Ok so this is a bit late, but I will probably still beat The Tatler to it, and my write up includes alcohol and women, so I win. We win. Game over.

My wingman visited me yesterday and asked me what on earth I was doing. At the time when he visited, I was not drinking (Weird) but there was a reason. For some reason, I bent Friday like a pole vaulter, ending up at Oblivion and trying to chat up chicks way out of my league (There aren’t many of those) and also trying to be suave, all the while dancing like a fat man on speed. Needless to say…I never came right.

I came left.

That was lame, sorry, as the article goes on, more wine will be in me and I will be a better writer.

So Charlie V visits and asks me why I never did the write up as promised. I assured him that I would, but I was drunk on Saturday and I would need to recreate the turmoil in my body to release the words. In other words, to write this article I needed to obliterate myself on the bottle. Which is what I’m doing. The reason I’m leaving it until late today to drink is that Friday was Oblivion, Saturday was a drinking marathon at the rugby derby at Bishops, followed by a stumble around Tiger Tiger and I topped off the weekend with a visit to Caprice on Sunday with Andy B. No small feat!

Well just to reassure you, I’m drinking now again, which is good for business.

I always had some sort of dream to go over the top at the final Bosch/ Bishops derby this year, and I knew I could supply a boat load of booze but that would not really be over the top for SLXS. That would be standard. So I devised a cunning (Why does that word look weird?) plan.

I remember having a party not too long ago where we bought a whole load of ice for the ice buckets, so I thought for the derby we should bring buckets of ice for the booze. But as much of my inspiration comes from Johnny Depp, Hunter S Thompson and Ronnie Wood, ice buckets seemed a little tame.

So I walked into I&J in Cape Town and bought 500 kilograms of ice.

Charlie V – Because parties don’t start themselves

We paid on the Friday and picked the ice up on Saturday morning in the Colt. I called people to tell them we had bought ice and were coming to Bishops in a blaze of glory. Friends laughed and said there was no parking and we were too late.

Don’t worry, I’m no fool. We had parked two cars behind the posts, but to the right early that morning. Like seriously early. Like the time most clubs close. So when we arrived, we simply moved those two cars out of the way, and reversed the trucks in! Genius!

We used Brendans Colt and then also enlisted the help of professional wakeboarder Andrew Bourne and the BOURNE2RIDE truck!

Andy B comes complete with a USN sponsorship, great success! USN USN USN!

We were there for about ten minutes before people started arriving, marvelling at our awesome display of excess. They also realised that we were way cooler than them, and they wanted to be like us. Unfortunately only the kings of excess were allowed to hang with us, while the commoners were kept away from the circle of cool. We let some girls in, kicked some others out and settled in for the day.

If you are reading this trying to find a rugby write up then it’s best you leave. I never watched the game, but I did watch some angels and I did have a drink or two.

The talent on display was something else and we perved mothers with tighter bums than their 12 year old daughters! I mean…not that I know what a 12 year olds bum looks like. Ask R. Kelly…

I sat on my perch, wondering if some of these mothers would perch on my pole. I wanted a mom on me.

Did you also see that? MOM. Mom On Me.

I wanted a MOM.

I thought though that I would start by trying to chat up someone younger than me, because younger girls always seem to dig the vibe of older, successful (Ummm…cough…cough…vomit) guys. So I threw out the vibe and reeled a little angel in:

Just discussing the name of our first child

“So you come here often?” I purred.

“Well no, this is a guys school”

“Cool. Cool”

End of conversation.

I was chatting to someone probably five years younger than me, and I had absolutely nothing to say! The most I could belt out, when I knew I had lost, was “Just touch it! Come on…do it for the feeling!”

I’m in such bad form at the moment that I can’t even come right with myself. All I wanted was a little kiss from someone at the rugby, but I got the kiss of intoxication. The drinking got underway when we were interrupted.

Some very stern looking coloured gentleman was watching over us. At first I thought he thought we were racist, and he wanted us to include more of a selection of colour into our team. If he had mentioned this, I would have let him know that we already had our token black guy. Enter Gary G!

Gary gives us tax cuts

Gary G is one of the funnier people you will meet, and the more drunk he gets, the funnier he gets. The peak of his hilarity is right before he chunders, where he shouts “Why don’t chicks dig me?” before showing us what he had for dinner.

We had about 30 of us at our “site” and this included people of all colour. I figured though, that if this guy wanted more coloured people in our team, we could just dilute Gary’s colour (Black) into all the white kids. We would then all be coloured, albeit a very diluted coloured colour.

Then some other guy arrives who is white, sporting a mullet of sorts and a very nice ‘tache. He spoke to us and said that if we sold any of our booze to anyone, everything we had would be confiscated. Jerry D assured him that we knew we were not allowed to sell booze because we did not have a liquor licence. Our mate owns a booze store though, so we are never in short supply of alcohol.

The Original Kings Of Excess

I don’t quite know why he thought we would sell booze. What is the point of selling confidence to other people, I mean, God knows I need confidence around women!

Skyy Vodka- Confidence, only bottled

Being the youngest of three, I have been known to avoid parties, women and alcohol altogether. This whole “rock star” image cultivated on SLXS is not true at all. I’m very shy and rarely go out beyond the confines of my gate.

Anyway, this guy was not happy with us, but he quickly calmed down when we cracked some jokes, and then I got chatting to him about parties and booze, and he told me that his son organises parties and that thing, and as I know a lot about parties we had a decent conversation that spanned I don’t know how long, but I did miss the entire rugby game. The coloured gentleman never spoke to me though, because he realised that with my token black guy, I was pretty much BEE by the book!

The cookfest got underway and seeing as though no girls wanted to touch my bratwurst, I had to go fool around with the chippolatas (Spelling?) I must state here though, that no girl has ever called it a chippolata. They usually refer to it as a T-BONE steak. Like Tommy “T-Bone” Lee. Similiar vibe going on with my pants party.

Maybe not the biggest…but surely the busiest

I never actually got hold of any of the mothers phone numbers, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be slamming one of them in the back of a Hummer soon. You know…while little Timmy is strapped in the baby seat at the front.

I’ll probably be servicing it when I will get a call:

“You got T-Bone” I’ll purr, like I always do.

“You bugger!”

“Mom?”

“No, it’s God again!”

“Oh sweet…what’s up with you?”

“You’re smashing a mom while her son is in the front seat”

“So?”

“So it’s going to traumatise him you idiot”

“No don’t stress dude, we slipped him a roofie earlier, he can’t hear or see”

“Oh ok, no worries then. I’ll sms you later, we can go for coffee”

“Sick dude”

“Peace out. A-Town”

Look, there is quite a high possibility of that actually happening. I’m being serious, I never joke.

The day flew by in such a blur, that the next thing I knew, I was making an exact, to scale, sculpture of my main chap.

Ron Jeremy

“What baby?”

“That’s too cold for you?”

“Yes you sexy man animal, it’s too cold”

“You are saying my main chap is too cold, look at you! You’re like the friggin’ ice queen of Cape Town! Maybe if you smiled for once and didn’t always insist on eating at the finest restaurants and only drinking champagne or Red Bull, you would be a little warmer”

Apologies for that, some unresolved Cape Town issues.

I’m never quite sure how to end off these articles, which is why I don’t write actual magazine articles. What I can add here is that the Bosch/ Bishops derby is the best day in Cape Town, even if you don’t care about rugby, or even if you didn’t go to Rondebosch or Bishops.

The point of the day is to try and bag yourself a MILF.

The rewards of doing this are endless. Sure, you might break up a family, and you might have to foster one or two children, but these moms are rich. And money WILL buy you happiness. People who say money can’t buy happiness just don’t have enough money. It’s a fact that money buys you cool toys and houses, and has you dining at fine restaurants. Chicks dig this. Chicks then dig you. You get chicks. You get sex. Sex, money and champagne create happiness and that is a proven fact.

Think about it…carefree weekdays as you live off their husbands money after not signing a pre-nup. Full use of the Ferrari, laughing as you drive down Camps Bay strip on a Wednesday (Leave the kid at home during these drives) and knowing that you are tapping a fine piece of ass. Never having to work again. A champagne filled pool.

The kids are a hassle, but as soon as they are 10 you can send them to India or something to work on a rice paddy.

I’m thinking of either going into life coaching.

Or bagging one of those mommies.

Call me Jane, you saucy old minx you!

By the way, I banged a mom Bishops won
Sean Lloyd

Editor