Everybody's got the fever!

Figure 1. YOU KNOW WHY!

Despite my attempts to avoid all things sport I have succumbed to World Cup Fevahhhh!!! I gave all my support to Bafana Bafana who sadly didn’t make it past round 1 but put up some sterling good plays and left with dignity. Following this, I adopted bloodline-through-marriage loyalty and was behind Denmark who piddled their way out to Japan! (WTF! Can Japan even play soccer?!)

But, MY TEAM, the ones where it actually mattered what happened are were England! The 3 Lions. Swing low sweet chariot. Rah rah rah dahling and all that poppycock!

In my impartial indulgence in sport, apart from horse riding, since the age of 1 and a half, I have been the civilized one. The one more than happy to watch the style network whilst SA were playing rugby against Australia. The one happy to eat salad at a braai. The one who doesn’t understand the need to watch the game, the repeat of the game AND the highlights channel… But Sunday I released my inner Neanderthal. I settled into my blanket on the sofa in my designer jeans and polka-dot slipper-booties with coke in hand and a packet of Doritos. Civilised I thought. No vuvuzelas around. No face paint. No beer. And then the game started. Clash of the titans. WWIII as it had been fondly dubbed. England vs Germany.

As the referee clown from Uruguay (is it even a legitimate country? If we didn’t colonise it, then NO!) made bad decision after bad decision including disrupting play by getting in the way of the ball… (I mean really… I could have done a better job in a pair of heels after drinking a bottle of Stroh Rum!) I devolved to the macho jock that is hiding deep inside me. Expletives were issued. Brash statements were released on FB. Screaming at the TV ensued. ^{[Perving over Beckham was a mere added extra!]} And my inner Neanderthal even resorted to hurling Doritos at the TV in an angry rage. At one point I was standing on the sofa, in furry polka-dot slippers and all screaming profanities and jumping up and down! Within those 90 minutes of play, I mastered the rules of football and had self-proclaimed myself to be the next best English soccer coach. Move over Sir Alex and dahling Fabio, it’s time for Lady Brendan to shine!

Following shocking referee decisions, apathetic play by the English side and a very strong, precise game by ze Yermans, I was in a foul mood over our loss. Yes, I use the possessive because WE lost. My team. My boys. The Queen. The Empire. Defeated. Retreat back to the homeland. Dejected. Defiled. The shame. The sadness. I almost cried… Instead, I just poured more Rose wine and got drunk – clevah!

But now I’m over it and can re-evolve back to a state of class and reserve. The soccer shall now have limited impact on my life. Although I will support all teams against ze dirty Yermans as if they were my own!

In more important news, blind-date facebook man contacted me. Told me that my message to him was hilarious and he laughed so much and complimented me on my creativity. J But he seems to be unable to meet up before he leaves. Oh well, next! Not to worry, I still managed to slore myself across risqy on Friday… although this one was a super Queen. But then again, a Queen is just a pawn with a bunch of fancy moves… Luckily I escaped without exchanging numbers!

Oooo, and at my FAVOURITE establishment (Billys) on Saturday, I met some super hott BrAsilians. Why are ALL Brathilianth tho thort and have a liiiithp? Upon seeing my gingah-loving housemate, they said:

“Eeef I had a thitah like chours, then I would never leave the hooouuuth!” (Translates to: “If I had a sister like yours, then I would never leave the house!”).

I’m sure that’s even illegal in Brathiiil! Just saying.

But hey, they were so dashingly hott they could have had their way with whoever they wanted in that establishment. Especially as the place was filled with everything from KILFs, through real Neanderthals to midgets… not forgetting drunken heffalumps on the bar. One would think I’d never go back, but that place has a spethial hold on my heart!! Oh Billys!

And now… the final few days of work begin! BUT they want me to fill in for 2 weeks in July… I will, if it is worth my while money wise $$$$$$$

Plans to leave are beginning to take form. London, brace yourself!

BAM!

Blind social networking etiquette

Figure 1. Stranger = Danger (Unless of course he has candy or alcohol...)

The inevitable “OMG, I know someone who is perfect for you! I’ll get him to add you on FB and then you two can hook up!” conversation is always followed by the exceptionally difficult choice of how to respond/start contact with your new prospect… knowing full well that neither of you are familiar with one another and have been told to hook up by a fag-hag of choice. Thus, intentions are only to come right… I guess it’s not awkward till you make it awkward! Haha!

With FB’s multi-impersonal networking capabilities, this is not an easy choice!

Option number 1: The Poke

Impersonal.

Quick.

No real meaning other than annoying the heck out of the receiver and eventually cascading into a poke war...

Option 2: The Wall Post

Public.

Direct.

Unashamedly avant garde.

Open to direct scrutinisation by fellow FBers... (thus, open to judgement and public failure/humiliation upon rejection)

*It is advised that this option is avoided at all costs; in the same way that one avoids chess club or choir at school. Social suicide never was so easy as a rejected wall post on a potential strangers wall…*

Option 3: Personal Message

Ping u have mail!

Surprise (enough said).

Private. No chance of public humiliation or social suicide unless the prospect is to post to his notes and tag u and his other 824 friends (including his granny) in said note.

Allows for dignified retreat upon rejection.

Thus, this is the recommended option. And as an experienced goldfish hunter (being well-versed in the art of being hooked-up by many friends) I thoroughly advise this option.

Now, I’m sure you wonder why this debate has come about. Well, I got drunk (surprise) and then slept through my haircut, so had to arrange an emergency one at a new salon. The result, well, it is so hott rite now – Justin better watch out because sexy never left! Apart from that, I met some fabulous people who took utter delight in meeting me and decided I “just have(had) to meet their friend. He’s just as fabulous!” and thus, being as charitable and accepting as I am, I of course said yes! This has nothing to do with the fact than I’m easier than a KILF in a candy store…

Anyways, after much facecreeping through a vast quantity of his photos during work hours I am not upset about missing out on meeting this goldfish. He can swim free for now... I've got hotter fishies to fry!

Well, I did Option 3 and unfortunately to no result. His loss! Because Little Goldfish has got his BAM back!! Thus, Ladies (trannies and homosexuals included) gird your loins because DADDY’S got a brand new BAG!!

This weekends schedule:

Friday – Gay Fabulosity Party. Don’t ask, I don’t name these things…

Saturday – 3D party in Sandton followed by debauchery out and about on the town.

Sunday – SS!! And this promises to be one of the most debaucherous, morally reprehensible and socially unacceptable parties of the year/my life. It is my unofficial Johannesburg Farewell!! The start of many farewells to come within the next month and a half.

BAM! I’m back!

Letting go of it all...

Figure 1. It will be ok. I promise myself that.

It's a struggle that I will get right eventually. But it is hard.