So it seems political grinch -cum- prodigal son, Philip Dexter – Cope’s spokesperson, MP and founding member – is jumping back onto the ANC G-train with what is to be expected from greener-grass chasers: the requisite ankle-biting and ass-licking.
Waxing lyrical when he left the ANC to start Cope a few years ago, this political postulator accused the then JZ-run party of (to quote the Cape Times quoting him) “‘peddling lies’, promoting ‘factionalism, tribalism, violence, misogyny’ and ‘condoning possible criminal activity'”.
Now, leaving Cope, he’s self-proclaimed “failed experiment”, he seems intent on pouring yet more vitriol on the Cope-fire he started back in May when he basically accused his party members of mismanagement of funds, abuse of power and manipulating election results.
Here we are at the end of another moderately entertaining day. The problem with being burdened with a middle class appetite is that you tend to behave like a spoilt little mofo every now and then. We aren’t really receptive, as a movement, to reality. I noticed this some time back when I realized that the wrong flavoured yoghurt physically upset me. Mashini wam need not look too hard for evidence for a reason to strike with just cause. To be fair, however, we must consider the fact that apricot yoghurt is disgusting. Yes Korean dictators are dying, but what of the yoghurt? It’s a dissapointing fuselage of too-sweet-honey type goo mixed with a full cream yoghurty vibe. No human should have to square off with this cotchy apricot-infused sickly sweet assemblage of hormone-soaked calf sustenance thrown with whatever we perceive as edgy labelling. Life is too short.
There’s a place on the arse end of Kloof Street, just before Geneva drive, opposite that little wooden security booth, called Diepsloot. It’s a little gorge hemmed by a little bit of parking, overlooking Camps Bay Beach. I sat there tonight (Thursday) watching the sun go down and taking in the prettiest bloody view I’ve seen in a while. Sinking a few Black Labels, we had a designated driver relax you narc bastards, getting ready for the evening’s gallavanting.
Ken Bull-Smith’s one man show TOO MUCH LOVE at the Arena Theatre on Orange Street (Michealis campus) tore right into my middle bits. I met the cripple delight some time back on the comedy circuit. I had no idea his theatrical swagger was so stern. Now, I’m not tuned into how the whole art fag review vibe movement works but I enjoyed this man’s show immensely. Basically, a physically orientated show, exploring his journey with muscular dystrophy- a seriously autobiographical manoeuvre. I guess it’s because I knew about Ken’s condition (?) that made the material so much more punchier, but now so do you so you too can go feel what I did.
Another day spent in this tilted republic. You know when you have shit to do, but the other shit you need to do is getting in the way. I have that problem, but in reverse, and occasionally on acid, which makes the whole thing unnecessarily interesting. Comedy is getting in the way of writing. I find myself in that disgusting state of privilege where the only things you have to do are the things you want to and that’s not the point of this piece but it’s an amazingly kief development in my life so bare with it.
And don’t forget, some of our citizens resort to smuggling hard drugs into the heart of militarised pinko-dom and some of us get to stay alive. What a weird situation. Count yourself lucky and while we’re at it; FUCK CHINA, those uptight bastards had no right to touch one of our own. When will the Zuma administration man up and stick it to the rooi gevaar? Probably never, fags (used as a term of weakness and not sexual orientation).
I’ve been thinking about something lately that’s made me reconsider my level of commitment to Schedule 7 painkillers: the global economy is exhibiting the very worst symptoms of the Second Law of Thermodynamics, how did we get here and where might we go? After not a few afternoons slamming my head into a mirror like a whiskey-soaked budgerigar I had an idea. It all starts with WB Yeats…
A week of chaos has come to a close. Three days of non stop festival hosting, preceded by a fifteen hour binge, sandwiched by a birthday roast, which involves the Cape Town comedy crew and punters alike to laugh at every flaw, a soul destroying bout of beauteous unrestrained lunacy. It’s a roller coaster of insane offence. Especially with a scowling witty opinionista like Martin Evans at the helm. Sporting a scorn fowler than Satan’s smegma, Martin Evans unleashed, is a magical masterclass of cynical excess.
Does this offend or inspire you?
And please, tell me why.
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