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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.



The Tiger Hears A Song Hidden in a 528 Year Old Painting Of Hell. Gets Totally Spooked Out.

xir216640First off, a little context. It’s nearly 1am as I post this, J-Rab and The Cub went to sleep hours ago, I’m in the spare room of our flat alone and the wind is blowing at gale force outside.

So I’m a long way away from your comfy office swivel-chair where you’re sipping your morning coffee under bright fluorescent light, surrounded by all your office pals.

Second off, a little history. When I was about 12 years old, I spent a holiday with my cousins in Natal. During that particular holiday it snowed for about two days so when we weren’t outside building snowmen, we were inside making puzzles, one of which depicted Hell.

The puzzle must have had easily 500 pieces and I clearly remember scrutinising the pieces in great detail whilst trying to figure out what went where. In this way, I got to know this painting of Hell intimately and to this day am still more than a little disturbed at what it depicted.

Here it is in its entirety:



This painting was done by Hieronymus Bosch sometime around 1500 and is part of a triptych called “The Garden Of Earthly Delights”.

It’s hard to see any of the detail in the image above, but just looking at it gives me the creeps.

I remember one part in particular pretty vividly:



As you can see, some kind of demon thing is transcribing music onto someone’s naked ass.

The internet, being the twisted place it is, has actually figured out what that song would sound like, in case you were curious:



What really gave me chills was that the moment I started playing that, cats started fighting somewhere outside the flat.

And anyone who knows me well will know how much that sound freaks me out.

Spooky stuff I tell ya. If a black metal band got a hold of that melody, I’ll bet they could make it sound a million times creepier…



Merry Xmas Ya Beautiful Basterds

Beautiful-Christmas-Tree-WallpaperChristmas will never, ever be the same for J-Rab and I because a year ago today, we were still reeling from the shock of finding out that we were going to be parents.

Crazy how the build-up to Christmas has brought all those memories flooding back. It was on the 18th December last year that our lives changed forever and if I think back on that time it makes my balls shrivel a little.

The Cub wasn’t planned so when we found out she was on her way, we both shat bricks for about 10 days straight, full of what I can only describe as Mortal Terror at the thought of becoming parents.

Now, one year later, things are a damn side rosier. Once your child is actually born and has become a physical thing in the world, you can start the process of figuring out what to do with it and how it works (or doesn’t).

Looking back, it’s been the happiest four months of my life, no lies. If I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a damn thing.

So anyway, I promised J-Rab I’d keep this short and sweet cause I gots me some Eggnog to make and then we’re hitting a Xmas Eve party at Graum’s place where (hopefully) our little one will go down at about 8 and let mom and dad have some fun, but knowing life, this will definitely not happen.

Before I go, I want to wish you guys a merry Christmas and say that though the posts may have dwindled over the past two months, you can bet your bottom dollar that the Tiger will be back in the New Year rested, rejuvenated and ready to kill everything he sees.

Until then, may the joyous spirit of Christmas fill you with child-like wonder as you spend this time surrounded by the people you love, eating too much, drinking too much and spoiling each other rotten.

Merry Christmas Party People Winking smile

Love from Your Tiger Pal,



Our Father

nelson-mandelaI found out late, probably around 2am when J-Rab checked her phone whilst feeding our baby girl. She turned to me and said the words every South African has known were coming for the last six months.

“Nelson Mandela has died.”

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the gale force winds of Vredehoek blowing the South Africa I have always known away.

I was six years old when he was released from prison. I was ten when he was sworn in as president. I was fourteen when his presidency ended, twenty when he retired from public life, twenty seven when he was first hospitalised. I am now thirty.

I don’t remember what I said to J-Rab when she told me, I don’t think much. I’m not sure what there is to say. She fed our cub in silence, gently laid her down in her cot next to the bed and soothed her back to sleep.

In the half light streaming in from the bathroom, I saw J-Rab wipe her cheek.

This morning I rose early to go to gym and experienced the first wave of media dedicated to him – it was the speech he gave at his inauguration – “Let there be justice for all… Let there be peace for all… Let freedom reign…”

The TV in the gym change room was showing a vigil in London attended by a handful of South African expats. I watched for a long time, other people gathered around the TV too, we didn’t say anything to one another, we didn’t have to.

I trained hard. The gym is my church, it’s the place I go to shut out the world, the first place I run to when I need to escape. I go deep into the darkness and it welcomes me as it always does with burning intensity and, for an hour or so, sweet oblivion.

But even in the throes of it, I couldn’t push the thoughts of this staggering loss out of my mind.

When I came back home, I found J-Rab trying desperately to sleep and our little one thrashing around joyfully in the bed next to her, burbling baby nonsense and smiling from ear to ear.

That was the hardest part of a day that I know is only going to get harder – seeing my daughter lying there, all of 3 months old, and knowing that she will never know a world in which Nelson Mandela is alive.

I’ll leave the biographies and the detailed stories of his life and tributes to the people who are better versed to write them.

All I know is that we lost more than a statesman last night, we lost more than a politician, more than a freedom fighter, more than a leader.

We lost a father, and my prayer for the sons and daughters he left behind is that we never forget the sacrifices he made for us, nor the hope he carried in his heart for the future of this beautiful, haunted country.

May the sun never set on so glorious a human achievement.



A Post From The Darkest Hour

Stay-Awake-All-NightThey say 3am is the darkest hour or the witching hour as it’s also known. Some people think it’s 12am, but I can tell you from experience, it’s definitely 3am when the world is dead asleep.

Remember what a big deal it was to stay awake until this time when you were a kid? Or how crazy it felt the first time you stayed awake all night and watched the sun rise the next day?

Thinking back, those were my first few experiences of the darkest hour, it was all excitement and this feeling like I was getting away with something.

Of course, after that, once I hit my teenage years my experiences of 3am were a different story altogether. Instead of being all hyped up at the thrill of doing something forbidden, I’d be blind drunk and stumbling lost through the thick fog of alcohol oblivion.

The witching hour remained in that same thick fog for a long time. In fact, from when I was 13 until my late 20s, if I’d made it through to 3am, I was definitely in a drastically altered state which guaranteed that the day to follow would be a complete write-off.

But, as I got older I began to experience a much, much more terrifying kind of witching hour – the one where you make it to 3am because you’re still fucking working.


Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those guys always shouting from the roof-tops about how hardcore his work ethic is (also known as WANKERS). Those guys take this weird satisfaction from the fact that they have no lives outside work, that’s not me.

And yet here I am. Eyes burning from lack of sleep, head spinning from too much coffee and heart sinking at the thought of a future of more and more mornings like these.

The world is unforgiving and there are too damn many of us in it. To make a mark you have to either be very lucky or willing to make big sacrifices to get ahead.

Me, I just want to be curled up with J-Rab right now, listening to the tiny muffled snores of my baby girl in the cot next to the bed and enjoying the simple pleasure of being close to the people I love.

Swear to God, December can’t come soon enough. It’s been a good year, but I am done.

I’m sure we can all agree, it’s high time for a little R&R.

Any minute now… Winking smile




30th-birthdayYou guys might have noticed that I’ve been slacking again when it comes to posts – that’s because my weekend was a bit of a wild one and I wasn’t able to stockpile anything for the week like I usually do.

Friday I went to an awesome wedding at Suikerbossie where a lot of tequila was drunk and good times had by all and on Saturday I celebrated a pretty intense milestone because yeah. I’m thirty now.

My actual birthday was on Sunday but on Saturday I had a chilled braai with some friends, nothing too crazy because I’m a dad now so I couldn’t really lose my shit completely with a two month old baby.

Of course, near the end of the afternoon / evening a lot of whisky was consumed and tons of shit talked by all. It was a beautiful day, sunshine and blue skies, and I feel like I sent my 20s off in the best possible way.

It’s a weird one though. I don’t remember reflecting on my life much when I hit my 20s. I think at that time in my life I was just partying like an animal and getting up to all kinds of shenanigans so I don’t think I really gave a shit that my teenage years were over.

Besides, getting into your 20s is pretty exciting. I remember feeling like I had this amazing decade ahead of me with all kinds of adventures and craziness to look forward to and lot of freedom to enjoy.

In your 20s you become financially independent (hopefully), you get your first car, you move into your first flat, you take your first few shaky steps toward being an adult and it’s fun.

You make a lot of fuckups. You go out on school nights all the time, come to work with raging hangovers and are still able to somehow get shit done. You meet crazy people who stick with you through the good times and the bad and you party very, very fucking hard.

I remember the day I quit my first job. I’d only been working there for three months but the team I was working with was slowly and steadily falling apart so eventually I was like, “Fuck this, I’m done.”

I didn’t even write an official letter of resignation. I just came to work one day and told my boss at the time I was sorry but after the end of the month (which was three days away) I wouldn’t be coming into work anymore.

He wasn’t even pissed off. He just said he totally understood and if I wanted, I could quit right there and then and they’d still pay me for the whole month.

I headed straight to my buddy Barbarian’s flat (affectionately known by us all as “The Hole”) and spent the rest of the day on his veranda couch lounging in the sun drinking Black Label quarts and smoking bongs.

I honestly didn’t give a shit. Two months later I had another job which I accepted because my parents had cut me off completely and I was running out of cash.

I remember what weekends used to feel like. The build-up to Friday, the burning energy that used to course through me at the thought of the parties I was going to hit, the people I was going to hang out with and the fucking crazy shit we were going to get up to.

I remember the clubs, the bars, the drinks, the drugs, the girls, the infectious craziness that exploded endlessly inside us. I remember the highs and the heartaches, the moments where I felt like a God and the others where I felt like a total wretch.

I lived hard. I threw caution into the wind and on more than one occasion, life kicked my fucking ass.

It’s not something I admit to often, nor something I’m particularly proud of but it took over 80 stitches, 50 staples, six titanium screws, three metal crossbars and a shit ton of antiseptic, gauze, bandages, morphine, pethadine, dormicum and painkillers to get me through my 20s.

I never knew when enough was enough, it was impossible for me to find any kind of balance in my life. It was all or nothing, I craved those dizzying highs and crushing lows. The fence-sitting, middle ground of complacency and polite indifference was more hellish to me than all the fire and brimstone and gnashing of teeth you could ever imagine.

Through it all I managed to somehow not only survive, but find a few truths that I know will see me through the rest of my life. They were lessons hard-learned, but if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.

And yet I find myself staring down the next decade of my life warily, like a fighter weighing up his opponent in the ring, searching for flaws, looking for openings, waiting for the right moment to strike, achingly aware of the mounting pressure and responsibilities on his shoulders should he fail.

The game has changed.

I have no doubt that my thirties will bring me boundless joy, unimaginable opportunities and (again, hopefully) incredible success, but I also know that I will have to work harder to attain all three of those things than I did in my 20s.

Time is brutal – it’s the greatest teacher even though it kills all its pupils – and there is nothing you can do to stop it or bring it back so lamenting the passing of your 20s is idiotic and self-indulgent.

But I can’t help but feel a little sad, the same way I feel sad packing away baby clothes that my two-month old daughter will never fit into again, that my 20s are over.

The guy I was in my 20s was a crazy, passionate, reckless motherfucker, but God knows I miss him from time to time. On some nights I stand on our little balcony and look out over the humming city lights and imagine where he would be at that same moment, what mischief he’d be getting up to, what hearts he’d be breaking or what people would be breaking his.

My only solace during these times is the thought that he is out there somewhere, a thousand thousand different versions of him, and he is doing all those crazy things and always will be.

This is his world now and I surrender it to him gladly because though I may have lost part of my youthful abandon, I’ve gained a lover, companion for life and fierce lioness in J-Rab and the most incredible and precious gift of new life in my little Cub.

More than anything though, my 20s taught me that this is my life, my story. There is no other like it and there never will be.

This site is a record of that life that I hope outlasts me for a long, long time and continues to offer the souls that stumble upon it some kind of comfort no matter how big or small.

So pull up a chair, I’ll pour you a whisky, and we’ll float on in this rusted old junkyard spaceship through the ether.

Boats against the current. Bourne back ceaselessly into the past… Winking smile



“Electronic Blood” Soon To Be A Reality

terminatorIt’s not often that I post tech-related stuffs here on TFW, but when I read this piece on Mashable this morning it blew my mind to tiny little pieces so I thought I’d share it with you guys.

IBM is looking for a way to cool computers the way the human body cools the brain because one of the major setbacks when it comes to boosting computing power and processing speeds is overheating.

IBM’s Patrick Ruch and Bruno have built a proof-of-concept computer chip that contains tiny channels that would circulate an electrolyte fluid past electronic components in order to cool them down.

If you look at the way computer chips are currently built, they all conform to a thin, flat structure. This is done  to allow circulating air that’s drawn in by fans to cool the components as efficiently as possible.

However, if the guys at IBM are able to perfect this technology, it would mean we could fatten computer chips into block-like structures that would be far more effective than the ones we’re currently using.



Ruch and Bruno are also tinkering with the idea of using this electronic blood to deliver energy to the chips it flows through. The idea is that as the fluid passes electrodes, those electrodes would pick up electrons from the fluid and use them to create current.

It’s a pretty intense project and it’s applications are insane. Google alone spends millions of dollars on air conditioning bills to keep it’s data centres cool, which expend enough energy per year to power 200 000 homes.

A part of me can’t help thinking that this will definitely be a huge step forward in terms of the robot apocalypse that will eventually annihilate all of mankind but yeah… electronic blood man!

Far out… Winking smile




You never forget the sound of a car crash. There’s no way to describe that sound, but once you’ve heard it you never forget it and every time you hear it again you get the same gut-churning feeling you got the first time.

We were fast asleep yesterday in the spare room, J-Rab, The Cub and I. It gets the most sun in the afternoons and we were curled up, dozing in it when we heard the sound.

I knew two things immediately after hearing it – whatever had happened was close and it was bad.

I got up, walked through to the living room, unlocked and opened the sliding door and looked down into the road.

We live on the second story of an apartment block that looks down on the bottom of De Waal drive, about 200 meters up from the canary-yellow speed camera that never catches anyone.

I looked down into the road where it sounded like the crash came from, expecting to see a mangled car but instead I saw a young-looking coloured guy in a green and white striped hoodie screaming the same thing again and again.

“Aziza! Aziza! Get an ambulance! Somebody help! Aziza! Aziza! Aziza!”

He was running up and down the road screaming like that. Whatever had happened was blocked from my view by short, dense trees, their branches leafless, dead from winter.

I took my phone out and dialled 10111. It rang for at least two minutes while I tried to piece together what had happened, tried to figure out what the lifeless trees were hiding.

I had one clue, something on the pavement, pale green lying just before the trees.

As my phone rang another figure came sprinting down the road, saw whatever the trees were hiding and started screaming. It was a girl, she ran right up to the trees screaming, and then ran the other way, then ran back to the trees again, then ran away again.

When the police eventually answered I tried to explain where the accident happened but the woman who answered rushed through the details I was giving her so quickly that if I hadn’t stopped to slow her down, she would have sent a police car to hospital bend, about 3kms in the wrong direction.

There’s a house adjacent to our flat, a middle-aged couple live there with a Labrador and a Bearded Collie puppy. I saw the husband across the road standing with the crowd that were gathering there. His wife was standing in her garden on a rock, holding the puppy and looking over her wall at the scene of the accident.

I called down to her, she was also trying to call the police. I told her I’d gotten through, I asked her what happened and she told me like it was something happening a million miles away.

I turned back to the leafless trees, back to the pale green thing on the sidewalk and instantly recognised it as a receiving blanket.

J-Rab came out onto the balcony holding The Cub who was still asleep and wrapped snugly against the winter cold.

“What happened?” she asked.

I don’t remember if I turned to tell her, I don’t think I could tear my eyes away from the trees, or watch her reaction when I told her.

“It’s a baby. Someone swerved off the road into her pram and drove away…”

I didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing else to say. We stared at the people gathering by the trees in silence.

A truck from the Fire Department just down the road arrived at the scene first, parked by the side of the road behind the trees. When they got there, the girl from before came running. Someone grabbed her, tried to hold onto her as she sank to the ground screaming and crying.

J-Rab started crying behind me, but I just kept staring, numb right down to my core.

“I see you have your baby, I have mine too,” our neighbour said, cradling her puppy. “Shame, so sad,” she said.

The ambulance arrived not long after that, parked behind the fire truck as two paramedics got out and walked to where the accident had happened.

It wasn’t long after that that we heard another sound from behind the fire truck, sounding out above the hum of traffic, ringing out clearly through the biting cold winter dusk.

I turned to J-Rab, “Is that her?”

“It must be…”

I exhaled and rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted despite the nap I’d just woken from. The girl was back on her feet, the crowd gathered across the road were close around her, holding her, telling her everything was going to be ok.

The crying stopped and not long after we saw one of the paramedics carrying an impossibly small bundle into the back of the ambulance. The police arrived after that, parked, got out the car, slouched toward the scene of the accident.

Before we went back inside our neighbour’s husband came walking back to his front gate. I asked him what had happened.

“It was a white combi, swerved off the road into that guy walking with the pram, came out of nowhere, they think he was drunk.”

I asked him if the baby was ok.

“She’s alive, ja. But with a big hole in her head.”

“Brain damaged?” his wife asked.

“They don’t know,” he said.

Back in the flat I poured a whisky, swallowed it and poured another.

I sat on the couch with J-Rab and held her as tightly as I could.

I stared at our daughter, who is three weeks old today, sleeping like only babies can in her mother’s arms.

A fear crept into my heart like nothing I’ve ever felt. I kissed my daughter and pushed the thought that was screaming out in my mind as far back as possible, but it was impossible to shut it out.

What if it was her?

I’m not a religious man but I prayed for that little girl, for Aziza, last night.

I hope whatever gods may be were listening and that she’s ok.

I hope she’s back safe in her mom’s arms, wrapped up against the winter cold like nothing ever happened.

And more than that, more than anything, as selfish as it sounds I hope that never, ever happens to our little girl.

I hope…



Rollin’ Boulders

how-to-avoid-traffic-jams-35319_2The alarm goes off, you get up, you shuffle off to have a piss, you summon the strength to go through the motions.

In the shower, sleep slides off you, swirls down the plughole. You like the water scalding hot, needles of fire burning into you. It’s good to be alive.

You make breakfast, you think about the day ahead.

Hopefully this action, thinking about the day ahead, fills you with purpose and makes you smile and think, “Cool. I got this. I can do this. Piece of cake.”

You get dressed, pick out something you feel good in, something you haven’t already worn to death. You gather your things, walk out to the car, maybe pause to look at the sky and remind yourself that no matter what happens, at the end of the day what you do or don’t do really means nothing in comparison to the vast expanse of everything stretching above you.

Hopefully you don’t think that though. That’s a dangerous way to think.

You hate the radio but you listen to it every morning. You wonder what happened to that guy who went to extremes burning MP3s to CD so he could avoid having to listen to the radio. It wouldn’t even have to be that drastic nowadays – a few MP3s on a flash stick would do the trick, but some strange part of you would rather listen in passive hatred than change the station.

At work you set your laptop up, make some coffee and kill the first half-hour on Facebook looking at your friends with their fiancés or their wives or their babies or their summer holidays in Europe. Half an hour can easily become an hour as you lose yourself in the minutia of other people’s lives.

You work, because that’s how life is. You tick the boxes, scratch things off the to-do list, move up the ladder, learn, grow, advance and work some more. You focus on the future, you set goals and work steadily at achieving them only to do it again and again.

And that’s great. You’re doing really well if you can get that right. You love what you do so it comes naturally. The other members of your team at work value your input, they’re glad to have you, when you walk into boardrooms, you command respect effortlessly and behind your back people whisper about how you’re the guy that’s going to make things happen.

You’re doing so well. Your family is proud of you. Things couldn’t have turned out better.

You’re doing so well. You play the game like it’s second nature, which is strange because there was a time when you swore you’d never be the exact person you are.

There was a time when you would go to ridiculous extremes not to have to listen to the radio.

But that’s just what they were, ridiculous extremes. You want to swim against the current your whole life, that’s fine, but you’re no salmon. Some people are, but not you. You’re a trout if I ever saw one.

The hours slide off the clock and before you know it you’re back in the gym change room, old-man dick everywhere you look. You get changed and throw everything you have into your routine.

“Pain is weakness leaving the body.”

At home you shower again and eat mainly protein for dinner – the more, the better. Maybe you work a bit or watch some TV, do whatever it is you do to unwind at the end of a satisfying day.

Or maybe you stare out the balcony window, look up at the night sky and wonder, like your father and his father and his father before him did, why you are here. Again. After so many other times, making the same goddamn mistakes you always do.

All this potential. All that blood spilled, all those sacrifices made for what?

Hopefully you don’t think like that.

It’s a dangerous way to think.



Invent A Band Name, Win a Radass Pair Of Converse HighTops

converse-logoIt’s Friday thank Jeebers and to celebrate that fact and spread the word about the Converse Get Out Of The Garage campaign, I’m giving away a sick pair of hightops that I think you guys will dig.

Well, provided you are a man that has size 10 feet and lives in Cape Town. If you are a man who has size 10 feet and lives in Cape Town, give yourself a pat on the back and read on!

If you aren’t, you are still more than welcome to enter the competition, but just know that we’re playing for a brand new pair of Converse size 10 hightops for men okay? Okay. Let’s get started.

First off, here’s a pic of the grand prize:



Secondly, this giveaway is part of the Converse Get Out Of The Garage competition which launched recently for the second year running.

The competition is strictly for unsigned SA bands. If you are one, all you have to do to enter is upload your best track to Soundcloud, post it on Converse’s Facebook page before the 15th of August and cross your fingers and toes.

If your track gets chosen by judges Catherine Grenfell, Jon Savage and Reason for the final ten, your band will get a profile page with your band’s info and a “Vote” button on Converse’s FB page.

The band with the most votes from members of the public wins the grand prize (a slot at this year’s Rocking The Daisies music festival, a trip to perform at the iconic 100 Club in London and a chance to record at the Rubber Tracks studio in Brooklyn, New York).



So if you’re in an unsigned band, hit the Converse FB page and try your luck, what have you got to lose?

HOWEVER, if you’re just here for the free shoes, then here’s how to get them.

Write your ultimate band name in the comments section below and the one that either makes me chuckle or is undeniably cool / badass wins, easy as that.

I’ll announce the big winner on Monday, so you’ve got all weekend to enter. I’ll accept up to 3 different entries per person but no more so go and down an espresso or two, get the creative juices flowing and may the best make-believe band win!

Have a killer weekend Party People, see ya’ll same time same place next week Winking smile