Posts Tagged ‘whisky


The Road To Synergy: Part 2 – Radio Silence

insaneLife is fucking funny.

I’ve been thinking about my buddy, Guitar Jon who once, in a very drunken state, decided to tell everyone about ROCK AND ROLL!

We were varsity students getting fucked up in some bar or other that had a clever name and was wildly popular on Sunday nights in Jozi, but I’m pretty sure it closed down at least 3 years ago.

Guitar Jon was feeling low and disillusioned and like no one understood him (we’ve all been there), so he stood on one of the tables outside and delivered the following diatribe:

“Everybody shuddup! Shut the fuck up and LISTEN! Because I’m here to tell you, all of you, about ROCK AND ROLL! OK?! Because it’s something you FEEL! And it’s fucking ALIVE man! And it’s the best FUCKING THING that ever happened to us, to ANY of us! People forget that! But you just gotta BELIEVE! Because ROCK AND ROLL is the ONLY fucking thing that can save us! OK?! It’s… only fucking thing…”

He said. And one or two people looked at him, but mostly they just carried on drinking like nothing had happened, nothing at all.



So Guitar Jon got off the table and I think we patted him on the back and ordered him another round and that was that really.

I think in his mind things went differently – maybe people cheered him on or raised their voices in a passionate “Fuck yeah!” or two, but real life never works out that way.

I got in touch with the Synergy Live guys again yesterday and was told because ticket sales are going so well, they’re not issuing any media comps, which is why I’m climbing on the table to tell you guys:


But seriously guys, my big fucking plan is going nowhere.



I emailed Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s management and climbed on the table (again) to explain, in a passionate diatribe, how much I love this fucking band and what it would mean to get an interview with the guys while they’re in SA and so on and so on.

They probably printed my email out and then took it in turns to wipe their asses on it before filing it in a rather unpleasant smelling cabinet labelled “Interview Requests From Blogger Wankers” and all had a good laugh.

Or, like the crowd that witnessed Guitar Jon’s epic revelation, they probably just stared at it blankly for a few seconds and then pretended nothing had happened and quietly pushed the “delete” button.

I know it’s still early in the game and things could change, but right now the Road To Synergy isn’t really leading anywhere except to the nearest bottle of whisky and then after that, the street for some drunken swearing and public nudity.

I wish I had better news for ya folks, but that’s all she wrote.

Now if anyone needs me, I’ll be drawing an unhappy face on the head of my penis (adds a hilariously sorrowful undertone to the flashing) and listening to this track from my favourite band of all time, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, who I probably will never, ever get to see play live.

Ever Sad smile

This one’s called “Sweet Feeling”.



Don’t say it’s over so soon

We’ve tied to the day every wrong

We can wait in the shadows of mourning

But to wait just betrays what’s to come

There’s nothing, there’s no one, no cause

And still we believed in it all.

The sweet feeling’s gone

The sweet feeling’s gone…



It Probably Seemed Like A Great Idea At The Time…

Posing with your mom for a print advert, pretty harmless right?

Posing with your mom for a ‘Got Milk’ advert? Hmm, we’re starting to get into some dangerous territory here…

But posing with your mom when she’s Sofia Vergara in this specific Got Milk ad could very well be the dumbest move in a career that started and ended in pretty much exactly the same moment.

Ladies and gentlemen I present to you, my new favourite Got Milk ad:



So yeah, that strapping young lad is Manolo Vergara, Sofia’s 19 year old son and no, he’s NEVER gonna live this down.

“It has protein and potassium that have helped my little body become, well, not so little.” Hells yeah! Milk did that?! Christ-on-a-bike it really is amazing!



These ads have always creeped me out because seriously, what milk does that to your upper lip? They’re bad enough without the blatant oedipal references, what the fuck is wrong with Americans? Are these the lengths they have to go to to get people to drink milk?

And who says it’s that amazing for you? Did anyone ever stop to think that we’re drinking another mammal’s lactate, and not just while we’re young, but throughout our entire lives? Not to mention all the crazy-assed growth hormones that milk is also probably rich in, which does lend a little credence to how Sofia’s little body got not so little.

Here’s a better idea: drink whisky.



And with those wise words I’m outta here. Have a killer weekend party people, I’ll see you crazy cats on the other side.



It’s my Birthday

So yeah, donations welcome (email to set up an EFT).

I’ve got a crazy assed day lined up as I’m in the business of fine whisky and today the Whisky Live Festival begins, so think of me while I’m toiling away at the festival until 10 tonight when I should be getting fanned with palm leaves and enjoying a dram of the good stuff.

Here’s an appropriate picture…um, kinda…



Later masturbators.



The Weekend Gets A Solid 8/10

Even though it’s fucking shitty Monday again and even though we’re all right back here, right where we were last week and even though no one’s boiled up any fucking coffee yet because everyone that works here are jerks and all those emails you chose to ignore on Friday are burning little holes of guilt in your inbox like smouldering cigarette cherries through your prep school blazer, even though all this shit’s happening, I think we can agree that the weekend that just past?

It was pretty awesome.



Mine kicked off with a few rushed beers with my main man SupaDan at Neighbourhood where we hurriedly tried to bang out a fresh storyboard for the next TigerTV extravaganza. All I can say at this stage is we’re taking things to the next level this time around and the shit we’ve got planned is going to make that whole necrophilia thing we did a few months back look like a big fucking joke.

See what I did there? Course you didn’t! Get some coffee in you fer chrissakes, you’re still half asleep 😉

Then right at the end of my drinks with Supa, this guy flags me down like he knows me and I look at him like I know him too, which is completely fucked up, and just as we’re about to do the whole, “Hey man! / Hey bro! / How things? / Yeah good and you? / Yeah good! / Well good to see you! / Yeah you too!” this guy says my favourite fucking sentence to me:

“Hey! Don’t you write that SlickTiger blog?”

To which I replied, “Fuck yeah! I am SlickTiger!” (affirming who you are through a fabricated alias is so fucking cool. It’s like someone coming up to you and saying “Hey! Look everybody! Batman!”).



And that’s how I met Bowlphilosophy, the guy who posted one of my favourite comments on the site so far, right under this post.

After that I went with my boss-lady to the Cape Town convention centre for the annual Highlands Ball hosted by the Keepers Of The Quaich.

For brevity’s sake I’m not going to go into all the details of what went down, but basically I tasted some of the best single malts money can buy, watched an enraged Scott slash a haggis to ribbons (some kind of tradition) and went dressed like this:



Then, as if my life wasn’t fucking weird enough, a crazy thing happened in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

See, right behind where we live on a wine-farm-that-shall-not-be-named, are enclosures for Anatolian Shepherds that we look after. They’re flippin’ MASSIVE dogs that mostly just bark all night and add to my sleep-deprivation-inspired madness but are also a lot of fun to pal around with because they’re so big and friendly.

Anyway, one of the Anatolians (Mercedes) has been pregnant for some time and at 4 on Saturday morning, she gave birth to two puppies.

J-Rab was on call for the puppies and rushed out the second the woman watching Mercedes called to say the puppies were breaching.

I half remember J-Rab running off in the wee hours to attend to the birth and then I went back to sleep. Six hours later, J-Rab still hadn’t returned and when she did, it was with the news that Mercedes had not given birth to two puppies, nor four puppies, but TEN FUCKING PUPPIES AND WAS STILL HAVING CONTRACTIONS!

An hour after that, it was 11 puppies. An hour after THAT I watched as puppy no. 12 was born.

Who knew one mammal could spit out so many little wet furry worms?!



Then while J-Rab and her aunt and cousins and I were all having lunch at Dornier and enjoying some fine Cab Sav, J-Rab gets a call that puppy no. 13 has been born.

At which stage we all poured another glass of wine, more than a little concerned that the world was about to be completely overrun by some kind of puppy apocalypse.

The final count, I shit you not, is 14 puppies. Mercedes was in labour for 18 hours in total before the last little squeaker plopped onto the straw and into the world.

That’s enough for an entire Iditarod Sled Dog team, just like in Iron Will! You know, the movie about the guy whose dad is killed in the mushing accident and so he decides to take part in a dog-sled race to save his family farm starring MacKenzie Astin? C’mon! Everyone knows that movie!

Anyway, bottom line is if this whole blogging gig doesn’t work out for me, I’m taking my Iditarod dog sled team to Alaska and there’s nothing you can say to stop me.

So now here I am, sandwiched between cheetah cubs on one side and 14 Anatolian puppies on the other.

And lemme tell ya, life couldn’t be better 🙂

So yeah, what did you get up to this weekend?



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.”



Top Four Reasons Why Drinking An Entire Bottle Of Whisky Before Work Is A Good Idea

It’s Monday morning and I know what you’re thinking.

“Fuck” is probably it, followed shortly by, “this again.”

Well, I have good news. Thanks to a miracle remedy I recently discovered, your work days no longer have to smack of mindless repetition, bullshit meetings and faking that you enjoy the company a bunch of people you wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire.

That miracle remedy, ladies and gentlemen, is whisky. Don’t believe me? Well then, read my top four reasons why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before work is a good idea.*

Ready? Atta boy! Let’s get started!

*Note: For best results, an ENTIRE bottle must be consumed. Don’t be a pussy and stop when you’re two thirds down because you’ve gone blind, what are you? Six? MAN UP fer chrissake!

Reason #1: The drive to work will be AMAZING!

The first thing you’ll notice once you’ve chugged down the last few delicious mouthfulls of whisky is that you are more confident and capable than you’ve ever been IN YOUR LIFE!

The second thing you’ll notice is that your pants (and underpants) might need changing before you venture out into the world due to a large, warm, wet stain around your crotchal area.

Don’t let this deter you, the complete loss of bodily functions is a common side effect after drinking an entire bottle of whisky. Just make sure you sit down first before attempting to change your pants as balancing on one leg at this juncture could prove tricky.



Armed with fresh pants (and underpants) stride confidently out the house and into your car and leave for work. If you’re having trouble starting your car, run through the following checklist of questions to make sure you haven’t forgotten something:

  • Have you left the house?
  • With your car keys?
  • Are you sure it is indeed your car that you are trying to start?
  • Is your car in gear?
  • Do you remember how gears work?
  • Have you taken the handbrake off?
  • Have you reversed down the driveway, across the street and into the neighbour’s living room? If so, explain the situation away by saying you’re recovering from extensive neural surgery, and then pretend to slip into a coma

Once this checklist has been completed, you will notice that the drive to work is AMAZING!

You’ll careen at breakneck speeds along pavements, the wrong way down highways and possibly even along railway tracks. All that traffic that used to cause you unnecessary stress will magically disappear as you tail-end, side-swipe and pile-drive your way through any vehicles unfortunate enough to get in your way.



Provided you aren’t arrested and your car doesn’t explode in a blazing ball of molten steel and broken glass, you’ll arrive at work in record time, invigorated after your near brush with death and only vaguely concerned about the newspaper vendors smeared all over the front of your car.


Reason #2: You can finally get all of your issues with fellow work colleagues off your chest

Any HR person will tell you that the best way to maintain a happy and healthy work environment is to keep lines of communication open at all times.

In practice this becomes difficult to do as people don’t always take kindly to you telling them that they are big fat pathetic losers who are further down the food chain than prawn shit.

This can lead to the suppression of any number of issues that you have with fellow co-workers, which can have negative results on your performance in a team-orientated office environment.

However, after an entire bottle of whisky, voicing your concerns becomes not only easy to do, but also thoroughly enjoyable.



I’d suggest starting with junior staff members in order to practice your new found skill and then moving up the food chain and finally ending with your boss or even the CEO of the company.

Here’s another check-list of constructive comments and feedback you could give to your colleagues and co-workers in order to facilitate an open and honest forum for future discussions:

  • Your ugly! Anyone ev’r tell ya that? UGLY AND YOU SMELL! Go home! N’body likes YOU!
  • Look-ee look-ee! If it isn’t Miss ‘I jus’ got ANOTHER pr’motion! Everyone knows you’re screwin’ the boss, yeah! That’s right! EVERYONE!
  • Hey there sweetcheeks! Did I ev’r tell you you’r fuckin’ HOT? HUH? DID I? Well, you are. C’mere, gimme a hug, c’mere. I love you. I LOVE you! Hey, c’m back here!
  • Yo Boss-man! Up high! Hahaha! C’mon, loosen up ya big, dumb prick, stop bein’ such a fuckin’ homo all the time!

You’ll find all these and many, many more conversational ice-breakers come naturally after an entire bottle of whisky, so why not lighten up the atmosphere in your company and drink an entire bottle of whisky before going to work today!


Reason #3: You’ll get to go home early

After your courageous display of honesty at the work place, you can be sure that your bosses will reward you by letting you take the rest of the day off.

You can spend this time reflecting on the profound difference you have made in the lives of the people you work with, or, even better, getting started on a second bottle of whisky!


Which brings me neatly to my final reason why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before going to work is a good idea.


Reason #4: I’ll have someone to drink with

Having experienced first hand all of the reasons why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before work is a good idea, I now find myself waking up completely carefree everyday at noon without having to stress about the burden of going to work and with not a worry on my mind except my impending court date.

Which is why I urge you to try this miracle cure for all of life’s woes and when you have, come and find me!

I can be reached during the day at the Salvation Army shelter in the city centre and at the alley behind it at night where I often pull up a plastic crate with my new friends and drink varying kinds of interesting alcoholic concoctions they make from metholated spirits and shoe polish!



So don’t delay! Drink an entire bottle of whisky before work NOW and kiss your worries (and life) goodbye!



The Most Hungover I’ve Ever Been At Work

It’s Friday guys, hell yeah! Hands up who’s hungover from smashing tequilas into their face last night! C’mon, be honest – you at the back there, what’s your name? Eh? Dave? Fuck dude, you look like something I watched come out of a stray dog’s backside once, what the fuck are you doing at work?!



Fridays when I’m hungover at work always remind me of the infamous Friday-that-shall-not-be-named a few years back when I dragged my sorry ass to work, praying with all the strength left in me that my hangover would just cut the fucking foreplay and kill me already.

At this point I think it should be said that if you have delicate sensibilities you should probably just stop reading this right now. Just stop reading it. Just click close now, because the story I’m about to tell you is not pretty and I can guaran-fucking-tee you you won’t look at me the same way after you’ve finished reading it.

In my defence, it’s a mistake I have made once and only once and will sure as hell NEVER REPEAT AGAIN, because if I did, there’s a good chance it would be the last thing I would ever do, it was that bad.

So this is the last warning I’m going to issue – don’t read this if you’re some nancy, enjoys one-or-two drinks when he goes out, doesn’t like getting out of control, parties, but not too hard kinda guy (or girl) because you won’t understand this story.

Also, if you’re my mom just stop right now. Close this window and rather play Tetris for a bit, then make some coffee and carry on with your day and this won’t fuck your entire weekend up.



Ok. Now that that’s out the way, let’s proceed with reckless abandon.

It started at a client event on a Thursday back in 2007. It was a launch we had organised with a whole crowd of consumer media at this awesome and trendy barbershop that had just opened in Fourways Crossing. The turnout was excellent and the event went really, really well – we’d set up a Bedouin tent outside the shop and Liquid Chefs had specially prepared a selection of 5 different cocktails for the afternoon / evening. Very slick, very classy.

We kicked everything off at about 3pm and by 6 all the journalists had gone home, leaving only the owners of the barbershop, my colleagues and the liquid chefs barmen, who we’d hired until 7.

We were all in really high spirits because of how well the event had gone and so decided to sample the cocktails that had been specially prepared because, well, why the fuck not?

This was the first time I can remember getting locked into a proper old school drink-off with The MAEN! who, at nearly six and a half feet tall, can do to drinks what thirsty camels do to 50 gallon water troughs.



The MAEN! and I were both pretty much just ‘work friends’ at that time as I’d only been at my company for about 3 months, but thanks to the events of that night, all that changed VERY fucking quickly. It didn’t take us long to realise that between the two of us we had the capacity, unrelenting sense of purpose and single-minded determination to drink that entire fucking bar dry, which is exactly what we did.

We started out ‘tasting’ one of each of the cocktails Liquid Chefs had prepared in order to reach a proper scientific conclusion as to which was the best one, after which point we drank as many of those as humanly (inhumanly?) possible. Let’s just pause right there and take a minute to think about this – 5 different cocktails with at least 3 different shots in each one = 15 different shots.

Never try this. Promise me.

When they eventually packed up the bar, The MAEN! and myself were suitably unimpressed as both of us felt like we were only beginning to hit our stride and so The MAEN! somehow managed to steal a bottle of gold tequila which the two of us then proceeded to swallow in large gulps straight out the bottle until it was bone dry.

In hindsight, I definitely should have gone home right then and, like a werewolf who knows a full moon’s coming, chained and locked myself to our security gate.



Haha, hindsight. It’s always fucking 20/20 ain’t it?

Instead I drove home, got a buddy to pick me up and proceeded to go out to Tanz Cafe, where Guitar Jon was playing the finals of the singer/songwriter competition they’d been running for the last two months.

I was single at this time and experiencing an acute sense of what I can only describe as suppressed hatred towards the female race. It had been 7 long months since I’d last gotten laid, which was officially the longest dry spell I’d ever lived through.

I don’t know what I did or said to the female population of that bar and I don’t want to know. Probably it was like watching an 85kg wrecking ball of alcohol-fuelled testosterone swinging slowly and purposefully through the crowds of people gather there, smashing into poor, unsuspecting women and scattering them in every direction.

All the while I carried on drinking. Knowing me, it was probably whisky.

My memory of events is hazy at best, but I do recall getting really emotional during Guitar Jon’s performance and screaming ‘WE LOVE YOU JON! FUCKING YEAH!’ at least 15 times during his set.

Sadly, Jon didn’t even crack a spot in the top 3, which enraged me to the point where the ‘red mist’ began to descend. This is where my vision begins to turn blood red, much like the Terminator, and the switch inside me flips from ‘Party, Joke Around, Have a Rad Time’ to ‘KILL EVERYTHING’.



I gave the judge and sponsor of the event, Andy McGibbon, a piece of my mind, and not just any piece. A big, ugly piece.

Eventually, I remember feeling a meaty hand clap firmly on my shoulder, shortly after which I was forcibly removed from Tanz in a tangle of limbs and ‘Get yr ffuckin’ dirty han’s off me you fuckin’ ASS’OLE!’. That’s the last thing I remember.

The next thing I remember was waking up thinking I’d been run over by a truck. My skull was pounding like a jackhammer on a hard cement sidewalk, my tongue tasted like an oversized slug in my mouth and my eyes looked like fried eggs.

I didn’t look like shit. If I’d woken up looking like shit I would have been fine, a shower, shave and some Bioplus and I would have been peachy. I looked much, much worse than shit.

My face was loose and swollen with booze and I swear to god, if you’d squeezed my nose, whisky would have come out.

I showered, got dressed and left for work, the contents of my stomach swilling around malevolently every time I turned a corner. I caught my reflection in my rear view mirror. My face was turning green.

I was the first to arrive at work and dutifully booted my laptop up and took a seat at my desk in the tiny room I shared with The MAEN! and El Guapo. Once my laptop was up and running and Outlook was open I carefully folded my arms on my desk and passed the fuck out.

One of the girls I worked with arrived and popped her head into the office to say good morning. The stench of me sent her reeling like she’d been shot.

‘Woah, fuck dude! You smell like a brewery!’

‘Yep. I feel like a brewery.’

‘Are you ok?’

‘Yeah, I mean, I’m still alive… unfortunately…’

‘Do you want some coffee or something?’

‘NO! I mean, no, I’m fine thanks. Maybe just some water.’

‘Err, ok… I’ve got some Panado if you want any?’

‘That’s ok. Just water is fine thanks.’

Moments later I started getting that godawful feeling right under the back of your tongue that tells your brain that in about 5 seconds you’re gonna become intimately acquainted with whatever it was you ate last, which worried me because I couldn’t remember eating anything.

I calmly stood up and walked across the entrance foyer to the staff bathrooms in the most dignified way possible, smiling and nodding at Beth the receptionist, but not actually saying anything for fear of unleashing the fountain that felt like it was about to erupt from me.

I’m not going to go into the details of what happened next, but I kept things neat and tidy, and didn’t miss the bowl, which was a big plus. The big minus however was that I had to do it as quietly as possible because you could basically hear everything from the bathroom in the entrance foyer.



Have you ever tried to throw up quietly? It’s like trying to jump into a swimming pool without getting wet.

I immediately felt better though, flushed, washed my hands and face, and strode out the bathroom, ready to face my day.

The girl who made the ‘brewery’ remark from earlier was waiting in my office with a glass of water and a concerned expression on her face.

‘Are you sure you’re ok?’

‘Yeah, haha, I’m fine, gimme another half hour and I’ll be 100%.’

‘…Ok… have you had anything to eat this morning?’

‘Um, actually now that you mention it, no I haven’t…’

‘Well, I’m going make some toast with cheese, do you want some?’

‘I’m good thanks, I’ll just stick with water for now.’

‘You should probably eat something dude, you’ll feel much better afterwards.’


‘Just eat one or two pieces, it will settle you stomach.’


‘Cool, wait right there.’

I sat back down and stared blankly at my emails. I was definitely feeling better, but wasn’t quite out of the woods yet. Just then I felt a long, low groan deep in my bowels and suddenly everything became clear to me.

I needed a ‘beer kak’. Once you’ve had a ‘beer kak’ after a heavy night, you instantly start feeling much better.

And so I got up again, and with another big smile on my face, crossed the entrance foyer again, smiled and nodded at Beth politely, closed myself in the only cubicle the men’s toilet had and unleashed something that I can only describe as concentrated evil from my backside.



It felt amazingly satisfying and sure enough, the minute I’d choked that dirty bastard I started feeling almost human again. I wiped and turned to survey my accomplishment and immediately burst out laughing.

God only knows where I got all that fibre from, but the structural integrity of my movement (let’s just call him Derrick to avoid getting too graphic) was impeccable. So much so that when I flushed, nothing happened.

I mean sure, water sloshed this way and that inside the bowl, but Derrick refused to budge. Mild panic set in as I remembered that Beth could hear the toilet flushing loud and clear from the reception desk. I didn’t want to be that dude you know? The double-flusher. Nobody wants to be the double-flusher.

But what could I do? I’m not a fucking animal!

I waited until the toilet was done filling up again, said a silent prayer to whatever Gods may be, closed my eyes and with sweaty palms, hit the flusher a second time.

The sound of water churning inside the bowl filled my ears. It sounded like a good flush, surely this would be enough to send Derrick up the U-bend and out of my life?

I opened my eyes.

I said ‘fuck’.

Derrick didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He had beaten me, the sick and twisted fuck.

What could I do? Flush AGAIN!? Become the TRIPLE-FLUSHER? No, if two wasn’t going to do the trick, nothing was. I washed my hands, waited for the coast to clear and, like a ballerina skipping across a stage, crossed the foyer in about three quick strides, trying not to make eye contact with Beth.



Back in my office I gratefully tucked into the cheesy toast Brewery Girl had left by my laptop. She was right, all I needed was to put some food into my stomach and I’d be fine…

Or was she…?

The pigswill in my stomach made friends with the cheesy toast at first, but it very quickly became apparent that they had a number of irreconcilable differences that weren’t going to just quietly resolve themselves over time.

My stomach started turning, gently at first, but gradually it got more and more violent until, not 30 minutes after I’d swallowed the last mouthful of cheesy toast, I could feel that unless I got my ass back into that bathroom, something bad was going to happen.

Once again, I got up from my desk, and once again I crossed the entrance hall foyer, smiling at Beth, only this time Beth wasn’t smiling back, she was looking at me with genuine concern and even got up and started to say something, which I pretended not to hear as I burst into the bathroom for the third time that day and closed myself back in the cubicle only to find…

Derrick. Exactly where I left him, reclining with a smug look on his face in his little brown plunge pool.



Do I need to write what happened next? Yes? No?

Let’s just say that Derrick was not impressed AT ALL. But seriously, it served that fucker right. In this world, you play by the rules or suffer the consequences, it’s fit in or fuck off. I felt rocks for Derrick, he brought that upon himself, the arrogant prick.

Still though, it was by far the nastiest moment of my life. The kind of story Alcoholics Anonymous group members tell about the time they hit rock bottom.

At the time I didn’t pause to dwell on the new low I had sunk to though, I just flushed and try to put it all behind me, which was difficult because even after a third flush, Derrick remained steadfast, that fucking fucker!

Fuck, I should be the poster boy for high fibre, I’m what every middle-aged woman trying desperately to become ‘regular’ would give a toe to be like. Kellogs would fucking love my ass if they ever met Derrick.



From that point, I slowly started to recover but, like a dead body I’d buried in a playschool sandbox, I started to feel really guilty about Derrick. Something about just leaving him there went against my code of ethics as a man and a human being.

And so, after a brief and only mildly embarrassing conversation with the cleaning lady, I crossed the foyer for a fourth time, this time with a large, plastic bucket tucked under my arm and a look of steadfast determination fixed on my face.

I hit Derrick with a bucketload of water large enough to drown a cat in and finally, thank fuck! the tough ol’ bastard joined millions of others in ducking up the U-bend and into a place that I see sometimes in my worst nightmares.

Needless to say, I blacked the events of that morning out of my mind for many years, and it’s only been through extensive psycho-therapy that I’ve come to terms with the Friday-that-shall-not-be-named and the indelible mark it’s left on my soul.

There’s a lesson here folks – do everything in moderation and you’ll be fine.

Especially fibre. Watch out for that stuff, it will fuck your shit up, literally 😉

Have a killer weekend.



Whisky In The Jar-o – Part 1

The thing about people is that they’ll buy into whatever bullshit you’re selling you if you look and act the part. In fact, you don’t even really have to act the part too much, just look it and you’re 80% of the way there.

Last night was the opening night of the FNB Whisky Live Festival, the biggest consumer whisky festival in the world and there I was missioning around with the photographer we hired to cover the event, looking all important with my executive leather Mastercard branded flip file and two-way radio complete with an ear piece that made me look like some kind of high-level bodyguard.



The festival was intense and to be honest, I feel like a bus hit me right in the spine. I’m tired, J-Rab had to pry me out of bed with a crowbar this morning, goddamn what I wouldn’t do for another few hours sleep…

And for that reason I don’t really feel like writing anything today. Even these paltry few words have so far taken me an hour to write. I’m going to drink Bioplus, that shit is AMAZING. Yesterday I nailed one of the effervescent tablets and in 10 minutes was feeling like a million bucks, so I nailed another one to try and push it to two million.

Then, suddenly, the universe was an incredible place. Raw energy and electricity was sparking off everything, a rush of happiness washed over me and I started jiggling uncontrollably in my seat.




So I tore into Twitter like a piece of loose shrapnel, writing ‘Phwoar! Fuck me running, BioPlus is AWESOME! I’ve only had two tablets AND I FEEL LIKE A MILLION BUCKS!’

Then I froze. I hadn’t Tweeted that as SlickTiger, I’d tweeted it as FNB Whisky Live Festival to 500 odd followers in the whisky-drinking community.

Fucking awesome work right there. DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE!

Yeah, so I’m gonna nail another one right now. Don’t be surprised if my next post is written in size 500 font and all it says is BJUYB%*&^(*NGUJHGVFJV%^*&&HKHK<()O!

Later party people, I might get some nice pics from last night to post here, watch this space.