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My Christmas Week, told Mitch-style

[This is a piece written not as I would but in the style of Mitch… irreverent and un-PC humour with a grin…]

Guten Morgen from a heaving Cape Town in holiday season. The place is bowel-blocked with enervating traffic, with everything that is a tourist or semigrant wobbling and warbling about the streets. The fat, fit, bland, good, bad and ugly have all washed up here.  rip-off open season has been declared by restaurants and the like, as usual. despite that, food places are crawled over like ant colonies under entomological study. not a table to be found, not even for ready bribes. Restaurant receptionists gloat that waiting lists for tables extend to the outer extremities of Cape Point and that they’d give up if they were silly you. A-void. it’s in Winter that they need you and come over all sweet and charming for your business, the bastards.


The swimming pool has gone gangrenous green again after a woman pissed in it at one of Garth’s bi-weekly garden parties. not only did she piss in it, she also had the temerarious gall – some would call it charm – to admit to it.  it’s the new ‘openness’ of the liberals of the Cape Totn City Bowl.  Would that they rather shut up and knyp instead. pool’s in that pre-black stage where algae unknown to science start teeming.  We’ll have to drag Klein in here again to doctor the pissed-in pool right, but I hesitate to call him out at this time of year as he’ll be all hail-fellow-well-met and get moerdronk again, alternating his Hitler imitations –Sieg Heil! – with pious interludes about blessed Holy Mother CHURCH.  This happens around the fifth drink or so, which happens around an hour after his arrival.  Soon thereafter he starts punctuating his slurring diction with ‘f_uck-my-face!!!’ as an expression of head-over-heeled surprise, and in that state EVERYTHING surprises him.  At least he has the decency to always vomir or vomet, depending on your crappy French, into the large white megaphone in the bathroom, and not all over the Persian under the Grand. The latter last happened when a party got out of hand. jeez. a threesome – two men and a woman – ended up inter-administering fellatio in the GUEST bathroom to the boredom of some and the horror of others. Someone desperate for a crap after various attempts at the bathroom door caught sight of the goings-on through the keyhole and raised the alarm.  tainted the evening, it did, as some felt excluded.


Dirty turquoise in the pool is the least problem of these bricks and mortar. the recent rain streamed into the patio and flowed down the stairs to the cellars. I discovered the problem that our factotum’s inspection hadn’t; a large fissure in a wooden beam, but what does that help he’s on holiday now.  The beam, no longer accustomed to rain, shat and shattered itself.  Not that the rain helped lift water restrictions – we’re trying our bit by propping up the toilet cistern with bath water but one can get enough of that.  the wind has also started sending the goddam TV reception into paroxysms, thankfully I hardly watch the crap on offer these days. the GEYSER’s also gone temperamental, eigentlich eisig kalt, much the annoyance of Ipanema who is squatting in the downstairs room for the season.  He’s here from Durban all tall and tanned and young and lovely just like in the song.  Cannot distinguish between a priori and a posteriori.  Miraculously this does not in the slightest dent his vast social desirability.  Ipanema spruces up with Versace pour Homme before going out slutting around the clubs, in which he apparently has great success.  Has no need for Tinder; scores the old fashioned face-to-face way, confidently.  Only hits on the best.  Apparently scores every night, sometimes twice, sometimes simultaneously.  Returns after 6AM every day and revives at 2PM, like clockwork.  Then leaves at 4PM again as though on a sweatshop schedule.  Rumour has it he plays the gigolo by the hour on the side for mucho moolah, which he’s quick to deny, but with such crafted feebleness that it’s a form of inverted boasting, even confirmation.  Ipanema does Cool, he does Cool well, but doesn’t do Cold.  The other day Ipanema had to quickly freshen up for his next assignation in Sea Point, only to be arrested by the frozen shower.  You should have seen his lip curl at the prospect of cold water raining down his haloed kopf.  Tough shi_t, watch the worry in my eyes.  Life has it cold for us from time to time, dude.


Haushelp on holiday.  Before leaving, insouciantly drops the report card of her early-teen nephew on my desk, together with the peppered account for next year’s school fees for moi to cough up as I do every year, si.  Expected patronage is alive and well when it suits but does anyone take this formally into account?  There’s a discount if you pay the whole year’s fees upfront, but fees have rocketed since last year to subsidise the new corruption don’t you know. where the donder is #feesmustfall when you need them? on frigging strike again or ballasbaking on the beach? No doubt they’ll be fully revived in the New Year just as industry gets churning to maximally disrupt proceedings. Haushelp’s nephew’s report card not the best in the world either.  32% for geography.  This is apparently a soaring achievement nowadays, being an excessive fat 2% above the requisite 30% pass mark our country’s glorious education system has set down for our competitive progress. At this rate we’re about to out-project NASA. We’ll be braaing on Mars before the Yanks.  but hell, you at least have to know where Dubai and Switzerland are to stash away your cash in the current kleptocracy to which the masses aspire. I need to bark at him a bit.  loves soccer though, knows exact GPS location of Real Madrid on the globe despite 32% in geography.  is a big fan of Cristiano Ronaldo, who it appears is gay and flies privately between soccer practice sessions to Morocco for quick bonks with his kick-boxing boyfriend. Don’t believe me, google ‘Ronaldo gay’.  BARCELONA fans have of late reportedly been chanting ‘maricon! maricon,’ every time CR7 gets a touch of the ball, even louder when he scores. this has incensed soccer authorities no end, who have threatened action and censure and fire and brimstone at homophobia but of course will do sweet Fanny Adams, being all sound and fury and EU-styled effete.  Think dapper Italian-shod Mama types. faggot or not, ‘maricon’ CR7 keeps on putting his balls into opposition nets and went on to win this year’s Ballon d’Or once again.  In celebration of my fellow Madeiran, i bought extra pairs of CR7 underpants from Edgar’s to gird my jewels with over Xmas.


Then there’s Catherina.  That one has taken to sending me literary quotes on champagne at the first crow of dawn, when she’s no-doubt already focusing deeply on the good stuff. Cat’s quotes espouse real philosophy, at first flush surpassing anything by Schopenhauer. E.g. ‘You either love champagne or you’re wrong!’  Logic 301… second term.  Then on reflection one thinks, actually, Catherina darling, no, I’m no Schiller but it’s scheisse.  Whatever her philosophy, Cat’s all bubbles on the inside and bubbles on the outside, a sunshine person till the sounding of the last sparkle. Note to self: must get working on a project to get her to bath in champagne for once in her life. Total immersion. Caution though, she might drown in the stuff, but hopefully only after getting out intermittently to piddle, unlike the swimming pool woman.  On the other hand, bath is an English word with a silent ‘p’, our English teacher taught us.


Bought a sculpture called Afrotude by Chanu as a pre-Xmas present to self (Google images).  Afrotude is a sexy, sassy African woman in sunglasses hot pants tight revealing top and highheeledboots carrying designer LV and D&G shopping packages.  Opinion is divided on her. Homos are indifferent to her, nodding or shaking but standing well away.  queers and queens disdain her, Nigel, a proud and preening art-and-opera loving self-confessed queer QUEEN, exhorted me to STOP BUYING CRAP, OR ELSE…  But Real Men love her. They approach her with a leer and fondle her bum and rub her tits with salivating lasciviousness, Donald Trump-style. thanks to him, unbridled lust and the Real Man are back after decades of repression by the PC-obsessed feminist/central banker/public relations/consultant/celebrity clique that had until Trump ruled the world. Some advice: if you’re a Sexual Questionable, you’d better cover your angelic backside in the coming new Macho World Order.  I for one have already started (i) toning down my metrosexual curiosities (ii) listening to less Schubert (iii) culturing gruffness of the voice (iv) objectifying women and (v) have stopped platonically hugging the few men I do etc. lest a burly Macho take exception to my face etc. discretion being the best part of valour etc. etc.


Robert and Boris came over for drinks just before Chrissie Day… we drink and laugh ourselves hoarse in my kitchen, all the while in a standing position as Robert has back problems.  Been operated.  There’s some L4-L5 disc complication – some structural stuff-up. it’s a technical de- and rehydration of the interlumber/intercostal narrowing lacuna processus, very mechanical, laboriously explained over the fifth flute of champers so don’t ask.  Still grimaces a bit.  Robert very compartmentalised in his communication.  Now Boris is a sweet guy. To Boris, Robert talks Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Pasternak, Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev, Nabokov, higher literature, even venturing timorously into Tchaikovsky of which I suspect he clearly knows less, perhaps even boggerall. With Tchaikovsky he’s on wafer-thin ice, the type through which Nordics drown by the dozen in the Spring, but because he’s being nice to Boris hence Russian-themed and has a sore back and it’s Xmas and all, I let him get away with it.  See, I’m actually the sweet guy, but dyathink anyone notices?  Nah.  At any rate, to Boris, Robert is all arty and cultured and intello. After excessive focus on Boris and disregard for moi, Robert’s conscience starts prodding him to shift to shitty me for a change. so he changes demeanour, sours, turns around to face me square-on, dumbs down and talks shameless p-u-s-s-y straight out of Donald Trump’s book. That’s where he comparatively places me, down there. But it’s OK. TRUMP’s a one but he’s catching on around these parts. i for one am stuffing him down local über-liberal’s throats at every opportunity, which pisses them off no-end to my ironic delight.


Dropped into Hamilton-Russell winery to lug some of their good stuff over to HERMANUS for the Big Day. Assistant there is young, enthusiastic, articulate, good looking and knows it.  Wears skin tight blue jeans, the type that shows she’s a women rather than a lady, clearly.  Doesn’t harm sales.  Can I get six bottles of their Pinot Noir? Not possible, she says, people are restricted to two bottles only, but (sotto voce) she’ll slide me three because the quota is all envy on the part of her work superior whom she outsells, thereby earning more commission.  The quota’s there to shaft her back a peg, capisce (?)  With that tightness of jeans, is she surprised?  Well, it seems that ratting on your superior to potential clients is the new business professionalism. ‘So what happens if I come back tomorrow for another tasting?  Can I buy a few more bottles then?’  ‘Of course, tomorrow I won’t remember you at all’, she helps.  Danke schön.  Quota-inflating is as alive and well in the Hemel-and-Aarde valley as it is in OPEC.


On the Big Day, played Papa Xmas, which entails wearing an IQ-dropping conical red cap with a white fluffy ball which fattens the face.  Main job is to dish out presents.  My eye notices that one of my presents – for one of course notices one’s own presents more keenly – a blue-and-white package given to me by Magda, contained a matching blue-and-white T-shirt. I have the calculating cunning to mention this to her mit honig and doublethick treacle which brightens her up no end.  ‘Al-e-e-e-e-e-x, you noticed!!!’ She probably spent a morning colour coordinating the present to the packaging.  My pasty face is safely back in her good books in the year ahead.  La familia was spread out rather paper-thin this year, with separations and break-ups and better fish to fry with more exciting flesh elsewhere. So the meagre four of us present made the best of it, drinking rather than suip-ing and eating rather than vreet-ing, especially on a huge geelbek fish which apparently heads some semi-endangered list or other.  Layered jelly, Xmas pud and custard for dessert, but no partridge in a pear tree or 24 blackbirds baked in a pie. Next year, defo.


On the way back from Hermanus on the 27th, invited to a pre-birthday lunch at the BEAUMONT WINE estate.  The birthday is eigentlich on the 27th January, but is being celebrated in December.  Has something to do with birthday madam never having felt as quite belonging to her star sign, so is changing it or something.  Sat next to EIGHT-YEAR OLD Anaïs on holiday from London at the picnic table.  She’s named after celebrated author and essayist Anaïs Nin.  Her brother is Milan, named after the Czech writer Milan Kundera of course.  The elder sister is called Jessica, named before her parents ascended into literature.  Ag shame.  Anaïs is being expensively London-educated and it shows.  Articulates perfectly in RP English.  Shuffles and brims and thinks.  The type of girl educationists say as a class are five years ahead of boys of similar age.  No, six.  Boys are backward and only catch up at seventy-four I hear.  Anaïs plays both the piano and the violin.  Literacy is her favourite subject.  Does extra-mural every day of the week.  Her brother Milan also plays the piano, but not Jessica.  Now I’m no psychologist, but Jessica’s underachievement, if you ask me, stems from Sibling Literary Name-Envy Neurosis.  Listen, Jessica’s parents have it coming thick and fast from Jessica in a few years’ time.  Total rebellion.  I’m telling you Jessica should’ve been named Austen then all would’ve been fine, but no.  It’s soon Anaïs’s turn to interrogate me. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Alex.’  Where do you work?’  ‘I work in financial mark… I work in a bank.’  ‘Do you makes lots of money?’ ‘Oh yes.  At the bank I’m temptingly close to the stuff.  Investigations are pending though.  In the meanwhile, can I get you anything? Money’s no object’. ‘What’s your surname?’  ‘P…’.  ‘P…?’  ‘Yes P…  Everyone’s about to soon find out’.  ‘Are you related to anyone famous?’ ‘No, I come from peasant stock’.  ‘What’s that?’ ‘I come from poor, unremarkable, ordinary, backwater people’.  Pause.  Thought.  Pause.  ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t go around saying it openly’. Hmmm, an advanced one, this.  Anaïs is going to go far, very. Wants to be a doctor but I think supercilious TV talk-show host is better suited to her talents, or perhaps one of those intrepid BBC geopolitical journalists.


Now that Xmas is over I’ll be on the lookout for heavier than usual discounts in stores which have miscalculated demand in our effed-up economy. They’re going to come thick and fast with crème-fraîche and sugar on top.  Also I’ll be watching local price readjustments once the semigrants have flown back to Joburg or wherever the eff.


Help, there’s all the New Year festive tat still to stomach. Thinking of assembling some sort of party but the Haushelp is mit holiday und i don’t feel like ballscratching up the energy to clear up the after-jollity detritus. Also, the BUTCHERMAN in Greenpoint quoted a 10- to 15kg suckling pig, which I thought I’d roast as a differentiating if inelegant New Year menu variation, at ZAR299 a kg. I told him no thank you as a host of Jews were now coming. so will instead do something daft like find a spot on a crowded beach among the semigrants and soak up some sun, if I can find it among the shadows of the hordes that is.


Would have written about Graham but he’s in Oz so we’re thankfully spared his corroding bull this season. Yes, gentle friends, Christmas presents DO exist.  mankind CAN be saved. tHere IS a silver lining after all, at least until he returns.


Ciao und bis später

Keep on jingling