“I was born in this hotel, washing dishes in the sink…

Magazines and free soda. Trying my hardest not to think…” Beck, Whiskeyclone Hotel City 1997.

Roll on Saturday and we’re elbows-deep in making sushi. Outside, it’s like it’s been snowing because this tree in our garden has snowed all these tiny white blossoms everywhere, like this:


Christmas in October

Christmas in October


Inside, Jenni-fuh’s the expert having made her own sushi at least five times before. J-Rab has the book though, the one Exclusive Books sold us, ‘Sushi Made Easy’, and she’s telling me how sushi chefs train for years to perfect their art.

First, they start out cooking rice. They do this for a year. Day in day out. Cooking rice until they’ve got it down to an art. THEN they start their training to make the sushi itself.

All this goes through my head as we do the rice and slice cucumbers and the salmon itself and some red peppers and some avocado and some carrots.

Trick to sushi is to keep your hands as wet as possible at all times, especially when you’re handling the rice.

In my head I drift off to last night and memories of what turned into a pretty badass party at Wopna’s place. We went in there packing a bottle of Vodka, some lime, soda and ice. As I get older I kinda have to find more and more creative ways to get booze into me, having pretty much worn all the conventional methods out completely.

There’s only so many mornings you can wake up feeling like a truck hit you before your internal organs start hating you and everything you stand for.

Vodka flies low, way under the radar, nice and sweet and easy.

Pooperoo came through to the party last night, he’s grown this pretty thick and mean beard, I didn’t get to hang out with him too much, I was kinda bouncing all over the place talking to one person and then five minutes later, another person.

Wopna’s dog, this Toy Pom puppy, was happy and healthy again, he’s only about 12 weeks old and contracted parvo a week after they got him, this is a disease that kills most puppies in a few days, but this little trooper made it.

We call him Rhino.


Rhino - Devourer of Planets

Rhino - Devourer of Planets


Skatter was also there, I haven’t seen the guy for about 10 months or so, he lives in Cape Town and is up here for his baby shower. The dude’s 24 and will be a dad around February next year.

Fuck, Skatter a dad. He’s the youngest of four brothers, and the only one to have a kid so far.

Anyway, back in the here and now, my buddy Hardcore Iain The Slain Barbarian is g-chatting about how he’s digging the blog so far. Hardcore Iain a a killer character. Old-school to the core, the man is a miracle to modern science. If he died, they could find things in his body that could see you through toxically high doses of various poisons and possibly cure AIDS.

When I think of him, I think of the BP story. He got pretty low back in varsity, girlfriend trouble coupled with a gripping existential crisis lead him to where most of us go in times of trouble.

The bottom of the nearest bottle.


Bloob-bloob-bloob-bloob, aaahhhh.

Bloob-bloob-bloob-bloob, aaahhhh.


On the night in question, he drank at home and then went out boozing clear through to 4 o’clock in the morning, then decided to hit the nearest BP petrol station for some food.

Upon arriving, he watched a Hilux bakkie pull in with two huge douchebags and decided he would be their friend. He approached them, introduced himself and told them he wanted to be their friend. He told them he’d always wanted friends as cool as them because they were the coolest people he had ever seen IN HIS LIFE!


Predictably the douchebags made some threatening comments because they failed to see the humour in the situation. You can always rely on douchebags to have a complete sense of humour failure. The key thing here people is that intelligence lends itself to humour, and hence a lack of one leads to a lack of the other.


Hazit charna! How you ma boytjie!?

Hazit charna! How you ma boytjie!?


To their credit the douchebags walked away from Hardcore Iain and ignored his relentless and hostile attempts to befriend them.

The straw that broke the camels back happened as the douchebags were driving away, when Hardcore Iain ended his conversation with his new friends by shouting, ‘Yeah?! Well why don’t you go fuck your mothers!”

The Hilux screeched to a halt. One of the douchebags stepped calmly out, walked across the parking lot and smoked Hardcore Iain in the face. Fucking hard.

The Barbarian sunk to the floor and landed hard in the sitting position and carried on just sitting there, not moving too much or really trying to fight back or even saying anything.

The jock hovered for a second, confused, and then got in his Hilux and drove away.

And so Hardcore Iain sat there, on his ass, alone, until a mutual buddy who happened to arrive right after it happened helped Hardcore Iain off his arse. The guy’s name escapes me competely, but his face is still easy to see in my head. A tall dude. Mathematical and philosophical genius. Liked  System of a Down.

This guy peeled the Hardcore Iain off the sidewalk and drove him home. We laughed our asses off when he told the story the following day. The good ol’ days, hahha.

Anyway, back in the real world we’re beginning sushi production, so far so good. The first pieces are actually very tasty, also helps that we decided to pair the sushi with Olmeca Black Tequila and have had at least two each so far. Actually, let’s make that three…

*****TIME PASSES*****

Sushi looking good, it’s taken us about three hours to make, but like I predicted earlier, we totally nailed it, totally, totally, totally.


Not too shabby Nige

Not too shabby Nige



Have just finished tucking into the three plates of sushi we made and I think I ate so much I’m hallucinating. The rice has expanded to the max inside my stomach and I feel like a giant lump of molten lead slouching on the couch.

The Violent Femmes ‘Gimme the car’ is blaring out over the speakers, Jenni-fuh is writing a long and painful text and J-Rab is making stars out of golden wrapping paper and sticking them up on the walls. Slowly this whole consolation of golden wrapping-paper stars are twinkling into existence on the walls around us.

Our sushi was actually really excellent, largely thanks the J-Rab’s rice, which was awesome and secretly I ate a whole bunch of it when she wasn’t looking just on its own.

Ex-Bear might come around a little later, we’re supposed to go to another braai tonight with Skatter and Wopna and Peggles and pretty much all the same people from last night, but I’m not keen.

I got that feeling like everything I need is right here and that over here, in this moment, life couldn’t be better.



2 Responses to ““I was born in this hotel, washing dishes in the sink…”

  1. 1 Nick
    October 13, 2009 at 12:27 pm

    Hey ya basterd. I tried to call you like four times round 11 on Friday night but your phone was off.

    Maybe this has something to do with why you weren’t invited on Sunday! Hey? Hey?! Didn’t think of that, did ya?

    Well anyway, it’s not. It’s cus you sucked.

    • October 13, 2009 at 1:34 pm

      Firstly, my phone died on Fri, it did it quietly in my pocket when I wasn’t looking and secondly I’m actually pretty happy you didn’t invite me on Sunday (to play tennis, haha! fag) because I was in a sushi-induced coma the whole day.

      So yeah! You can shove your tennis, mumble mumble, it’s a gay sport anyway, mumble mumble mumble…


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