Club 91 in Claremont is AWESOME!
I can deduce from various factors that I had a good time at Club 91 in Claremont last night. I woke up hating everything and everyone, I wanted to kick people, my finger was bruised probably from trying to punch open the lift and my head hurt.
Bruise by vast quantities of alcohol. Bracelet by Mantality.co.za (HERE)
I looked in the mirror and my teeth were wearing green winter coats and my eyes were fire red. My tongue was coated yellow, my skin was pale and flaky. I looked like a bus accident, only worse. I looked like a sewerage farm accident, I felt pretty shitty.
I sent out a couple of messages and got no replies. The only ones were from chicks hating me. “Screw you, you said I was fat last night and I weigh 45kg’s. It’s people like you which are exactly what is wrong with this world”
Calm down fatty. And don’t hate me baby…hate carbs.
I tried consuming an assortment of food but the suitcases, jagerbombs and the filthy jugs at Springboks beforehand had now ensured that I had developed irritable bowel syndrome and at any moment was close to having a colon explosion (Bear with me)
Today’s diet to counteract the evil
My current health status: Shit
My buddy Mike walked from Stadium on Main to where I was staying in Rondebosch, because I had taken his car keys and given them to a chick friend of mine, and then left. Mike walked the 5 odd km’s to my house in the rain at 7am after not sleeping. We then picked another mate up at a UCT res. The carnage was unimaginable. Okes were SO boozed. Chicks were SO pumped. I was SO rude to everyone. Calling everyone average, telling them to lose weight.
Oh yeah and then this chick from a while back has the cheek to message me and say “You don’t know how to f%*k”
Like I REALLY care? Seriously chick, you better be done in 3 minutes.Three minutes is all I’m giving you!
Because 3 minutes is all I got…
I mean really, why must I prove anything? If I’m done in three minutes and you’re not, then whoever designed the human body was terrible at design. Don’t blame me. Blame science. Blame industrial design.
I therefore deduce from these circumstances that Club 91 is the new place to jol in Claremont. It’s sickening. The floors are marble, and not carpet, so it won’t smell like chunder after a few parties. The bar are is massive. The crowd is hot. And uncle Sean was the most trashed person on the planet.
To anyone who I was rude to, I don’t apologise. You should apologise to me for getting in my way. You should thank me that I even took the time to notice you.
You should go make me a rehydration sachet and massage my shoulders.
All I’m saying is this: Get down to Club 91 in Claremont, it’s all that and more. If you find my name in the corner, just mail it back to the usual address. Shot.
And I’m spent, I’ll see you at vida Camps Bay now my darling.
(I’ll put a proper write up on Club 91 up with photos, but last night was completely ridiculous, we got so bent, I have no photos and no memories, just signs of debauchery)