressed for the red carpet and was just hanging around in her meat house, she'd wear these:

But my imagination was not accurate at all.

Here's the actual meat house (found here):

I know, that doesn't look like meat at all. Maybe a bit bacony, but not really.

And this is what they have to say about it:

From a boundary-pushing team of archi-visionaries comes a new (and somewhat disgusting) way to grow a structure — using animal flesh! The In Vitro Meat Habitat is a futuristic concept home composed of meat cells grown in a lab. We can’t imagine that these residences are going be replacing suburban tract homes anytime soon, but it sure is a provocative idea! The creator of the concept, Mitchell Joachim, is a futurist with a twist– he says he is actually developing the concept in a lab.

That last sentence should actually read... 'Mitchell Joachim, is a freak, with a twisted mind, and too much time on his hands, who should maybe consider working in his lab on solving a real problem...'

Anyway so it's not as much a meat house as I had imagined, but still. WHY? I didn't know we were having a problem with bricks!

Fab weekend everybody.

Evil cakes

By their very nature all cakes are evil, right? Even the sneaky ones that sound like they might be healthy, like carrot cake. All truly evil, what with all that sugar and lard. But some cakes are eviler and even nastier, and those have to be my very favourite types of cake by far.

Welcome to the world of evilcakeshop.com brought to my attention by the ever wicked, Zwier.

It's fair to say that these are probably the kinds of people that your mother warned you about.

Here's the title page of their site. Click to enlarge. Or stroke to enlarge. Your call.

Dude, these are all edible cakes:

This one is called the 'Edible Autopsy'.

Yum. Kudos to them, on their site they've documented all the research they did on this one, and it's pretty accurate (not that I would know, but so they say).


And there are cupcakes:

If you're a little queasy or you haven't had your morning coffee yet, you may want to step aside.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Yeah! Let them eat cake!