As you’re all aware from Never stripe on stripe I slaved away in December like one of Santa’s elves, just taller and better looking, and a proper holiday last year to me was much like toilet paper while camping, an unnecessary luxury (women of course would disagree). So when the opportunity presented itself for themikeappel to board an over-priced flight to Cape Town for the wedding of my dear lady friend, I threw all my holiday eggs in one basket, and was determined to squeeze the three weeks most of you bastards had into three days.
To celebrate getting over a bout of voodoo flu that had me breathing through my mouth like a cod fish, I did what any self respecting singleton does…I went in search of beer chilled to just the right temperature that I could down enough of it without giving myself brain freeze. This was just so fortuitously also the day before I was scheduled to depart for Cape Town, so kill two celebration birds with one stone I thought.
The little joint was classy, but I did absolutely nothing to add to that class. I’m sure my good readers have all heard of man’s favourite invention and women’s greatest pet hate, the wife beater. Women may now all nod in unison. Now just a point of clarity good people, a wife beater has nothing to do with the physical assault of our lady friends, it is merely named after the mistaken philosophy that vest-wearing men somehow have pent-up anger towards the female form. Let me correct that, and on the contrary, it is simply a casual way of giving interested parties a look at what’s under the hood without actually test driving or putting a deposit down. You’re welcome.
As I frequent the gym during the week and it’s probably the only socially acceptable place to wear vests, my laundry basket was full of gym vests when they broke into the man cave. The burglars were thankfully decent enough to leave clothing that was drenched in my man sweat. I think they smelt a superior male specie and knew I could track my own scent so they decided against it. If a woman has the fortune to gaze upon my wardrobe now she’d think, “Geez if all this guy does is gym he should be looking a hell of a lot better than my boyfriend”.
Clad in what can only be described as a glorious man-sterpiece to look at, I met up with a fellow lover of the gold stuff and a cold Windhoek. He had answered the call to help celebrate the end of my incapacitation and trip to the windy city. Now the fellow is very much like me…let’s call him TeazHers. Now TeazHers has almost no regard for what people think of him, can be slick of tongue when required and, like themikeappel, struggles with when to call it a night. In hindsight, the two of us were the worst combination after which I would need to bravely face my 4am alarm clock. The celebrations took us to places where familiar female faces brought on yet another attack of the, “another round please barman.”
Now I think the worst person to talk to himself must be me. I’m obnoxious at times, rude at others, charming and a hopeless romantic (with the right person). All of these mean that when I was having that gut-check moment at 3am, I first told myself what an idiot I am, I then made a “your-mother” joke, told myself how good I was looking in the mirror, after which I would have promised to buy flowers for myself on Valentines Day. If you just followed my train of thought, I suggest booking both your personalities an appointment with the head doctor. Not mine, she’s fully booked seeing both of me. If only some of my ex girlfriends had cheated on me with me I would have gotten over it a lot sooner.
After what I can only imagine must have been quite a serious conversation with myself I convinced me that 30 minutes of sleep would stand me in good stead for the 4am wake up and I’d be able to catch up on some winks on the plane. Whoever thought up that plan is an idiot. When the sun crested the horizon, I was comfortably battling dragons and rescuing Elin Nordegren from returning to that knob Tiger Woods. I made it to the airport in the nick of time to be told their next flight was at 3pm if I was willing to part with a kidney and my left index finger…apparently that’s big in Japan this time of year.
Cape Town welcomed me as only that fine city can. It was a quick trip in the Porsche to my second home just in time to catch that sunset that lets you know you’re on holiday now. After guzzling too much of Dr. Happy Feet’s fine wine a night on the town it was…and what a night. Without divulging too much detail, as we all know, I’m all about the imagination, let’s just say, when Dr. Happy Feet jets off to foreign lands, I’ll be sure to always miss my first flight but get there.
All dressed up with somewhere to go, the fabulous Mount Nelson Hotel set the scene for what was one of the best weddings themikeappel has had the honour of attending. Very much an unknown face amongst the crowd, I found drinking both white and red wine interchangeably at short intervals provided the much-needed social glue to sufficiently stick me to the dance floor which is where white Usher found his home for the evening. Mazel to the fantastic Mr and Mrs and thank you.
From there it was a short drop and a sudden stop in at a wine farm the next day before home once again cracked its fierce whip beckoning me back to its terrible money-grubbing shores. Yes, we’re better paid up here in Gauteng, but the Cape has well…me visiting it once every so often. So hang in there guys, I’ll be back.