Eish!

It is unwise to criticise the youth.

Specifically if you’re criticising their music. It shows how old you are.

I recall how my own parental units turned up noses and plugged up ears (and unplugged radios) at my music when I lived under their roof. And I was listening to such innocence as Duran Duran, OMD, Big Country and Gerry Rafferty. OK, admittedly I interspersed it with bouts of Halloween, Quiet Riot, G’nR and vintage Metallica but normally when I was hiding at Gerald’s house. The days we’re long, the summers warm, my t-shirts torn and my neck whip-lashed stiff.

I kind of wish someone had criticised me properly, intelligently (with force if necessary) and shown me the Path. I mean, honestly, Big Country? Was that just a phase or did Gerry Rafferty lead me to harder drugs like the Waterboys?

Either way, it’s not wise to criticise the music of the youth for fear of ridicule if nothing else. Unless of course they are listening to utter shite. This is altruistically acceptable. I can name a few:

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Today I prepare myself mentally…

…having prepared myself physically for the arduous challenge of tackling the Fish River Canyon starting this Sunday. A wild five day jaunt without a tent or a paddle.

Training has been rigorous and the regime is largely based on:

• waking up early
• forgoing (or is it forsaking) coffee-first-thing for tea-second-thing
• finding a slow fat dog to walk with
• preferably around a dam or (better yet) a puddle to “get in the mood”
• wearing a hat

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I like a good rant as much as the next guy.

This is no exception. The flu has kicked in, the drugs aren’t cheap and they just make it worse[1]. However, before I rant away merrily and stew in my own melancholic torpor, take this disclaimer and memorise it well children:

Disclaimer: Eish! has no delusions of grandeur. It receives 43 spam comments a day and has a readership of 12 accidental hits a week, none of them from my mother (incidentally, even she doesn’t know about it). 3 of those hits are by me refreshing the page in different browsers to up the ante, 3 of them are stalkers and the rest are by your mother Googling for boot polish so get over it. I know I have.

The 2009 SA Blog Awards have left me with a somewhat stupefied expression on my face. It is the same expression you would have seen me wear when Bush beat Gore at the Polls, Zuma beat the NPA on the street and when I walked in on an erstwhile housemate beating it on the couch.

The cause of my stupour is easily surmised, though, by the Blog Awards website itself:

Quote: If you’re a winner or a runner up in any of the categories, please contact us and we will forward you your winner/runner up badge for you to put on your blog. Thank you.

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Vengeful Viognier

If the morning-after doesn’t leave you feeling blinded, extremely sorry or at least mildly green and furry then you need to switch your habit to Vengeful Viognier. Packed with essential polyphenols, antioxidants, flavonoids, anti-depressants, antiseptic and anesthetics – it’s practically a health food.

This wine typically goes well with dishes that are best served cold, such as revenge, malevolence, retaliation, spitefulness, retribution, vengeance, and green salads.

I suspect I’m a little colour blind.

They say that, in life, there are two kinds of people: those who believe the world can be divided into two kinds of people and those who don’t.

The latest meme to hit our follicles in the endless quest to dissect humanity into its constituent parts is the colour[1] coding of menial tasks. Pink jobs for girls and blue jobs for boys. Say that last one fast ten times and you’ll see why I’m not feigning my interest in this dialogue[2].

A Blue Job is supposed to be something that boys are good at: mowing lawns, changing light bulbs, lying about Ukrainian strippers, opening jam jars and keeping remote control buttons from siezing.

A Pink Job is supposed to be something that girls are good at: erm, cooking? cleaning? bending credit-cards? running out of motor oil? Why am I drawing blank on this one?

I confess I am judging this by the calibre of my ex-girlfriends, all master-chefs and/or fastidious house-cleaners (with the exception of one who claimed she was the 3rd member of a touring girl-band. I did her laundry.)  No, I am not trying to marry my mother.

The Nice Dog Lady, however, is not so easy to break down into constituent parts in any way. If you did manage it, you would probably find two parts gin and one part vermouth. I’ve seen her mow the lawn, mount an outside light, open jars and use a remote. I’m just waiting for her to lie about Ukrainian strippers and then I’m going to dig into her past to see if she wasn’t at one stage, indeed, the Nice Dog Lad.

Disclaimer: I fell deeply in love with the Nice Dog Lady when I went over to visit one Sunday and found her in the back yard wearing leather gloves and feeding branches into her own personal wood-chipper. It is an image that shall stay with me always.

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[1] for our American audience, that’s color with a ewe

[2] gosh, all these ewes, what will the Republicans think?

Monkey-Boy Merlot

Get Naked! Start the Revolution!

This wine means Business. Monkey Business.

Straw not included in sale price. If you enjoyed this wine, then why not wipe the drool with our handy wet-wipes?

Womble White

This cheeky young thing is made in the age old tradition of displaced gypsies. Best served defrosted, the Womble White is revered for its chewy texture and almost diabolical resemblance to Cleopatra’s nose.

The other day I considered dog nipples.

I took the Nice Dog Lady out of quarantine, introduced her to my friends in good faith that she was ready and she decided that after dinner was the perfect time to mention that she had felt dog nipples. I’m wondering if it’s an English tradition that I’ve missed.

That being said, after the blank stares were replaced by nervous coughing and offers to make tea, I thought about some of the things that I’ve felt in my time. The list extended to the inside of an impala, a soggy bread-roll in my trouser pocket and a sheep aorta wrapped around my index finger as a kind of organic ringlet.

Pretty standard really.

There was also the snot streak from a six year Madagascan boy that flung itself in a wide arc across my forearm. That was special too. I’ve also stood barefoot in more poo than I can care to mention. Can you spell suppository? I am not proud.

So why should the thought of touching dog nipples arise a sedimentary response in different people. According to Python [1], wolf-nipple chips were a Roman delicacy. Dog-breeders alike often have to rub the milk clots out of canine-cans so that the puppies don’t choke.

You don’t have to like it but you do have to try it. At least once.

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[1] that bastion of historical accuracy

Possibly Pinotage

A modest yet unpretentious little wine, so much so that we don’t actually know what is in it. The vat was left open for a while but we’re almost positive the cat never went near it.

A strong silent type, it is best enjoyed with lumps of rock salt, loud whistling and a total lack of regard for all things Gaellic. Possibly Pinotage has been proudly banned in three provinces, one hotel parking-lot, being mentioned at Communion, by the French and by my parents.

Bottoms Up! Barolo

With a bouquet like barrel-fermented botulism, this bottle should be held away from open flames and kept out of direct sunlight.

Goes well with:  dodgy prawns, German cuisine involving sausages, certain cheeses, stagnant pond water, most beans, really old fruit, lark’s vomit, milk that’s been left out, a carcass with vultures on it, stewed prunes, East Cape Polony or anything cooked by people with bones in their hair.

This wine is not for sissies.