Author Archive for Slick Tiger


The End?

I walk down the flickering hallways of this old junkyard spaceship, the dust-cover control panels long dead, snatches of Frank Sinatra playing ‘Stormy Weather’ while the flies and spiders get along together.

In places, I find the inch-deep clawmarks he left. I run my fingers along them, remembering his paws the size of your head, how menacing they looked trailing cigar smoke in the murky light.

That menace, it was his thing. No matter how well you thought you knew him. He was what he was.

I sigh, bone-weary, rub my eyes. Why the fuck am I still here? Floating in this empty rust bucket, drunk on memories.

Maybe this ship meant something once, a long time ago. But people forget, they move on, and so should I. Except…

I can’t be sure that he’s really gone. It’s been over a year and I have lost my mind a hundred times, but I swear sometimes I catch a few atoms of his scent. Or I hear the low rumble of his breathing. Or I stare into the depths of the nocturnal jungle that burst from the confines of the biosphere and began creeping its way into the ship’s inner chambers and I see the distant glint of his fiery yellow eyes…

If I board the escape pod, get spat back down to Earth like a watermelon pip from this infernal rust bucket, then that’s it. The auto-propulsion systems kick in, burn until the ship’s safely out of Earth’s orbit and boom. Party’s over.

No. Fuck that. I won’t leave without him in tow, dead or alive.

Even if it kills me.



Movie Review: Mistaken For Strangers

02816634 I went into Mistaken For Strangers with pretty high expectations because critics have rated it really highly and I’d read a bit about the premise for it and I was instantly intrigued to watch it.

This is partly because the film is about the band The National, who I know very little about despite having every one of their albums, and partly because it’s not a traditional “rock doc”.

The entire documentary is filmed from the perspective of the singer of The National (Matt Berninger’s) younger brother Tom Berninger who, unlike his older brother, is a total nobody who still lives at home with his parents and behaves for the most part like an 11 year-old.

At the start of the documentary, Matt invites Tom to join the band on tour and help out backstage as a roadie for the band. Tom takes a video camera along to film the experience which results in some of the most candid, funny, cringe-worthy and intimate moments I’ve ever seen in a documentary.

For the most part though, people who aren’t die-hard fans of The National might find the first half of the movie difficult to watch. Tom fumbles his way through a series of totally random “interviews” with the band juxtaposed with shots of them playing and scenes of Tom making one colossal fuck up after the next whilst the band’s crew members shout at him to please turn the fucking cameras off.



An amazing thing happens as the documentary passes the midway mark though. On an almost subconscious level we start to see the bigger story that’s unfolding, one of Tom’s endless struggle to make some kind of meaning, some kind of success out of a life he’s spent living in his brother’s shadow.

I would definitely say to anyone watching this documentary who feels like switching it off halfway and dismissing it as a boring, amateurish attempt at documentary film-making, not to.

The emotional heft of the last thirty minutes of Mistaken For Strangers is considerable and provides an unparalleled insight into The National as a band, their life on the road, Matt Berninger as a reluctant, pensive frontman and above all, the relationship between two brothers who, despite their considerable differences, love each other a great deal.



If I had to sum up my thoughts on this documentary having watched it, the only way to do it would be by stealing the line that Tom has Matt say at the end of the documentary after dramatically wiping the steam off a bathroom mirror so Tom can go in for the close-up on Matt’s eyes.

“The National is everyone’s now.”

If you’ve ever heard a National song and felt that deep down ache somewhere inside, that restless desire, that maddening lonliness, that defiant fury then I have no doubt you’ll connect with, and enjoy, this documentary.

Final Verdict: 8/10



The Ghanian Movie Industry Delivers Another Gem

Screen Shot 2014-08-20 at 11.47.14 You guys might remember awhile back I posted a trailer for the Ghanian movie 2016, which was a mind-blowing combination of horrendous CGI, gratuitous violence and insanely bad acting.

Well, it turns out that the Ghanians have been at it again with B14 1 & 2. If the trailer is anything to go by, this is the same (badly) reheated Hollywood leftovers we’ve come to expect from our Ghanian buddies.

Only this time, they’ve thrown in a healthy dose of Mortal Kombat in the form of a character who looks like a cross between Neo and Scorpion (shout out to Civilian for sending this my way).

It’s like some kind of cultural human centipede – Hollywood consumes human experience, shits it out as movies that are consumed by B-grade directors and producers who shit it out as movies that are consumed by Ghanian producers and directors who shit it out as Beee Fourteen ooooooooonnneeeeee and twoooooooooo!




Cool. Are we done here?

We’re done here.



Escape Monday: With A Whole Lot Of Bullshit

Screen Shot 2014-08-20 at 10.51.06 Firstly, a disclaimer. I am writing this post from the future and sending it back in time in an effort to maintain my perfect record of posting every day last week.

Another disclaimer, I am writing using a lot of italics to over-dramatise what is otherwise a fairly normal and barely worth reading sentence and I think it’s working.

This video is actually pretty old but I’m totally fine with that because a) It’s funny, b) It hardly has any views and c) it’s funny. Shout out to Tim, whose Facebook timeline I stole this from. It’s a prime example of how full of bullshit news reports are.

Check it:



“I’m just some fucking guy”.

Words to live by right there.



Friday LOLZ – A Welcome Return Of Extreme Whatthefuck?!

tumblr_n8nee0YQpR1qax6olo1_1280 It’s been a long time since my last Friday LOLZ post, which is great news because it means I’ve been storing up all the unspeakably weird shit I’ve found specially for you guys!

Feels good to be back posting my regular features again after the long dry spell I’ve suffered. In fact, this is the first week in about three months in which I’ve managed to post every day.

Sure, I might not have a job, a car, a place to stay, any furniture, a fiancée, a daughter (until September), any direction in my life or any real purpose at the moment, but at least I posted five times on my site. Whoop whoop dee doo.

Anyway, here’s the aforementioned weird shit I mentioned. Starting with an informative video on how to have cybersex:



Phew. That is some steamy sheeit right there. Yesssssssssssssssssss.

Moving swiftly along to our animal friends…








Some glitches in the Matrix I’d like to bring to your attention:









Not forgetting our friends the Japanese, who I’m pretty sure invented the phrase “weird shit” back in 1953:




So much whatthefuck…

And then just a random selection of things that made me chuckle:







And my favourite of them all:



Have a killer weekend party people, catch ya’ll next week 😉



The Tiger Hits The Boileroom, Mayhem Ensues

WP_20140813_012 It takes a special kind of maniac to decide to strike out alone to a place he’s never been, drink with total strangers in the middle of the week and rock out to bands he only discovered a month ago.

Conventional wisdom would say rather stay at home, put the kettle on and watch Friends reruns but there’s only so much Earl Grey and David Schwimmer a man can take before he loses his fucking mind.

Bands In Town ( mailed me to say DZ Deathray were playing at the Boileroom in Guildford, so I got on the nearest train and, like a creepy public masturbator, went to go lurk at the bar alone.

Thing is though, two beers down the line I’d already befriended the bar people and Will the Sound Guy and while I was chatting to them this legend of a man by the name of Chris straight up invited me to join him and his buddies at their table outside.

How fucking friendly is that?! In an instant I changed from “Lone Guy Who Could Be An Axe Murderer” to “Guy At A Bar With Some Mates… Who Could Be An Axe Murderer”.

The first band up were Bypolar, a three-piece from Surrey who delivered an impressive performance. Frontman and guitarist Ben Lopez took to their setlist like a loose propeller, tearing through a formidable catalogue of post-grunge / hardcore punk / metal tracks like it was nobody’s business.



The man has a great voice and belts out an impressive gravel-toned roar reminiscent of Shaun Morgan from Seether. Drummer Chris Pattison is no slouch either and, together with bassist Steve Pool, builds a rock-solid rhythm section on top of which Lopez delivers his sucker-punch hooks and face-melting solos.

Here’s a recent video the guys shot for the track “Due” to give you a taste of what Bypolar’s serving up:



They ended their set with an insane cover of “Bullet With Butterfly Wings” which simultaneously blew me away and reminded me of just how many powerchords bands in the 90s used to pack into their songs.

I caught up with Ben after the band played and talked shit with him for awhile. He’s a stand up guy, ended up buying me tequila and shooting the breeze about the band and the scene in London.

Word to the wise – keep your eyes peeled for this band. Support them when they gig, give them a listen here ( and follow them on Facebook here.

After Bypolar finished up I grabbed another beer and talked so much shit with my newfound friends that I missed the second band completely, what a dick.

But there wasn’t a way in fuck I was going to miss DZ Deathray. You have to understand how insane these guys are. Take Death From Above 1979, throw in some Blood Red Shoes and add a heavy dose of sheer originality and explosive energy and you’ve got DZ Deathray.

Here, watch this video for their track “Less Out Of Sync”, I’ll let the music speak for itself:



Unfuckingbelievable right?!

To say that DZ Deathray came, saw, and annihilated EVERYTHING would be an understatement. By the second track (which happened to be “Less Out Of Sync” if I remember correctly), a mosh pit had already broken out and guys were losing their fucking minds.



On stage, guitarist and vocalist Shane Parsons wields his axe like a fifth limb, somehow managing to deliver a damn-near perfect performance despite the fact that he’s ricocheting around the stage like a piece of goddamn shrapnel.

Add drummer Simon Ridley’s shotgun-blast bass kicks and tight fills and it’s no wonder the guys in the pit were trying to murder one another.

The guys played an amazing set, building up to my personal favourite, “Gina Works At Hearts”.



Good luck getting that hook out. It felt good to lose my shit completely when the guys launched into that track. Dig those lyrics as well “I can’t buy her dead eyes and her wasted smile”.

There’s a real depth to DZ Deathray’s songwriting, they can do punch-your-teeth out thrash pop / post-punk just as well as they can do more introspective, shoe-gazing tracks like “Northern Lights”.

I caught up with both Simon and Shane over the course of the night and chatted a bit about their upcoming album launch for Black Rats, their second studio album following their 2012 debut Bloodstreams. Really cool guys, surprisingly chilled considering how manic they are onstage.



Simon’s sister Katie actually directed “Less Out Of Sync”, which I was mad impressed by. That is one talented family, no lies.

So yeah, what you need to do now is have a listen to Black Rats here, follow DZ Deathray here and get your ass to The Shackwell Arms on Monday night (18th Aug) for the official album launch because it’s going to be shit-your-pants mad.

All-in-all, I had the best night. Telling Schwimmer to get fucked and throwing the Earl Grey down the sink was the best move I could have made.

Shout out to Soundguy Will for giving me a ride back home. Next time I swing by the Boileroom, first round’s on me big guy!

Tiger out.



A Literal “Night” At A Literal “Museum” With Literally, “Alcohol”

00902161ce955ce10c84ff937a737e7c If you live in a first world country, they let you do things that defy belief if you come from a third world country. Sure, you live in a Nanny State, but in return they let you do fun things like drink in public.

Drink in public?! For real? As in, walk down the street smashing a beer? Sit on a park bench and get hammered on gin? Cross a bridge and sip on a dirty martini? Yessir! Sky’s the limit here in the first world.

They even take it to extremes and allow you, once in awhile, to get trollied in museums between 6.30pm and 10pm. It’s called a “Late” and it happens fairly regularly in London.

I went to the one at The Science Museum last week, half-expecting it to be some kind of elaborate ruse. Like there’d be alcohol, but they’d serve it from one of those wonky trestle tables outside and make you and the other six guys who showed up finish your drinks before heading into the actual museum.

Because I mean come the fuck on. You give people alcohol around all kinds of ancient planes and trains and sciencey things and those people are going to get wankered and try to climb INTO all those ancient planes and trains and sciencey things, right?



You give them alcohol and next thing you know, one guy’s throwing another through the “Age Of Enlightenment” display because he slapped his girlfriend on the ass, surely!

You give them alcohol and you’re basically BEGGING them to get into the fighter jet flight simulators and compete with their mates to see who can do the most barrel rolls before puking their lungs out, amiright!?


I get there, walk through the front door and am immediately impressed by the lack of street brawling and drunken choruses of ‘SSWWWWEEEEEEETTTTTTT CCCAAAARRRROOOLLLLLLIIINNNNEEEE! BUM BUM BUUUUUUUUUUMMM!”

People are… respectable. A number of them are definitely holding alcoholic beverages, but no one (that I can see) is loudly asking anyone who will give him the time of day where he can get a goddam PIE at this goddam HOUR.



I proceed to get some craft beer or other from one of the pop-up bars that have been brought in for the Late, next to which is an entire dancefloor of people boogying in total silence.

The fuck? On closer inspection I see that everyone on the dancefloor, including the DJ is wearing headphones. Sorry, I don’t know why I included the DJ in that last sentence, of course he was wearing headphones, after pressing “Play” that’s pretty much all they have to do isn’t it?

That actually looks pretty cool, I thought. I want headphones! I want to jive around in silence, oblivious to the fact that I look like a bit of a wanker. I’ll bet they are listening to some sick beats, I thought. This is the Science Museum after all, it’s probably definitely some insane futuristic, Megatron-taking-a-shit dubstep.

At which point the people on the dancefloor all broke out into a chorous of “It’s raining men” which, without the music, is even more ball-shrivellingly awful that with it.



I wandered around a bit more until my buddy Peggles finally showed up and we went upstairs to watch a game of human Foosball, which was definitely the highlight of the evening.

I’m not going to explain the mechanics of how it works, look at the picture for that. I’m just going to say that once again I was mad impressed by everyone’s calm approach to this sport in the presence of alcohol because let’s be honest, if it was South Africa, before long a bottle would have been thrown, teeth would have been loosened and someone would have pulled a knife.



See folks, that’s called “self control”. It is possible to go out to a museum after hours, drink moderately, dance in total silence, play a respectable game of human foosball and go home having had a Jolly Good Time.

Of course, Peggles and I hit the nearest bar after that, got totally sauced, head-butted a guy for looking at us funny and stole a sign from the bathroom BUT we were very cordial to the guy who caught me pissing in his petrol tank and let him go without breaking his arm.

“Self control”.




To J-Rab On The Cub’s First Birthday

WP_20140702_009 I changed my mind about this post. I was going to write it to our little girl, apologise to her about the way things turned out but really, she’s just a tiny baby, exactly one year old today and blissfully oblivious of what’s going on.

The person I really want to write to is you babe because I know you’ll be hurting today and I don’t want that. There will be no tears today, that’s not what today is.

Today is the day we look back on the best year of our life together with nothing but big smiles and hazy, happy memories.

Sometimes I think way back to when I first started to fall for you, that year when I drifted down Grahamstown’s drunken streets utterly lost, howling at the moon, boiling over with fury, hell-bent on tearing the world apart until I found truth, meaning, acceptance, love.

You know you’re falling when the person you’re falling for is all you think about from the moment you wake until the moment you go to sleep and even then, you can bet your ass you’ll see them again in dreams.

It feels like you’re going mad, it feels like this other person has stepped out of the physical world directly into your mind where they’ve proceeded to pour themselves a drink, kick their shoes off and make themselves at home.

I find you in there still, every day I live and breathe, only now you aren’t a composite of dreams and reality, a mysterious half-imagined, mercurial creature. It’s you, my closest friend, my most trusted companion, the mother of my child.

It’s you the way you looked that night they kicked us out of Pop Art for kerfuffling, it’s you the way you looked when we went road tripping so many summers ago, your feet dangling out the window, the wind ruffling your white summer skirt as you turned to look at me, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

It’s you exactly a year ago today as they were wheeling you into theatre, your knuckles white as you took my hand in yours, your eyes wide, beautiful in their heart-wrenching vulnerability.

I’ve watched the change in you since you became a mother and marvelled at how the hell-cat I used to know has turned that energy into a fierce protectiveness over her cub and a willingness to do anything, sacrifice countless hours of sleep, sanity and personal well-being, for our little girl.

I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again, you’re a natural babe, the best Mom in the business. I’ve never met a Mom who is as calm under fire, as patient under the most trying of circumstances and as generous with her love as you are.

The Cub is lucky to have a lioness like you for a mother.

As for me, I’m going to be missing you guys like crazy today, make no mistake, but I’m not going to be sad. I’m not going to focus on any of that negative shit because I know from experience it will just tear me up and lead me down a dark and lonely road.

Instead I’ll be thinking of the story of the two people who were madly in love and who decided to go on the adventure of a lifetime, who left with open hearts, said goodbye to their friends and family and set out for a better life for their little girl…

I’m not the lost boy I was, howling at the moon, boiling over with fury. Turns out all those things I was tearing the world apart to find – truth, meaning, acceptance, love – were right under my nose the entire time.

Thank you for making a man out of me, a fiancé, a father.

Today I want you to remember all the good times, and when you’ve finished reading this, I want you to take our daughter in your arms and I want you to give her the biggest hug and kiss in the world and tell her how much I love her.



I love you babe, always have, always will 😉

Your man,


Escape Monday: With Alt-J’s New Video

Hunger I know I’ve said it before, but there’s something about this band that resonates deeply inside me. Their songs and videos are incredible, dark and light constantly swirling, caught in an endless tango.

There’s a yearning in their music, a quiet desperation, a caged animal underneath it all gnawing at the bars in the dead of night. I can’t wait to hear their new album because truth is I’m still reeling from the last one.

They released this video a month ago, I watched it in a pub on a sweltering summer day near Waterloo Station. A lot has happened since then, enough that I can empathise with the guy in this video.

Don’t know if you remember the “Karma Police” video, but the end of this reminded me a bit of the end of that video.

Here it is, song’s called “Hunger Of The Pines”:



Take that Monday you fucking fucker.

If I’m going down, I’m taking alla you fuckers with me 😉



Twickenham Charna

1661321099 Day 1 in London. J-Rab, The Cub and I shuffle exhausted through Border Control and 40 minutes later finally present our passports and are granted access to the United Kingdom.

At that exact point we should have stopped for a family selfy. I can see the shot so clearly in my head, J-Rab and I tired but happy and The Cub cute as hell but probably looking the wrong way.

Moments later J-Rab’s cousin who stays in Twickenham met us and took us through to his place where I spent the last night with my girls. It’s weird. The whole thing feels like a long, long time ago.

After we got settled and showered, we passed out for what felt like the longest time only to wake up and find the light totally unchanged.

That happens here in summer when it’s grey from horizon sto horizon. From about 8am through till 6 or 7pm the light stays exactly the same, diffused through a veil of grey. It was grey like that for almost an entire week after I landed.

Not long after we woke up, we started making preparations for the annual street party that happened to be going down on that same night, which was how I found myself 9 635 kms from home on a Saturday afternoon drinking Carlsberg and sawing wood to start a fire for a braai.



Not long after I got a seriously dangerous-looking fire going, the street party slowly came to life with kids screaming and laughing and throwing water balloons at one another and parents drinking and watching over the fruit of their loins with glazed contentment.

A couple of Carlsbergs and jugs of Pimms later, I took a walk up the road with J-Rab’s cousin to meet with a friend of his. When I got there I perked up immediately because I realised everyone braaing at the house we ended up at were South African!

It had only been 1 day, but the feeling of reassurance I got from hearing other South African accents was significant.

“You guys from South Africa? Me Too!” I said.

“Oh hi,” one of them replied.

“Wow, I can’t believe you guys live on the same street as [J-Rab’s cousin], what are the chances?!”

“Ha ha. Yeah…”

“Anyway, how long have you guys been here for?”

“About 12 or 13 years I think?”

“Shit, that’s a long-ass time. So I’m guessing things must be working out pretty well for you then?”

“Yeah. ‘Spose so. It’s not South Africa, but yeah…”

“Huh…” I said, the smile slowly fading from my face. Something was weird about this situation. I didn’t realise it at the time because I was fresh off the boat, but London is fucking riddled with Saffas.



Conservative figures estimate there are roughly 250 000 Saffas in London, but I’ve read other figures that go as high as 490 000. Running into other Saffas is a pretty regular occurrence, especially in Twickenham, which is why the Saffas at the braai I met were almost completely not phased at meeting me.

Well that and the fact that they were probably the most lifeless people I’ve met since getting off the boat.

They had that look about them that wild animals get when they’ve been in captivity just long enough to realise that this is it, they’re never getting out, and in that moment their spirit cracks clean in half and they schloomf down on their crappy couches in front of their gigantic flat screen TVs to permanently check out of life.

Then I met the Twickenham Charna.

This guy, Jesus Christ. I know you can already see him in your mind – ruddy complexion, freckles, touch of the ginger in him, the kind of dry, chapped lips cricketers get, wrap-around sunnies, surf-brand T-shirt, baggy cargo shorts and Haviana slops.



This guy isn’t interested in any fucking thing you have to say about anything. At best he’s just waiting impatiently for his turn to talk and impress you with the eyeball-gougingly boring opinions about absolutely fuck all.

These types are the fucking worst. Ask them what they think about London and they’ll basically tell you it’s shit, but they won’t come right out and say it because it begs the question, “Well then, why the fuck are you here?” to which, if they were being 100% honest, they would answer, “Um… I don’t know.”

Maybe they were once as excited and electrified by this city as I am, which kinda scares me because if that’s the case then what the fuck happened to these poor sons of bitches?

In order to assert his dominance over the group, this fucking mouth-breathing, long-tom drinking Neanderthal then proceeds to spend the next 30 minutes telling us about the renovations he’s made to his house, like anyone actually gives a shit.

The level of detail he went into made me want calmly wrap my fingers around his neck and squeeze until he turned purple.



It made me ashamed to be South African. These guys leave South Africa to come to London and live in places surrounded by other South Africans so they can have braais on the weekends, watch the rugby and talk about how kak London is compared to South Africa.

No. Please. I want you guys to shoot me if I ever get like that.

I came here to experience something different, something more. I came here to jump head-first into the fathomless depths of this city, dive deep, deep down and swim as far out of my comfort zone as possible to see if I can actually handle it.

I came here for an adventure goddamnit! Not to sit around moaning about London and hating life.

This city is a powerful beast. It can either squash you down until you’re a shadow of the person you were when you arrived or it can grow you into a magnificent version of yourself, able to think and move and interact at a level far above what South Africa could ever offer.

Don’t get me wrong though, I still love South Africa and I always will, but that doesn’t mean I can’t love London as well.

I hope I never lose the sense of wonder I have when I walk around this city, I hope I never take it for granted because when that day comes, it’s a short fall to wearing wrap-around sunnies and wanking in people’s faces about how clever I am for extending my back porch by 3.5m.