Archive for June, 2010


Silencing The Rat

Cave liked to get good and drunk and punch things.

Sometimes it was doors and cupboards, he’d curl his ridiculously long fingers into ridiculously large fists and punch dents into the wood until his knuckles were skinned and bleeding.

Other times he’d let his pent-up rage out on a window or two – we’d all be sitting around at another blurry digs party, making insidious efforts with random girls to get laid and next thing a window would smash somewhere and we knew without even getting up to look that it was Cave throwing another one of his inexplicable drunk tantrums.

You’d meet him sober, in daylight hours and he was a reasonable enough guy. You might say he had a ‘kooky’ side to him, but that was about it. He spent a lot of time avoiding the drama department at all costs, despite the fact that he usually got the leading parts in all the plays. It was pretty hilarious actually, he’d skip out on as many rehearsals as humanly possible and then take to the stage on opening night and steal the show. He was a natural.

So yeah, he was a reasonable enough guy, maybe a little crazy, nothing too out of the ordinary. But once he got started on the sauce something else took over and the guy, all six feet five inches of him, became uncontrollable in every way.

He was skinny as a bean pole, but fuck me, it took at least four guys to wrestle him to the ground once he got started. I never got involved, it was way more fun to watch everything go sprawling in every direction in a tornado of whirling limbs as they tried to subdue the raging monster that was Cave after a hard day’s bingeing.

On the night in question I was out at the Rat with other friends when Cave, and all hell, broke loose. I dimly remember getting invited to the party in The Gutter (a friend’s digs) that Cave was at, but I’d decided to opt for regular insanity at the Rat that night instead of the particularly potent strain of insanity The Gutter bred.

If memory serves me right, it was Guitar Jon, Pansy and Mr D who had the pleasure of wrestling Cave that night. He’d been hitting it hard all afternoon and sometime around 10pm decided to pick a fight with the windows upstairs in The Gutter.

Problem this time around was Cave caught a major artery as he drove his right fist through one of the panes and he started pissing blood in dark squirts from his wrist all over the place.

Of course, in his magnificent and drunk state he flat out refused to be taken to hospital and physically assaulted anyone who came near him to try and help him out. It took them half an hour to drag him, literally kicking and screaming, into Pansy’s car so they could drive him to hospital and even once he was inside the car, he fought like an asylum escapee to get them to pull over and let him out.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Grahamstown, things at the Rat were getting rowdy. The usual crowd of loud, drunk jocks that hung out in groups of five or more were belting out James, Counting Crows and Bon Jovi songs at lung-busting volumes while the rest of us grimaced and ordered more tequila.

I swear, the Rat and Parrot in Grahamstown is like some kind of washed up old pirate ship that beached itself in the middle of that ghost-riddled town and refused to budge. Empires will rise and fall, but that place will always stand, a bastion of drunken debauchery, until Judgment Day, and even then, ol’ Satan himself will probably drop by for a smoke and an ice-cold pint.

Anyway, back at Settler’s Hospital, the guys had just managed to wrestle Cave out the car, but noticed he wasn’t putting up the fight he had been before. Somehow they got him to the casualty ward after much drunken swearing and half-hearted flailing on Cave’s part and explained to the shocked nurses what had happened.

He was immediately given some kind of sedative to calm him down and once the nurses had wheeled him off to get him fixed up, the three of them breathed a collective sigh of relief, got into Pansy’s car and went to find a bar.

In four years of drinking in that town, I’d never heard the Rat go as quiet as it did when they walked in there half-drunk, all scuffed up and disheveled from fighting Cave and covered from head to foot in the man’s blood.

They looked like three murderers coming for a drink after their last kill, but they hardly gave a fuck. Pansy ordered a couple of beers and shots while Mr D scanned the room with tiger eyes and Guitar Jon lit a smoke.

From there they got stuck into the earnest job of getting completely fucked up as the jocks around them welcomed them like heroes returning home off some ancient battlefield and bought them one shot after the next while the guys told and retold their story, making it more outlandish with each telling.

I left sometime in the early morning, shortly after Mr D took down one shot too many and ended up puking all over an oil heater in the corner of the room. I think most people left after that.

One thing’s for damn sure though, nobody getting fucked there that night will ever forget the three guys who came sauntering through the door, beat down and bloody, not giving a flying fuck, untouchable in every way.

Silencing the Rat.



In Whisky There Is Comfort Still

I had this way of picking up things and drinking them when I was a kid, probably like most kids do. When I was 3, the electrician came at night to fix something or other and my mom offered him a beer, which he drank a sip of and left on the living room table.

I picked that bad boy up and drank the whole thing. Then I jumped up and down in my cot, laughing my ass off for about 2 hours and then I passed out stone cold and woke up feeling fine the next day. There’s Irish in me, not a lot (my grandfather was half English, half Irish), but enough 😉

I think about a year later I had my first taste of whisky. My mom has always enjoyed a whisky and soda in the evenings and had poured herself a glass and left it on her bedside table. I thought it was just water and took a sip, but unlike the beer, I didn’t down the whole thing because it tasted like crap.



I spent the rest of my childhood sober until I was about 12 or 13 and my good buddy Ricky T and myself drank our way through three six packs of his dad’s “Two Dogs Alcoholic Lemonade”. Two Dogs was like an aborted first attempt at an alca-pop and tasted awful, but did the job pretty damn well.

How we thought we’d get away with drinking his dad’s entire stash is something I don’t think we gave much thought, if any, at the time.

From that point, the story gets long and complicated and I won’t get into any of the details except to say that from an early age, I was never shy to drink like a goddamn fish. I’ve never been an alcoholic and have very seldom if ever gotten drunk alone or binged for longer than four days, but I learned to drink hard and I did it well.

At varsity I started drinking whisky because I thought it looked cool and for R6 you could get a double First Watch at one of the bars in Grahamstown and so naturally I drank that foul fucking stuff like mother’s milk. You could clean engine parts with First Watch. It’s Canadian whiskey, which means they use rye instead of barley to make it and because of that it can be quickly mass-produced and sold much cheaper than normal whisky. It’s nasty, but damn! It does the job.



Back then, a bottle of Jack Daniels was my idea of a fine whisky. Me, Barman and Graumpot had a tradition where we’d buy one another a bottle when our birthdays rolled around and sip it on ice. Bleaugh. What the hell were we thinking?

After varsity I drank Bells with an air of faux sophistication and thought myself an accomplished whisky-drinker. Eventually I tired of the taste though and gave up on whisky in general, that is until about three years ago.

I started working PR for the Whisky Live Festival and as a part of that, went on a number of whisky tastings and started to learn a little about the spirit. Over time, my interest for whiskey began to mature naturally because of the close contact I had with it and the people involved in the big liquor marketing and distribution companies in South Africa and I found the more I learned, the more I wanted to learn.

All of this culminated recently when I attended ‘Whisk(e)y 101’ with the College Of Whisky, the first part of the course they put together to train people to become whisky presenters. Since that course, I’ve been enjoying various whiskies on an almost nightly basis (Talisker, Singleton, Bushmills 16 y/o, a bottle of Dimple 15 y/o) and amazingly, this spirit, the flavour of which was once almost inaccessible to me, is slowly opening up.



I find myself admiring this amber liquid against the light, watching the legs fall and wondering what journey that dram took to find its way to me.

The thing about fine whisky is that it is made through a process that cannot be speeded up and as such, it is almost immune to the unnatural acceleration that has come to define the way humans do things.

I take comfort in that fact. I take comfort in the thought that somewhere across the world, a master distiller still picks his way through his distillery, nosing and tasting his whisky as it lies in oak casks, his palate able to almost distinguish individual atoms of scent and taste, waiting for the perfect moment to blend or bottle his whisky so that when it reaches us, all the way down here in Africa, the product we are getting is perfect in every way.

The simple pleasure I get out of enjoying a dram of good whisky far outweighs any of the times I drank the stuff to get shit-faced back in varsity which, I guess, is a clear sign that I’m getting old 😉

The end with, here’s one of my favourite whisky quotes, 10 points to the person who guesses who said it:

“The water was not fit to drink. To make it more palatable, we had to add whisky. By diligent effort, I learned to like it.”



The Last Episode Of Lost

Mention to people that you enjoy watching Lost and you get one of two reactions. The first is a totally dismissive “Oh, yeah, I watched a bit of the first season but then sort of went off it…” and the second is an explosive “HOLYSHITIFUCKINGLOVETHATSHOW!”



That, ladies and gentlemen, is the mark of a cult show. In fact that is the mark of anything that is cult, an audience that is fiercely polarised between people that love whatever it may be to the point of manic obsession and a much larger contingency that are either completely indifferent towards it or think it’s the biggest load of shit they’ve ever seen.

I’ve long since accepted the fact that most of the music, movies and art I enjoy is basically inaccessible to ‘normal’ people. If I had a buck for every conversation I’ve had about a band or a movie I fucking love that has been met with a polite, but completely vacant stare, I’d be kicking back in Honolulu sipping Pina Coladas and being fanned with palm leaves while I lay on my ass and did sweet fuck all for the rest of my life.

So forgive me if I get in a little over my head here as I jump into the reasons why I think Lost is one of the greatest TV shows that has ever been broadcast. The beauty of the internet is you don’t have to smile and nod politely, you can just click close and I’ll be none the wiser, choice is yours 😉

First, a few facts and figures that prove how few people actually gave a damn about this series by the time it ended.

According to Lostpedia, the final episode was viewed by 13.5 million people, which is a pretty dismal figure when you consider that the M*A*S*H  finale was viewed by 105.9 million people, the Cheers finale by 80.4 million and the Friends finale by 52.5 million. Hell, even the season finale to the last American Idol, which was the least popular since the first season still had Lost beat at 24 million viewers.



On average, the first season of Lost had around 19 million viewers per episode, which proves beyond all reasoning that for the most part, people gave up on Lost.

They did this because what people want from TV shows and movies is closure. They want to be able to experience something that entices and enthrals them at first, then draws them in on a deeper, emotional level, during which time they’ll tolerate a certain level of manipulation as they are lead down the garden path toward the inevitable outcome, and then they want satisfaction in the form of clear cut answers at the conclusion so that they can get on with their lives.

Lost broke that formula by very seldom ever giving people answers and when it did, the answers only lead to more questions. It worked in the beginning, but somewhere during Season 2 / Season 3 people simply got tired of being lost and slunk off to watch Grey’s Anatomy instead.

Even after the series finale, there are hundreds of questions left unanswered, as the following video infuriatingly demonstrates:



Still confused as to why the season finale tanked? The way this video puts it, it’s a miracle people even hung in there to watch it at all.

But they did, all 13.5 million of them, and while a great deal of that 13.5 million hated the season finale and felt it was a total cop out, I didn’t and I’ll tell you why.

For one thing, the last thing I ever expected at the end of Lost was to be given one final, conclusive answer, or even a series of conclusive answers that tied everything together, in fact I really hoped they wouldn’t do that because to do so would be to kill the driving force behind the entire show.

JJ Abrams, the co-creator of Lost gave a somewhat schizophrenic talk at TED ( where he discusses the idea of mystery being more important than knowledge. He uses the analogy of a “mystery box” that his grandfather bought for him when he was a kid that he, to this day, has never opened.

The reason why, he explains, is that to him, the box has come to represent the infinite possibility that is inherent in mystery. It’s something my favourite writer, John Fowles, was also acutely aware of when he wrote about the energy in mystery and how, for as long as you wonder about something, as long as your imagination is actively engaged in trying to figure something out, that thing is ALIVE inside you.



Answers, Fowles famously said, are a form of death because the minute you are given an answer, the question and the mystery that drives it both cease to live in your mind.

You couldn’t imagine, even if you tried, what the night sky would have looked like thousands of years ago, before man invented telescopes and before the notion of other planets and other suns existed.

Back then, the stars and the consolations were some of the biggest mysteries imaginable. Since the dawn of man, until science stepped in and explained it all, we stared at the stars at night and wondered, “What the fuck are those?!”

The information age has been hugely beneficial to the technological advancement of our species, but at the same time, it is killing all the mystery to life. You want to know the answer to something? Type it into Google and in 0.8 seconds there it is.

I loved Lost, because it defied explanation and forced the people watching it to use their imagination in order to fill in the many blanks and loose ends the show’s creators left entirely up to us to figure out.

And finally, possibly the single thing I loved the most about Lost (*HUGE SPOILER ALERT*) is the way all of the main characters met up in the afterlife in that church one last time before they moved on to wherever it was they were going.



I took a lot of comfort in that idea because I’ve always had this sneaking suspicion that we’ve all met before and that we’ll meet again, in this life and in the many after it, and I imagine those moments to be a lot like the one in that church at the end of Lost, where everyone – Jack, Sawyer, Kate, Lock, Sayid, Hurley, Claire, Charlie, Jin, Sun, all of them – finally understood how important their connection to one another was, and were finally able to understand that though their time on the island was difficult and though they had to endure endless unnecessary hardship and cruelty, they were also the best times of their lives because the friendships and relationships they formed were all that really mattered in the end.

We’re all lost in one way or another until we find each other and in doing so, ourselves. This is the meaning I took away from Lost and this is the reason why I think it’s one of the greatest shows I’ve ever had the pleasure and privilege of watching.



Tell The Tiger (Episode 8)

Um, yeah.

Unsurprisingly, after the abortion of a reply that was my last ‘Tell The Tiger’, the ol’ gmail address ( has been a little quiet.

Look, in my defence I wrote that last one after participating in a ‘Mass Streak’ right by the Green Point stadium with a bunch of total strangers, which I was understandably nervous about being a part of because a) it was fucking cold and b) the last time I streaked in public was, well, never.



So I might have been a little under the influence, christ, I’m only human.

Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that this week I’m sober as a judge and ready to make one lucky reader’s life better in every single, imaginable way. This one’s a bit of a longie, but totally worth the read because it’s about DAGGA!

In 3…



Hey ST,

After reading yourpost you wrote awhile ago about a ‘friend’ of yours who made his own mescaline and tripped out for 18 hours or something and just the general tone of your blog, I thought maybe you could help me with this problem I’ve having with my GF about the wacky baccy.

IVe been a huge fan of Mary Jane for aobut five or six years now, since I was in matric at highschool and up until recently, I’ve smoked everyday. I don’t think of it as a big deal really, other people come home and drink half a bottle of wine at night, but no one judges them. I just like smoking a joint after work, is that so bad? It helps me relax and destress after a long day. It’s not like I’m sneaking off in my lunch break and hitting bongs in my car or anything, I did that once and got so paranoid back in the office I had to fake a really bad headache and go home, not cool.

But anyway, my new girlfriend has never touched drugs of any shape, size or form in her entire life and all her friends are exactly the same. Personally, I didn’t think people like that actually existed anymore, but maybe that’s just me. So anyway, she kinda made me promise not so smoke anymore when we got together and I thought why not? She’s hot, I can do this!

In total, I think I lasted about a month. Life just became really boring. Is this what it’s like to walk around normal all the time? Fuck! How do people handle this! Then we went to a good mate’s party and there was a bong going around, so I took a hit when she wasn’t lookingand I’ve been smoking everyday since.

The GF hasbust me twice and both times weve had huge fights about it. Thing is though, the rest of the time I’ve gotten away with it just fine, which totally fucks up her argument of ‘Weed makes you a different person’ but how do I tell her that? How do I make her see that what i do is totally harmless and I have it totally under control?

Basically, how do I get back to smoking a joint after work everyday and on weekends without completely freaking her out?



Ahh yes. The age-old conundrum of changing who you are to better suit your woman’s whims. We’ve all been there, but all I can say is J-dogg, my man, you fucked this one up royally right from day one.

“She kinda made me promise not so smoke anymore when we got together”? What the hell does that mean? How does a person “kinda” make you promise something?

“Umm J-dogg, please could you not smoke weed anymore, but if you want to that’s ok too,” is that what she said to you homeboy? Huh? Sounds like a buncha jibba-jabba jive talk to me shorty and I ain’t havin’ none ‘o that!

Sorry, I’ve been watching a lot of The Wire recently… um, interspliced with reruns of the A-Team…



Your HUGE fuck-up here is you set the wrong expectations at the beginning of your relationship – schoolboy error my man, but forgivable because she is hot. Men often say and do fucktarded things because of hot chicks, I think I read somewhere that it’s in our DNA or something.

I guess in your defence, maybe you honestly thought you could kick the mahanga-janga and figured it was worth a shot, fair enough. But never smoking again means NEVER. SMOKING. AGAIN. Not when you’re bored, not when you’re pulling a sickie at work, not when you buy your next X-Box game and kick back for an intense 10-hour gaming marathon, and sure as fuck not when you’re next hanging out with your buddies and one of them whips out a bucket and says, “Hey, let’s smoke three of these, take a hit of acid and go watch ‘Dawn Of The Dead’”.



Actually, as a general principle no one should do that. Hiding under a cinema seat, mumbling to no one and trying to chew your fingers off is no way to spend a Saturday morning. Or so I’m told…

If you really love this girl and want to make something out of what you have together, try and see if you can work out some kind of compromise like limiting your smoking to one day a week, I think that’s reasonable.

But then you gotta stick by that. Fuck up once, she’ll forgive you. Fuck up twice, things are gonna get rocky. Fuck up three times and it’s toast. If she takes you back after that, things will never be the same and like the little girl in the opening scene of Dawn Of The Dead your love will become a zombie.

Not dead, not alive, just flopping around uselessly, hungry for braaaiiiinnnssss.

That’s my take on things my man, but I’m more than happy to open the floor to my panel of trusted experts, many of whom I’m sure have had hands-on experience with this ‘wacky baccy’ you speak of.

Me, I tried the stuff at a party once, but I never inhaled 😉



The SlickTiger Interview On MFM

Stop the motherfucking press motherfuckers! I actually managed to get my dirty paws on the interview that took place last week on Wednesday on MFM (Maties FM, the Stellenbosch University campus station) because literally hundreds of thousands of people emailed, skyped, smsed and shouted at me on busy street corners because they so badly wanted to hear it.


So yeah, I did you guys all the favour of painstakingly breaking into the MFM offices in the dead of night and stealing about 3 days worth of back-recordings that I had to listen to, which was like chewing glass, to eventually find this little gem of an interview.

Enjoy guys. Something tells me you’re gonna love the shit outta this 😉



Today we are South Africans

I have a love / hate relationship with this country.

It’s the little things that get to me. It’s the way taxis take to our streets with total abandon and a sense of entitlement that infuriates everyone they cut in front of and crash into.

It’s the way, after all this time, after all the fights we’ve fought, snot-nosed political troublemakers can step into the limelight and set us back twenty years every time they shake their fists in the air and bark their angry, idiotic words, inciting hatred and violence.



It’s the way a friend of a friend got robbed or stabbed or shot for his cell phone and we all heard the news and said “Thank God it wasn’t worse”.

It’s the way politicians get away with blue murder completely scott free, irrespective of what they’ve done and it’s the way we all bitch and moan about it until we are pulled over for drunk driving and get off on a R50 bribe.

It’s the way I’ve never, not once, wound my window down to give a beggar change. Their faces disappear from my mind the second they vanish in my rear view mirror. An endless parade of ghosts.

It’s the way we can’t forget, no matter how hard we try, that there was a time in this country when our fathers and their fathers before them committed atrocious acts of violence and cruelty because they allowed themselves to be governed by a system based on ignorance and fear.

It’s the way we live in eternal uncertainty, of our government, of our future and of each other.

So why stick around? If there’s nothing left to fight for, why fight at all? There’s a whole world out there full to bursting of greener grass, why not just leave?

I stay in South Africa because underneath everything, I love this country to pieces and I know that I can’t live without it.

Things get bad sometimes and sometimes it feels like we’re backsliding and like the precious balance that we’ve tried so hard to maintain is toppling, but if there’s one thing no one can deny about South Africans, it’s that we are a people who understand more than any other nation on this earth how powerful hope really is.



From the concrete skyscrapers in Jozi to the open, untouched valleys of the Eastern Cape; from the sugarcane fields of Kwa-Zulu Natal to the baking hot deserts of the Karoo and the proud oceans that wash the shores of this beautiful, haunted country, we are a people who are united by the hardships we’ve suffered and the moments of triumph we’ve shared.

And what better way to celebrate everything we’ve achieved than by inviting the world with open arms to experience what it’s like to live here, under the arching, golden African sun and the endless blue skies that stretch on above us, come summer, autumn, winter or spring.

The beauty of it all is that on some days we might be coloured people, waiting by the bus stop to commute back to Khayalitsha and on others we might be white people from the northern suburbs of Jozi, driving our Audis home after a long day in and out of meetings.

On some days we might be black children, kicking a soccer ball in the streets of Alex and on others we might be Indian women, dressed in brightly coloured saris behind tables of fragrant spices at the Oriental Plaza.

On some days we might be Chinese people and on others we might be Greek. On some days we might be Lebanese and on others we might be Afrikaans or Sotho or Zulu or Venda.

But today, we are all of us South Africans.



What a great day today is 🙂



Congratulations! 1 x Mind-Blowing Orgasm Coming Your Way

If you had to ask me what I believe in, I don’t really know what I’d say. Organised religion seems really contrived and, let’s be honest, is pretty boring and preachy most of the time.

I do think there’s some kind of bigger, karmic system we’re a part of though, which is why I’ve decided to appeal to whatever Gods may be to reward anyone who visits this site today with a mind-blowing orgasm.



The beauty of a karmic gift of this nature is you can enjoy it by yourself or with (consenting) others, but just make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill, make-a-funny-cum-face, roll-over-and-go-to-sleep kind of orgasm.

This is the kind that will definitely wake the neighbours and possibly even the dead.

You’re welcome. I was just feeling really generous and in a great mood cause I got interviewed on radio this morning, Maties FM to be precise, the Stellenbosch University campus station.

What’s that you say? You’re suicidally depressed because you missed the interview? Cheer up buddy ‘ol pal, once I get WordPress to do what I fucking paid $19.97 for it to do, you’ll be able to hear it.

Enjoy the orgasm 😉



People From Bellville: Stop Driving Up My Arse

I’m not quite sure how else to go about this, I mean seriously, what’s the fucking dealy-o here? Is Bellville populated entirely with proctologists? Why in the name of sweet, six-pound-four-ounce baby Jesus must you guys drive right up my arsehole every fucking day? Why?! WHYTHEFUCK?!



[With the notable exception of Supa Dan, he’s a legend and he drives just fine.]

At first it was cute, I just thought maybe people in Cape Town were really friendly and were getting up close and personal to come and say hello or something.

‘Look honey,’ I used to say, ‘that man whose parents are cousins has driven up to say hallo! What a friendly chap!’

Next thing I noticed was that 90% of the folk driving up my arse didn’t have regular CA license plates, they had these screwy ‘CY’ plates and all drove white Cortinas with sheep-fur seats.

‘Who the fuck are these people,’ I remember asking my boss one day, ‘these fuckers that drive up your arse all the time with the CY number plates?’

‘Oh them,’ my boss said, a visible shiver going through him, ‘they come from Bellville…’

If I had to draw up a list of my favourite ways of being tortured, having a buncha mouth-breathing Neanderthals drive right up my fucking arse every day would rate right up there with being raped with an electric drill or forced at gun point to watch a three-hour marathon of the Ellen Degeneres show.



Here, for the benefit of the inhabitants of HELLville, is a list of reasons why I fucking hate it when you drive up my arse:

1. I’m already doing 140. How fucking fast do you want to fucking drive?! Yes, the speedo on your Cortina goes to 160, well done. Please only reserve that speed for when the police are chasing you.

2. It’s just not fucking polite. We aren’t dogs for chrissake, it feels like you’re sniffing my backside.

3. Why the fuck are you in such a hurry? Struggling with your time management skills a little? Buy a watch and drive like a human.

4. Do you have any idea how quickly you can end up smeared in wet chunks all over the highway at the speed you guys drive at? I’m being dead serious here, I’ve been in an accident on a highway, a woman in the lane next to us blew a tyre and in less than 3 seconds, 5 cars had smashed to pieces, one of them being mine.

Life, my friends, is a precious and fragile thing and believe me, once you’ve ended yours and possibly the lives of your passengers or the other people on the road, the last thing you’ll be saying at the gates of hell will be, “Ja, I’m a bit bummed I’m dead now hey, but JASSIS! Did you see check how fast I was klapping it!”

You aren’t impressing anyone, slow the fuck down.



The Son Of Swords

A story, if you will, one of my favourites:


The Prince And The Magician

Once upon a time there was a young prince who believed in all things but three. He did not believe in princesses, he did not believe in islands, and he did not believe in God. His father, the king, told him that such things did not exist. As there were no princesses or islands in his father’s domains, and no sign of God, the prince believed his father.

But then, one day, the prince ran away from his palace and came to the next land. There, to his astonishment, from every coast he saw islands, and on these islands, strange and troubling creatures whom he dared not name. As he was searching for a boat, a man in full evening dress approached him along the shore.

"Are those real islands?" asked the young prince.
"Of course they are real islands," said the man in evening dress.
"And those strange and troubling creatures?"
"They are all genuine and authentic princesses."
"Then God must also exist!" cried the young prince.
"I am God," replied the man in evening dress, with a bow.

The young prince returned home as quickly as he could.

"So, you are back," said his father, the king.
"I have seen islands, I have seen princesses, I have seen God," said the prince reproachfully.
The king was unmoved.
"Neither real islands, real princesses nor a real God exist."
"I saw them!"
"Tell me how God was dressed."
"God was in full evening dress."
"Were the sleeves of his coat rolled back?"
The prince remembered that they had been. The king smiled.
"That is the uniform of a magician. You have been deceived."

At this, the prince returned to the next land and went to the same shore, where once again he came upon the man in full evening dress.

"My father, the king, has told me who you are," said the prince indignantly. "You deceived me last time, but not again. Now I know that those are not real islands and real princesses, because you are a magician."

The man on the shore smiled.

"It is you who are deceived, my boy. In your father’s kingdom, there are many islands and many princesses. But you are under your father’s spell, so you cannot see them."

The prince pensively returned home. When he saw his father, he looked him in the eye.

"Father, is it true that you are not a real king, but only a magician?"
The king smiled and rolled back his sleeves.
"Yes, my son, I’m only a magician."
"Then the man on the other shore was God."
"The man on the other shore was another magician."
"I must know the truth, the truth beyond magic."
"There is no truth beyond magic," said the king.
The prince was full of sadness. He said "I will kill myself."

The king by magic caused Death to appear. Death stood in the door and beckoned to the prince. The prince shuddered. He remembered the beautiful but unreal islands and the unreal but beautiful princesses.

"Very well," he said, "I can bear it".

"You see, my son," said the king, "you, too, now begin to be a magician."

– John Fowles, The Magus



It’s been a rough couple of days, and as always, I’ve got the scars to prove it.

I fled to Kommetjie on Saturday morning, I needed time to think things through, and I stayed over at my aunt’s place.

She did a tarot reading for me before I left, not a full one, she just asked me to draw a card.

Thing about her is she’s the real deal. We don’t believe in magic because it’s a childish, vague concept. We kill it at every turn and rely on our rational, logical faculties to see us through life, conveniently forgetting that those logical, rational faculties have been shaped and structured and manufactured since the day we walked into school to make us predictable and easier to manage.

It makes no fucking sense to me. People rely on their intelligence to get them through life and wonder why they feel so trapped and impotent.

Anyway, my aunt is the real deal. She’s read up on almost every religion man ever had the crazy-stoned notion to create and has dedicated her life to the arts of meditation and developing her natural intuition to levels that are unbelievably powerful.

I drew one card from her deck = the Son Of Swords – standing triumphant in his battle regalia, his eyes fixed simultaneously on the prize before him and the sun, a symbol of his next conquest.

In his right hand he held his sword, drawn and ready for battle, but in his left, he held a dead dove by its neck and stood in a scattered mess of broken roses.

In that moment I saw her sitting on my bag, crying. I felt her holding me, the softest she’s ever held me, I heard her whispering to me and I felt myself pull away, dump the bag in the boot and drive, not looking back, not wanting to see the destruction in my wake.

A scattered mess of broken roses.



Tell Th eTiger )Episode 7)

Ok, I’ll be the frist to admit here taht perhaps I’m nothe soberest I should betp answer people’s fuckng life problesm here, hey, hahahahaaha, yeha, I’m definitely past the point of opertaing heavy machinery but the thing is it;s been awhile yknw? And i kinda feel like i owe it to you guys  , my audience to at least post SOMETHING! I ena fuckskaek the way Iv’e been posting recenty ain’t gonna win me any awards thats fe damn sure!

So yeah, ho aout we just jump inther shallwe? Um, ok, here we gl:

Hi Slick,

Love the blog dude, keep up the good work man, I send your links around the office, all the funny ones and CHARNAS dig it lank hey!

But anyway, I enjoyed the last ‘Tell the tiger’ because there was a time I felt exactly like JP – I struggled to approach girls and ‘break the ice’ as it were, but those days are far behind me now and the problem I have now is a completely different one.

I’m stuck in some kind of rut, it’s been going on now for about 6 or 7 months, always the same story. I go to clubs or bars, I approach girls and start chatting and generally things go well, I can usually keep their interest and not get shot down and usually make at least some kind of connection.

Then we talk for awhile and sometimes I get their numbers and other times we even make out and things are going really well. Then the next day I get in touch with these girls, I either call them or sms them, and every time, EVERY TIME, they just shut me down dude, it never leads anywhere. Maybe coffee, and that’s it. After that they never return my calls or sms me back.

What the fuck am I doing wrong here? I mean, I make them laugh, we talk, it feels like I’m making a connection, and then nothing. It’s killing me man!

Am I being too nice? A lot of my friends say I’m being too nice, but I don’t know any other way to be, I can’t pretend to be some douchebag guy when I’m not.

Give me some advice here dude!


HA! Fuck, is anyoen else here feeling ths dudes pain? lets bebhonest here for a minute, no bullshit – every guy s been here, EVEYR GUY! IVE benn here uded, many times, mauny times, and yeahm, just liek you ,I fet like it was me, like I was fucking lame chiks werewalking all over me, sure dude, don’t feel bad man, EVEYROENS been here dude.

Thing to do is jsut take tihigns down a notch, yknw? Your friendd  are probaly right, you;re proably going too far in dudde, just pull bakc, be ccool daddy-o, no girl wants MR Soulful coming in there to fuck her shit up man. Thing about the softcock approcah is it works great int he MOMENT, BUT, come the next day ,all those defeellings she had ,they’re gone duede, fucking evaportaed ,gone daddy gone.

If you get intaht sitiation where you’re gping guns blazing, kissing her, making out ont he dancefoloor, forr chrissake, PULLBABCK! TAke the reign s back in dude, tell her you’re moving too fast, use those lines they use on US! teLL HEr you really like her, BUT would much rather jsut be friends and see how things play out.

REVERSE the roles D UDE! Youre a pro at hearing all thse put-me-dpown lines that girls say, say them BACK to them, and watch the effect that has, trust me, it’ll fuck you up how quick they come running.

But yeah, thats abut all I reallly have to say on the topci dude, hahahaaa!

Ther’s no fucing way I shoul ever hit publish on this post, christ I can hardlt see straight.

But you knwat? FUCK it.

Lets’ do it.

publish- *click 😉