More seasonal annoyances

Summer should be a time of exuberance.  Why?  There is plenty of sunshine for one.  For 5 days in a row you can lie in front of the telly and watch cricket.  “After the game dear” becomes an even more nebulous concept than normal.  The ladies dress for comfort, as they do in winter, but the effect is more visually stimulating than 5 layers of jerseys and jackets.  Clearly another instance where Less is More. 

Living in the holiday town of Langebaan summer is not quite the joy it should be.  I moaned general about it here.  A seaside holiday town tends to attract extra visitors during school holidays.⁽¹⁾  It therefore makes sense to the local merchants to increase the quantity of goods for sale in their stores.  More people, more items, same space.  Now we can all get to know each other a little better, because my trolley and yours will have trouble passing in the aisle with the extra table laden with Christmas puddings.  Manufactured by a Chinese company normally producing paper weights and doorstops.  One of the local supermarkets changes their layout to force the direction of the queue to the pay points.  An admirable and necessary action.  However, it now bears a strong resemblance to the maze at Hampton court.  Once in this labyrinth there is no turning back.  Better go without than try to return against the human tide towards the aisle of milk. 

Holidaymakers have different shopping habits than locals.  Concepts such as quick and efficient were left at home with Rover.  Fair enough, they don’t know the layout of the store, or town if they are driving, so are liable to make sudden stops, left turns, u-turns and returns.  Ok, so I forgive them slow and indecisive, but there are more hazards to holiday shopping.  When a couple of families vacation together the women go to the shops in packs.  Now it is purchasing by committee.  “Susan, shall we take the big bottle of sunlight liquid or the small one?” 

“Well, Mary, we don’t want to run out, but we mustn’t waste, must we?”  At home (where arguably they belong) they know how long a bottle of dish washing liquid lasts.  Now it is the habits of different size units, much more braaing than at home, restaurants and take-aways.  So every purchase becomes a debate.  My favourite brand vs. yours.  Smoked beef or Slat and vinegar?

As the children are not in day care or school they also swell the ranks of shoppers.  I don’t mind the children.  They know what they want.  All the sweets they can comfortable carry.  It is just that young children tend to be quite short.  And they are fast.  As I tend not to look down so much when perambulating, I can easily knock them over.  So now I am constantly on the lookout for their presence.  All this concentrating making shopping even more tiresome than usual.  And then you encounter Fred.

Fred does not normally do the big shopping at home.  He is easily spotted.  He is the one that looks like a polar bear in Pretoria.  Clearly not in his habitat.  Every product is carefully examined before being plonked into the trolley.  As if Fred has any idea about the normal price, but he wants to do good.  Sometimes he gets that surprised look in his eyes when looking at the size of a can or condoms.  You get these in extra large?  Mary just buys the medium ones, but the R/g is much better with the bigger ones.  I will demonstrate my shopping prowess with the extra large.

Despite encountering all this I persist, only because the queues at the fast food outlets are even longer.  At the till they have seasonal staff.  Here I also try to be patient, I know what it is like to be new in a job, but it does not make queuing any more enjoyable.  With my over priced purchases now in newly bought plastic bags ⁽²⁾ I make my way to the trusty Honda.  In the parking lot the last vestige of patience gets swept away by the infernal wind.  If I try to Canute the wind I will come to the same conclusion, albeit not so reverent. At least in winter the rain keeps the wind and tourists away.

(1)    This town nearly triples it’s population in December

(2)    Yes, I know.  Bad boy!  Erhm Bad middle aged man!

Boney M Season

Boney M season.  I am against it.  Chiefly because of the Boney M music, but also, I don’t worship at the altar of consumerism that has taken over a religious festival.  God knows I am not religious anymore, but the concept of forced presents and family annoys me.  People expect bonuses.  People expect presents.  Why?  Where does this expectation comes from?  What monstrous coalition of malevolent forces drive this evil desire?   And then it got personal.

I received an electronic invitation to spend my drinking money at an online music and book retailer.  In my naivety I thought they have rather clever regressions matching advertising with my previous purchases in their emporium.  Targeted advertisements mean I will be mildly temped by the products.  Sadly NO.  They send me the some generic advertisement.  Now that does not make me feel special at all.  Here is what they wanted me to buy instead of whisky.  The comments are a combination of my own and that of my friend Ferris.  We mostly like similar things, but music is not one of them.  Oxtail is another.

Susan Boyle:  So to the great surprise of the world you don’t need to be pretty to have talent. ⁽¹⁾  She sings OK, but is not exactly the best ever.

Now 56: Now I go back far enough to remember when my brother bought “Now that’s what I call music”  Not volume 1, or the first.  Just the title.  Ferris reckons that you play the DVD and mute the sound as the videos mostly feature young ladies gyrating about the place in skimpy outfits.  The music will just spoil the effect.

Josh Groban:  Did he create the music of my youth?  Then why should I listen?   He may be pretty, but is a few operations away from doing anything for me.  Although, apparently his music helps to lower the inhibitions, amongst other things, of the ladies.  It can be advantageous to be nearby in such an event.  If you are an unattached lady susceptible to the music of one J Groban, please send me your contact details.

Michael Jackson:  Isn’t he dead?  How come he is still releasing CD’s? 

Kurt Darren:  an uncouth, unfashionable and/or unfortunate male.  Not my words.  From this dictionary.

Bok van Blerk:  He went to Hoerskool Die Wilgers in Pretoria.  Rival high school to the one I went to.  What good can come from there? ⁽²⁾

Afrikaans is groot:  Afrikaans is Big, direct translation.  Afrikaners are big.  Especially this one.  That would be a better title.  The market for this in Perth, Australia is apparently rather big.

Liefling:  What is this?  A Ge Korsten revival?  He is also dead.  Dead men shouldn’t sing.

And then a book with the translated title of  “Cook for the freezer”.  Rather cook for the stomach.  What will the freezer do with it?  Grow fungus slowly?  As Ferris has it:  The freezer is for keeping stuff prior to cooking.

As a supplement to my seasonal disgust I take a prat fall.  In front of  witnesses.  Any Afrikaans tribology book will describe the mixture of water, hydraulic oil and painted cement floor as Snotglad.  In English it would be described in a typical understated way as “Extremely slippery”.  As I came lumbering down the stairs my number 12’s encountered said lubricant.  The horizontal speed of my feet then proceeded to exceed that of the rest of my body.  Resulting in my orientation rapidly changing from perpendicular to parallel to the floor.  As I soaked my left side from boot to butt in the oily water, I realised a design flaw in the human body.

During my rapid descent into wetness I unconsciously used my elbow as a shock absorber.  A function that the original design does not adequately cater for.  As the day wore on I became more conscious of my instinctive mistake.  From previous experience ⁽³⁾ I knew that it will be worse the next day.  But, for the third time in my life I was wrong.  It started that same night.  In bed I wrapped my iced wine bottle cooler round my elbow for pain relief.  As I embarked on my journey to dreamland, the thought crossed my mind that my arse will be really sore tomorrow.  Fourth time.  My behind, clearly, was designed as a shock absorber.  No pain at all.  At least a partial vindication of some of my lifestyle choices. 

The schools are on holiday.  My town is filling up with vacationers.  This biannual event tests my patience, but bolsters the local economy.  When the queues subside in mid January the retailers and restaurants will once again be able to charge me the newly increased prices.  In the meanwhile I will keep my head down.  And look closely where I walk.

(1)    Just look at me.  But not if you’ve eaten recently. 
(2)    My sisters went there, but whether they are any good is still a matter of dispute.
(3)    It can hardly be future experience.





 

Bubbles and Blondes

There is a special relationship between women and champagne.  It took me several long and lonely years to figure this out.  I am an expert at obfuscating the obvious to myself, therefore not greatly surprised at the time it took me.  And I have pronounced on sloth before so no surprise that I haven’t made much use of this knowledge.  So I take other men’s wives to taste bubbles.  Mostly because I can’t take my own.

Once a year the piquant town of Franschoek holds a bubbles festival.    Bubbles as in sparkling wine, not soap bubbles.⁽¹⁾  The first weekend in December provides balmy days in the valley enabling an afternoon in the sun sipping wine.  It is also a social occasion and the ladies dress up.  And down.  Hemlines goes up, necklines down.  I just enjoy the view.

Quick technical bit.  Sparkling wine is a wine with lots of CO2 bubbles in it.  The gas is in solution in the wine and at higher pressure than atmosphere.  So it wants to get out of there.  The gas can get into the wine bottle in three ways.  Forced carbonation, Sodastreaming the wine in the bottle and putting a cork in it.  A more expensive method is to prevent the CO2 formed during secondary fermentation to leave the tank.  Thus pressurised the wine is bottled.  Both of these will (or should) be labelled sparkling wine.  The most of expensive and original way is to let secondary fermentation take place in the bottle.  Then tilt the bottles to collect the yeast.  Freeze the yeast in the neck, take out the cork let the pressure blow the yeast out and quickly put a new cork in.  Wines made in this way in the Champagne region of France may be called Champagne.  Same method in the Cape produces a Methode Cap Classique (MCC) ⁽²⁾. In short Champagne and MCC are sparkling wine, but sparkling wine is not necessarily MCC.  The bubbles festival has MCC and champagne.

The Blonde, Legs and a friend of Legs, all blondes, climbed aboard the Honda.  Off we went to have some bubbles.  Some stereotypes were reinforced on the day.  The women dressed up, this man did not.  Also not one of the women was ready on time.  And none of the blondes are stupid.  OK, strictly writing that is not reinforcing a stereotype as such, but more of a debunking.  Moving swiftly along then...  All three women were dressed in a fashion that made it difficult for me to maintain eye contact.  They knew what to wear to accentuate the positive. 

The first time I went to the festival I had clear ideas about what would happen.  I would like the local bubbles better than the fancy French stuff.  We have sunshine, they don’t up in Champagne. Sunshine is good.  It was a jingoistic outlook on vino.  Luckily the alcohol served as lubricant, because when that paradigm shifted, it shifted a long way rapidly.  The champagnes were fabulous.  Bollinger, Taittinger, Mumm and the widow Clicquot.  All wonderful.   I realised that in this case sunshine might not be an asset.  A bit like skin cancer then.⁽³⁾  After the pain from that revelation subsided, I realised that MMC producers don’t try and emulate the French.  They can’t.  The raw materials are too different.  What they make are cracking good times in a bottle.

At the first festival I also discovered the sounds and looks of Sterling EQ.  Since then I wanted a cellist for Christmas.  The cellist changed since then, but my sentiment did not.  I also want a violinist.  I just looove classical music with a modern interpretation. Looking at my tasting notes I found the Shiraz from Nitida a little strange, everything from Krone delightful especially their flagship.  Villiera is just my favourite wine producer and their bubbles are house wine for the play group.  My favourite wine maker remains Ms Melanie van der Merwe and her Tanzanite wines, though they were sadly absent from this year festivities.  I hope it is because the wine is sold out and not other reasons.

This year I bought a very different Sauvignon Blanc based MCC from Bramon.  Wine from Plet, Not your normal wine growing area.  A bottle of Genevieve also hopped on board.  And once again a bottle of Nicholas Charles Krone Marque 1 from the House of Krone.  To my palate the best local bubbles and well worth the price.  His day job is winemaker at Groote Post, but I also made a donation ⁽⁴⁾ to the Lukas Wentzel retirement fund with his eponymous MCC.

Food at the festival is delectable.  The only way the strawberries could be improved is if it started it's way into my body with not my own hand, but that of Claudia Schiffer.  Slightly troubling is the fact that the only water they sold at The Bubbles festival, was still water. 

(1)    That would make it a foam party.
(2)    Notice the portentous French spelling.
(3)    A R100 to the charity of your choice if you can find any work published before this where skin cancer is favourably compared to champagne.
(4)    OK, bought a bottle

A less than satisfactory day

It wasn’t a very good day.  Actually for the most of it, it was pretty sh1tty.  I spend 7 hours on the plant watching other people trying to fix equipment.  And some of my colleagues were not interested in helping or learning.  To what end should I direct my energy?  To test a product I don’t really believe in.  I am trying to be open minded about it, desperately not wanting to be the “We have always done it this way” old fart.  Make that middle-aged fart.  The good part of the effort is that it is good to see a guy being very good at his job.   Three goods in one sentence.  Is that good?  Moving swiftly along, no need to dwell on my vocabulary.  After battling for two hours, we called the cavalry.  Nothing like 30 years experience applied well. 

So, 7 hours since I had a chance to do my own work, all he other doors on the corridor closed (poor me, pity me for being there late) and I get to the inevitable inbox.  Just to get a note from Finance that the BOM (Bill of Materials) I worked on, confused them.  It differed from the budget.  Mainly, as it turned out, because the budget is useless.  Turns out the budget was deliberately wrong.  Why the H E double Hockey Sticks do I bother?   So even before we start the year we know we will overspend. Deliberately.   I feel like a salmon swimming upstream against a torrent of mediocrity. ⁽¹⁾  My own output rarely comes out above average so I have been needlessly feeling guilty over that.  But why, WHY do we bother doing something we know is half arsed?  Why don’t we just skip it?

Waiting for my food I had a beer in a new place in the mall.  There at least I had the privilege of seeing someone else not having an entirely brilliant day at work.  The bartender had problems with remembering orders.  Asking questions: “Which whisky is the best? She said she wanted whisky on the rocks, with a slice of lemon.”  I had to point out that if they add lemon to it, it really doesn’t matter which whisky you use.  Then the cook came and helped himself to a beer.  I wondered if he was legally allowed to drink it.  But he had difficulty with the bottle opener, preferring to use a lighter instead.  Signs of a misspent youth I thought, except he hasn’t finish spending it. 

To cope with this glorious day I turned to the thing that rarely disappoints.  And here you think alcohol.  WRONG!  Comfort food.  It must, however, be said that what comforts me is not the food of my youth.  Mother was not that good in the kitchen.  These days I turn towards the east where the three wise men came from.  Bearing gifts of sushi, fried rice and crispy duck.  Pair the wasabi with Sauvignon Blanc and happiness spreads it way from my large stomach.  Comfort indeed. 

(1)    Salmon at least swim upstream to have their version of sex.  I know I will be screwed, but not in quite the same sense.

Whsiky live Cape Town, day 3

 The panning for Day 3 included:  Triumphant finish to three days of restrained hedonism.  Joining with the buddies, drink lots of whisky and go to Highland Park tasting.  Most plans do not survive contact with the enemy⁽¹⁾.  Mine showed early promise. 

I had the best pizza, OK pizzas, I have ever tasted.  I was on my way to my favourite Cape Town Asian food purveyor the Sea Palace where they have Chinese and Japanese food and also quite important, Boston Beer on tap.  Boston goes very well with cat. ⁽²⁾  Last year I lunched, dinnered and snacked at the Sea Palace during the whisky festival as it kept on being geographically between the festival and my hotel.  This year it involved me sauntering ⁽³⁾ quite some distance to the restaurant.  Sting sings that “A gentleman will walk, but never run” Well, neither will I.  Walking towards my goal, I saw the sign for Colcacchio’s and remember The Blonde recommending it. 

It is a pricey joint, but value for money.  When the description says “Mushroom, onion and chorizo” you don’t need a microscope to detect the toppings.   Even a bat could find it without trouble.  The base is very thin which does detract from mechanical stability when shovelling a heavily toppinged piece towards your mouth. But they have napkins which compensate for this failure.  So you taste the topping rather than the base.  It does however; leave you feeling you can accommodate another one.  Under normal circumstances I would not attempt this for two reasons:

1: My inherent stinginess

2: Although Mr Newton’s law on gravity have it that big object attract small ones, I have little success with attracting women or money, both being normally much smaller than me, so I am trying to quit that way of life.

But these pizzas are great!!! And I walked there, so half a butter chicken and yogurt and half olive and anchovies got the nod.  Extra points to my waitress who did not even blink when I asked for another and for bringing me buffalo milk mozzarella.  For the first time I realised it not have to taste like a steadler eraser.  After grazing it was time to point the stomach in the direction of my temporary abode.  And start walking. 

I met the Bald Eagle and both the Ghananians and tried to give them a quick tour of what I thought was good.  Our pleasure was somewhat spoiled by the idiot who left a gate open so half of Cape Town’s great unwashed could also attend the festival.  I have a mild form of people-o-phobia and there were too many of them for me to enjoy the evening.  The others received free tickets to a talk with Jonathan Miles on Old Pulteney and AnCnoc.  I went to HighlandPark. 

Highland Park (HP) makes some very good whisky.  The peatyness is different to that of Islay.  Apparently the weather in Orkney (the one north of Scotland not the one with the gold mines and Ouboet) is so miserable that even millions of years ago trees refused to live there.  Temperatures are so even that the only difference between winter and summer is the sports on TV.  Wind coming off the North Sea sprays sea water across everything so only heather can grow there.  This gives the peat a different flavour to that of, say Islay.  You are what you eat so in the case of whisky you are what you peat.   And peat is what it was, only older.   So it brings a different dimension to Highland Park.  Some of the malt apparently has the same phenol quantity as Ardbeg malt, but the taste is very different. 

Coming back from the HP tasting (12, 18, 25 and 30 year old) I was confronted by a mass of drunken, sweaty Cape Clownians.  ⁽⁴⁾  Now I am not going to get all sanctimonious about getting drunk.  But it should be done walking distance from your own home with the express purpose of getting some good looking person to lower their standards enough to include you and go to bed with you.  Or so you can forget that such things don’t happen to you.  No prizes for guessing which category I fall in. 

So confronted with my own mild phobia I just bought some whisky and left.  Back temporarily home I wrote and sampled my purchases from Wellington, Pretoria and Orkney.  Some of which was made before people who can now vote (legally) were born. 

(1)    VonMoltke.  And he ought to know.  Although today beating the Austrians and French at war doesn’t seem much, it was in his day.

(2)    Obviously a joke.  The dark meat of a cat needs something sweeter, like a Belgian Dubbel.

(3)    I was going to perambulate, but it turns out that means walking without a goal.  Clearly I had a feeding goal.

(4)    Kapenarre is snaakser in Afrikaans

28 Whiskies later, Day 2

28 Whiskeys later and Day 2 is over.  We learn by repetition so I started on Makers Mark poured by Rob Samuels again.  An action I will repeat on the last day.  His bourbon remains fantastic.

I was hoping to attend a tasting conducted by Andy Watts, Master Blender at Three Ships, but it clashed with my workshop on whiskies of the world.  So I tasted it the old fashioned way, on the other side of the booth.  The 5yr old is peatier than I remembered.  Checked the half bottle at home, yup remembered correctly.  Peat in whisky I get right; the name of the good looking brunette......The new release of the 10 year old is even better than what I remembered.  Maybe because it went into different barrels.  It is once again a limited release.  The previous time I tasted it was from a bottle kept back at the distillery, because it sold out so quickly it was no longer available commercially.  This time i procured my own.

The same woman ⁽¹⁾ that took me through the Buffalo Trace range took me through Compass Box’s offerings.  Always good, always refreshingly different.  The Spiced Tree particularly filled me with joy. 

I am slightly disturbed that my favourite whisky is owned by LVMH.  A company so pretentious the name is Moet Hennesy Louis Vitton, but the acronym is the other way round.  As theirs is a luxury brands company it can only mean that Ardbeg will get more expensive.  But maybe, and I am clinging to this as tight as a tick to a puppy, they understand the brand thing better than others and they will at least leave it alone and won’t dilute the whisky to a mainstream product.  Stella Artois did not do this right and today it is indistinguishable from most other mass market lagers.

Glenmorangie is also part of MHLV ⁽²⁾ and it is at their tasting booth that I tasted Ardbeg New make.  New make is unaged whisky.  Closer to vodka, eau de vie or witblits.  Witblits is to brandy as new make is to whisky ⁽³⁾ that should explain it.  The Ardbeg smells extremely peaty, even foul.  Dave Broom in his World Atlas of Whisky describes it as: “Sweet-and-Sooty touch of dulse ⁽⁴⁾ and rock pools.  Lightly oily then peat smoke, unripe banana, garlic, violet root, tomato leaf.  With water, creosote and Chinese cough medicine, solvent.”  Essentially we agree then ⁽⁵⁾.  Nothing in the smell of the new make will let ordinary mortals think “In just ten years this will be beautiful!”  Yet, in those ten years the foul bits of the smoke and peat are leached by the wood to make the hooligan juice that is Ardbeg 10.  I said it before :It is an obvious whisky with full flavours.  Few can be ambiguous about it.  This is a love or hate dram.  And I love it! And not a lone ranger on this one.  These people are slightly obsessive. 

The only expression (like models in cars) of Ardbeg we get here is the 10 year old.  When asked where I can get other expressions in South Africa, the answer was you can’t.  Much more polite than that of course. 

So back to the Glemorangie range alluded to earlier.  With examples of the whisky finished in different wine, port, sherry casks the taste differs quite considerably.  I liked the one finished in sweet wine casks.  Not finished as sitting in a barrel emptying the bottle.  Like finishing school.  After years of just hanging about in the miserable Scottish weather in casks that have probably seen whisky before, for the last few months it is transferred to barrels that used to contain something else.  Like port or sherry.

So much is the mismatch between the sherry casks needed and sherry produced, that some whisky producers pay wineries in Spain to produce sherry simply so that casks are available that previously contained sherry.  After maturing for two years in the casks it is then put into the Mediterranean to keep the fishes happy.  The casks go to Scotland as whole units filled only with warm Spanish air in an attempt to heat up the other side of Hadrian’s Wall. ⁽⁶⁾ 

The world whisky awards workshop was somewhat spoiled by the customs official who took more than a month to let through the stuff we were supposed to taste.  A rushed, but good, presentation by Rob Allanson of Whisky Magazine ensued.  One of the reasons Johnny Gold is served frozen is the viscosity of grain whisky changes with low temperatures.  And apparently besides Clynelish there is a lot of grain in Gold Label.   So now I have a bottle of the local grain, Bains, in the freezer.  Combining with ice cream was also suggested.  I will try that as well, martyr that I am to gastronomy.

Interesting whiskies were Highland way and Glenbrynth.  The former a cheap but glugable drink, the latter a well priced vatted malt.  That being a blend of malt whiskies, without grain.

So 28 different whiskies on Day 1 and ditto day two.  Will day 3 push my liver into overdrive?

(1)    Not a booth bunny, she knows her whisky
(2)    At least I can get it right.  Don’t get me started on 11/9
(3)    If you struggled with the language part of the IQ tests, skip this part.
(4)    Edible red Seaweed, I had to look it up too.  Thanks WordWeb
(5)    Am I comparing myself to Dave Broom?  Yes, but not favourably.
(6)    This joke stolen from Gerry Tosh, Brand ambassador of Highland Park

UnSeasonal Affected Disorder

I live in what is nominally a winter rainfall area.  It is actually rather arid with only 200mm on average per year.   Here in the southern hemisphere it is November and spring has developed fully blown summer.  And today it is raining.  I am therefore forced to conclude that it is not summer, but winter.  To make it a truly winter experience, I am nearly drowning ⁽¹⁾ in my own post-nasal drip ⁽²⁾

In order to postpone any travels to the far bank of the Styx, I am self medicating.  Med lemon and whisky forms the base of my hot toddy.  I generally believe that vitamins help in the fight against colds therefore I follow the old maxim “Take two before going to bed and see me in the morning.”  On two pizzas there should be enough vitamins to combat the common cold.  If the treatment is unsuccessful, repeat.  Past history ⁽³⁾ show that it works

(1)    As a man I have only two options: healthy or dying.  Ill is not an option
(2)    It would be even more tragic if I was drowning in somebody else’s
(3)    What do you think is future history?  Today?

Whisky Live Cape Town 2010, Day 1

It started one night when everything just worked. The Bald Eagle, The He-Ghanaian and I went to the whisky festival. The Blonde was pregnant and therefore designated driver. We made several discoveries that night and one that would dominate my whisky adventures.

The thing about the whisky festival in Cape Town is how different it is from a wine festival in the same locale. The wine is made nearby and therefore the people manning ⁽¹⁾ the booths are normally from the farms itself. Already employed or may even be the winemaker self. Almost all whisky in the world is manufactured quite some distance from Cape Town so the already employed do not travel here. The whisky companies hire local talent. Booth bunnies⁽²⁾ are probably very intelligent people. Knowledgeable and attractive. Very attractive indeed. I suspect though that the latter is the primary reason for getting hired.

By the end of the evening we had sensory and liver overload. We discovered the joy that is peated whisky. Ardbeg in particular. We knew nothing when we arrived, but learned a lot about whisky tasting our way through the 23 we sampled that night. For a whisky to make an impression that late in the evening it had to be heavily peated. Ardbeg is an obvious whisky. It is love or hate it territory. You cannot be neutral about the taste or smell of Ardbeg. It is hooligan juice. But lovely!

We left the festival with a glass of Caol Ila 12 each and such was the nature of our delight that we tried to take the security guard’s golf cart for a joy ride. But did not succeed.

I’ve returned every year since then and last night was Day 1 of 2010. The products, if I can be as clinical as that, that impressed was Ledaig, a heavily peated one from Tobermore. The Kavalan from Taiwan was very different. Still not sure if I like it or not. What I did like was the 30yr Old Pulteney that Jonathan Miles offered me.

I can now also claim that the suburb of Pretoria I grew up in has a distellry and a brewery. The enigmatic Moritz Kallmeyer of Draymans Brewery now also produces a Highveld Whisky. I suggest you buy a bottle. There is not that much to go round and is good to drink.

Another new pleasure was Makers Mark. Rob Samuels, the 8th generation of distillers presented his story and his whisky. The man has a problem most distillers would like to have. He has more orders than he can fill. With good reason. The stuff is very good indeed. We tasted new make that had an awfull smell to it, but 2yrs in the barrel cured it. A few more and it tasted brilliant. He also gave us an overaged sample to show that just as with red wine, cheese and people, too much age is not a good thing.

On the same note, the disappointment of the show. An 18 yr old Clynelish finished in a sherry cask by an independent bottler. Very different form the normal 14 yr old expression that I like. This is an experiment I hope will not be repeated.

Tonight is whiskys of the world workshop. I’ll tell you how it went in the next edition.



(1) Might not be politically correct, but I’ll get more sexist in a moment
(2) Told you

Robertson wine

The wine of Robertson

It used to be that once a year I went to Robertson to replenish my wine stock with easy drinking⁽¹⁾ wine. These days I go once a year to Robertson to stock up on very good, sadly not cheap, wine. There is a festival on the banks of the Breede River where good food and wine is available in copious amounts. Last year the She-Ghanaian travelled with me and we joined up with some Peruvian friends of hers. Very good to have a totally different view on local wines. This year I went on the less crowded Sunday and still managed to fill up the boot with wine and avoid (barely) the intervention of my bank manager.

Getting there

View from bainskloof towards Paarl

I wrote a while back about the scenic beauty of the wineries around Stellenbosch. Going to Robertson from the West gives you exposure to some truly spectacular views. Although I am the sort of man who will discuss in detail routes and the best way of getting where, I normally only indulge in it at parties where I can bore new pretty acquaintances to prevent any growth in my social life. So, in short, from me you have to get to the side of the mountains where Robertson is. Known as “The Other side”. Via Tulbachit is through the short Nuwekloof pass and perhaps this is the least scenic of the routes. Least scenic in the same way as the guy who comes 10th in the 100m Olympics is “the least fastest”⁽²⁾. The Hugonot tunnel between Paarl and Worcester takes you through the mountain. Views in the tunnel  is not so scenic, but it is still an engineering marvel. It is also the fastest route.

If the tunnel and its toll fee are not for you, you can use Du Toitskloof pass. The scenes change and increase in scope as you turn up the mountain until the whole of Boland and Swartland are spread for your enjoyment. Once going down you are in a rocky valley with streams coming out of the rock face. Brilliant. This is the route I took last Sunday. 12 years ago I drove in the other direction and that is the last time I’ve driven here.

Maybe I should not have taken this photo

Because combining the most fun and best views is the drive via Bainskloof pass. I love navigating the twisty switchbacks, looking at the view and dodging baboons. Last year I annoyed the She-Ghanaian by driving too fast (in her opinion) and having the cold air conditioned air blow on her toes. One year my friend Curly accompanied me and I wanted to show her my favourite road, but it was closed for renovations. ⁽³⁾ Don’t think she has driven it yet. I took these pictures the next time I was on the pass. Once I figured out how to put a video on I will in a separate post.

The festival

The weather was lovely. Every year. Temperatures in the low 30’s, just a hint of a breeze rising from the Breede River. Sitting in the shade of the trees enjoying the food and wine on offer. Life can hardly be better.

It used to be called the Robertson food and wine show. And as the wines moved upscale, so did the food. Last year I ate porkbelly sausages from Rueben’s. This year though, I had bitterballen. Made by an ex-Dutchman from Kingsriver. Bitterballen are like croquettes. Minced meats, breaded and deep fried. It was on every bar's snack menu in Belgium and The Netherlands when I went beer hunting. So tasting that again filled me not only with cholesterol, but also nostalgia.

But what about the wine?

Springfield was my first discovery. It is a bit like saying Columbus discovered Cuba⁽⁴⁾ He found people there!!!! Surely they discovered it before him? Anyhow, I discovered the wines of Springfield for myself at this wine festival a few years ago. If they put it into a bottle it is very good. The Sauvignon Blanc is a perennial favourite. You just cannot go wrong here. The method ancienne chardonnay is my favourite of their range. It used to be the most I paid for a bottle of white wine until that insipid antipodean bilge i overpaid for in Beijing⁽⁵⁾ This chardonnay really rewards cellaring⁽⁶⁾. I try to drink one every second year and so far they have only increased in deliciousness every time.

Alkie behind the Major's Hill stand

The year Curly came with, we stumbled upon Major’s Hill. Turns out to be the neighbour of Springfield. They make a different type of wine here, but extremely drinkable. They sometimes make a barrel fermented chardonnay that is delightful. I usually chat to the winemaker, Alkie van der Merwe, he is passionate about his wine and very entertaining. I could also have phrased that sentence differently. He is from Hopefield. It says the same thing. If stored incorrectly his red wines turn sour. I don’t know this first hand as I drank the stuff before it could get old.

The revelation of this year was Arendsig. They make a Sauvignon Blanc that smells like guava. Or, if you wish, the bouquet has a hint of tropical fruits on the nose. Still smells like guava though. None of this green pepper stuff, but still with the refreshing acidity. Marvellous wine at R60 a bottle. The Viognier is a wild yeast fermented natural sweet that is way too easy to drink. There is a Shiraz which also found its way into my stock⁽⁷⁾. And a natural yeast Chardonnay. A style that is fast turning into my favourite.

So a boot full of reasonably expensive wine but I still don’t have a house wine. Luckily I discovered today that my local supermarket has a R20 a bottle red that is quite drinkable. As for house white wine, it will be Vin du Attaché Blanc. From Robertson.

(1) Cheap

(2) He is faster than 6 billion other people. Slow he ain’t.

(3) Yes, they renovated the view.

(4) You realise he never got to America?

(5) More on this in a later rambling

(6) Garaging in my case

(7) I don’t have a wine collection. I have stock.

The Grey Geese returns

My good friends, The Grey Geese ⁽¹⁾, are back in town after a couple of years summering up north. ⁽²⁾  So far their return has cost me nearly R6000.  This was consequential damage, not the cost of the wine we drank to celebrate the return.  But I got my revenge; they had to take a cold shower.  So did I, so a pyrrhic victory.

Who are the Geese?  Who were they before they were Grey Geese?  What happened to the Gosling?  Afraid that because he was fed well he is no longer a gosling.  What is a teenager goose?  A gosler?  The grey geese name came on their pre-return visit.  On the same day I returned from a disappointing revisit to the Grey Goose in Newcastle-upon-Ncandu.  The wine list has gone backwards since my last visit.  I also set foot in the new King Shaka Airport in Kwa-Zulu-Natal.  Feet, actually.  Lots and lots of feet.  As will all the “upgraded” airports in this country it forces you to walk further, wait longer for your luggage than before and have no idea where you are as they all look the same.  I am also particularly miffed as I was looking forward to some beers of Nottingham Road brewery and on the old airport I knew exactly where to get it.  As you approach the security check for the......, aaarrggh, no one cares anymore. 

Anyhow, I did not find the beers on King Shaka⁽³⁾.  What I did find is the wines from the same area.  This, mostly sub-tropical, part of the world is not known for the wines it produces.  But there are two wineries up the N3, The Stables being near Nottingham Road.  I came back with a Sauvignon Blanc and a white blend at a disappointing average of R90 a bottle.  This I tried to share with the Grey Gander, but he was having none of that.  Rightly so.  If you’ve paid for it, there is a certain obligation to drink indifferent wine, but you can look a gift wine in the mouth.⁽⁴⁾  If you have the choice of the Nottingham Road wine or beer, go for the beer.

If a person you haven’t seen for a while visits and is now completely grey, is it something you mention?  Do you comment on the rapid loss of colour when it fact the only rapid thing about it was the rapid stop of dye?  Or do you just accept that hair colour is a very bad timing device.  I realise that one should comment positively on any change in hair colour on a goose variety, but if it is grey?  The Gander, of course, has been grey for some time.⁽⁵⁾ And as long as it’s there, you don’t need to speak about a gander’s hair.

So principally they came down to bring one of the cars before the actual move.  Their garage was still occupied, so I said the car can park in my garage for a week or two.  Unfortunately the appliances heard about this and didn’t like the idea of a Renault parking in the garage.  I had no problem with this.  Inside, where no one could see it, was fine with me.  The natural animosity of inanimate objects forms a central part of my believe system, but I will expand on it at some later stage.  Enough to say here I faced a quiet revolution.

The geyser packed up deliberately and refused to be fixed late on a Friday afternoon by a plumber on normal time.  It was replaced on Saturday by a team of plumbers on overtime.  Whilst I was away the drinks fridge retired.  No notice; just a warm beer when I needed a cold one.  The Renault is gone now.  The Grey Geese settled in.  But I still have one fear.  Is making a man take a cold shower enough retribution for him parking a Renault in the garage?  Will my appliances let it go now?

(1)    Not their real names
(2)    Butchering a metaphor in the first sentence.
(3)    The airport, obviously. 
(4)    Did you get it?  The winery is called the stables!  A gift wine.  A gift horse!   I love weak jokes.
(5)    His hair too.  As I said, weak jokes.

Let me list the ways

I have inadvertently been to 13 UNESCO World Heritage sites.  I became aware of this through a clever friend ⁽¹⁾ who was too lazy to think of a proper bucket list, so she choose the UNESCO World Heritage Site List as her bucket list.  There are 911 of these in total. 

I’ve been to 10 countries and have stumbled on UWHS in 8 of them without any intention of doing so.  I won’t list them for your entertainment (or otherwise).⁽⁶⁾  A list gives you many options of fun.  Going up it or down, you can start randomly somewhere near the middle and flutter through it.  It can be sorted, memorised, trotted out at parties to start (or stifle) conversations. 

In High Fidelity Nick Hornby popularises The List.  The book was made into a movie starring John Cusack in 2000.  Of the two I have seen one and not read one.  And I saw the book.  Lists can take all different forms, but mostly it is a league table constructed by someone or some institution pronouncing definitively ⁽²⁾ on whatever. Hornby’s format is a top 5 of lots of things. 


Big five. Small five.  Little five. Baby five, famous five, Radio five, five to five, Thai five spice.  Why 5?  Probably because humans have a handy counting device for five or ten.  But ten is double as much effort to remember. 

Of the Big Five I’ve seen four and only one in the wild.  And when I saw an elephant I was not looking in a mirror.  I was looking from the back of a bakkie at some trees.  Mostly what you see in a game reserve are trees.  A grey mass appeared behind the tops of some of the oodles of trees.  It was energetically identified as a pachyderm.  Only the back was visible, but we assumed the rest of the proboscidian was attached to the back.

Another popular number for a list to contain is 7.  Seven dwarfs, seven wonders of the world, seven deadly sins.  Still trying to work my way through this one.  Stay with me; the dwarfs are fictional and there’s only one wonder left.  But all the sins are there for the taking.  Here is a list of what the Catholic Church considers to be deadly sins with my definitions next to them.  These words should also increase the number of hits this site receives.

Lust: leads to progeny and regret. ⁽³⁾
Greed: a form of selfishness centred on material wealth.
Sloth: Professional laziness.
Anger: A strong emotion; a feeling that is oriented toward some real or supposed grievance. ⁽⁴⁾
Envy:  Being upset by someone else’s success at greed.
Gluttony: Popular lifestyle choice enabled by fertilizers, money and MSG.
Pride: What gets a lot of people into trouble. 

It is unfortunately no longer a surprise to me that I botched the order of this list.  I started at gluttony, had some good food.  Quite a lot actually.  I like gluttony, can’t seem to let it go.  The evidence surrounds my waist.   Without letting go of gluttony I moved on to sloth.  In the same way you have a nap after a big Sunday lunch.  From here on progress on the list of deadly sins was slow.  I sort of nibble on lust, but truth be told, if I have to choose between gluttony and lust the choice is easy.  I have never been so horny that I didn’t want to eat.  My newest improvement on the house was moving the mirror from the bedroom ceiling to the kitchen ceiling where it will see more ⁽⁵⁾ action.

 If you are going to get through the list I recommend you start with greed and envy.  If you’re any good at it, it will finance the rest.  Lust after sloth is also fairly rare.  Has a nice ring to it though, Cedric lusts after sloth.  So get lust in early.  I do realise there is a movie called seven based on this list, but I haven’t seen it and surely my version is funnier.

Even though I am not destined to be successful with this list there are many other I am working on.  Visiting the big festivals of the world is the one I started with in Dublin on St Patrick’s Day.  The Festival of St Fermin in Pamplona, Bastille Day in Paris and the Farnborough air show are all ticked.  The big one outstanding is of course the Carnival in Rio. 

Other list ambitions I have are to taste as many different beers, whiskeys, whiskys and wine as I can.  These are not limited to 5, 7, 10 or any fixed number as the total is ever expanding I can work on these without finishing it.  Mobile goalposts providing an endless quest. What is my clever friend going to do once she has heritaged the whole world?

(1)    She’s got the papers to prove it too
(2)    Well, obviously not
(3)    These two considered by many to be the same thing.
(4)    This definition straight from WordWeb, the Thesaurus I use.  Because I couldn’t think of any funny definition.
(5)    Remove the more and the sentence is much more truthful.
(6)    I lied, I will give you the list.

Paris, Banks of the Seine   
Cathedral, Alcázar and Archivo de Indias in Seville   
Works of Antoni Gaudí in Barcelona
Cape Floral Region Protected Areas
Monastery of the Hieronymites and Tower of Belém in Lisbon
Cultural Landscape of Sintra   
Seventeenth-century canal ring area of Amsterdam inside the Singelgracht
Historic Centre of Prague
The Great Wall of China
Summer Palace, an Imperial Garden in Beijing   
La Grand-Place, Brussels   
Historic Centre of Cordoba   
Historic City of Toledo

My World Cup, Part 3

Enter stage left the criminal justice system of the Republic of South-Africa.  Last time we dealt with The Brothers they drank a lot of tequila and watched the game on TV they should have watched live. That was Friday night.

That Monday I received a phone call from the bank.  Now these are the same people who normally just want a few minutes of my time to explain why I was specially chosen for a product that will cost me money.  This time though it was about an account I forgot about from ten years ago.  My theory is they wanted to appropriate the money, but has to show they tried to contact the owner.  We had an iffy moment when he (from the bank) and I (from myself) wanted to establish identities.  He asked for my ID number, I asked him to tell me something only the bank would know.  We achieved a generally accepted truce and did some business.  On hearing about this, my cousin The Philosopher told me that I am a loser.  His argument is that in our society money is the way of keeping score. ⁽¹⁾ Not his rules, but society’s.  By forgetting about money, obviously I am a loser.  Not forgetful, overpaid or stupid.  No.  A loser. 

I believe these things happen for a reason.  My first instinct on hearing about the money (over ten years compound interest is powerful) was “This will fast track my year of hedonism”  Something I’ve been putting off due to stinginess and 20 years of indoctrination that hedonism is bad.  In the end I listened to my mother.  Should do that more.  Or at least the way I remember what she said.  So I checked whether some disillusioned fans returned their tickets.  And they did for both semi-finals and the 3rd play off.  So my forgetfulness of 10 years ago funded my brother’s dream.

He went with his brother in law to the semi-final in Durban where he saw Spain beating Germany by a late goal.  Luckily they drove down and did not fly.  The now infamous delayed planes story can be read here.  I watched the game at my usual place.  Pearly’s on the Beach.  But soccer is not that important for this story.  Spain won the competition.  Now it’s done.

This time, really, enter stage left the criminal justice system of the Republic of South-Africa.  By knowing how it should work The Skinny kept up to date.  He checked with the investigating officer and got me the court date.  This is the only bit of disappointment in the process.  We should have been kept up to date from their side. 

So there we were on a Friday night, the arresting officers, the chief prosecutorn and the prosecutor meeting in an office of the court.  When the prosecutor walked in dressed to the hilt, I thought this was a light weight fashion slave.  Long time since I got a person that wrong.  He was very good indeed.  And the chief prosecutor was somewhat absent minded, but turned out to be very good.  During this whole time (and we spent hours that night together) everybody was very good to us. 

We were the only case scheduled for that night, but we waited for the accused, let out on bail earlier.  Things started to get interesting as the interpreter were there, but the accused not.  It came to light that the perpetrator was an Ethiopian asylum seeker.  It turns out that if you are convicted of ANY crime whilst living in South-Africa on an asylum seeking visa, you are deported immediately.  So there we waited for the guy to appear.  Eventually he showed up and a deal was struck.  If he would refund my brother for the price of the ticket, charges will be withdrawn.  It would mean he can stay in the country.  It was put to the magistrate and he agreed to postpone to Saturday morning. 

When he called us forward, he asked us what our mother tongue was.  After that when he addressed only us, he spoke to us in Afrikaans.  As did the chief prosecutor.  A touch I really admired.  When he told us to appear in court the next day and when he berated the incriminated for being late he spoke English.  When we left, we saw the accused and the translator getting into the same car and driving away.  So it turns out they thought I would not travel all the way from the cape for this case.  But because I showed up, the charges were not withdrawn.  I saw the guy, therefore I was key.  I thought the video would help⁽²⁾, but apparently the state thought my word was worth more than my video.  A case of a video being worth 1/1000th of a word.

Saturday morning the prosecuting team met again.  Happy reunion for us all.  The Ethiopians appeared and produced R2000.  The ticket cost R2100.  The prosecutor became angry and demanded the rest of the money.  After all, we agreed to meet on a Saturday to allow the dude to get the cash.  The defence team went out and “miraculously” produced another R100.  The money was handed to my brother and the prosecutor turned to the accused “Now we will decide to prosecute or not!”  That rattled them. 

There is a part of South-African law that deals with restorative justice.  It allows for the victim to address the offender ⁽³⁾So my brother gave a speech to the Ethiopian telling him how lucky he was my mother did a good job when teaching forgiveness. He also hoped that he will use this chance in this country he is being given.  That mother person did a thorough job

So all’s well that ends well.  The offender that stole a soccer experience from the brothers Laurel and Hardy ⁽⁴⁾ received a lesson.  Justice was done, and seen to be done.  I have only high praise for the process.  The media tend to hammer on the bad side, but this was good right through.  And because it is South Africa I have to say this:  With the exception of the one detective at the game, and ourselves, all other participants were black.  Probably still are.  And it never was an issue.  The bonding the brothers went through was worth it all.  As was the push to myself to start writing for public consumption.  A avocation I’ve only indulged in for my own edification.⁽⁵⁾ 

(1)    Cattle being notoriously difficult to raise in flats
(2)    See world cup part 2
(3)    This word bothers me.  There should be something better, but I can’t find it.  R100 to whoever first put me out of my misery with a better word.
(4)    I’m Hardy
(5)    Once again ending with my pompous sentence.

In WineX, Veritas

If indeed the truth can be found in wine, WineX is the place to find the absolute truth. It is the biggest wine event in the Cape. The 2010 version had 550 truths from 100 truthsayers. Now if the absolute truth cannot be found in 550 versions, where can it be found? Maybe in 1200, as in the Johannesburg version where 180 wineries will show their wares. Does that make Joburg more truthful than Cape Town? Well, parliament is in Cape Town so that settles that.

The hall of truths

It is not as big as it used to be. Unfortunately I am not talking about my stomach, I am talking about WineX. There used to be over a thousand of the Wineland’s best truths available for sampling in previous expressions of WineX, Cape Town. Squeezing my metaphor ⁽¹⁾ to within an inch of its life ⁽²⁾ it must make the Credit Crunch ⁽³⁾ untruthful. A truth thief. Because WineX Cape Town used to be bigger. But as disposable income dwindled, so a day was taken from the show. It used to be that I would go on the first night with my white wine bib on and the next with the red bib ⁽⁴⁾ and leave Friday to the masses. This time it was not possible or necessary. With only two nights scheduled I got around enough in one night to last me the year. Let me try and rephrase that without the obvious, and inaccurate, sexual reference. ⁽⁵⁾ There were fewer wines. Blunt, boring, accurate.

There are various strategies commonly employed when confronted with a plethora of wines. The human liver makes it impossible to taste 500 wines in one evening. So some sort of selection method must be employed. One is to go for the wines available at your local supermarket. This should, but doesn’t, prevent you from making those less than brilliant R40 purchases. You can do the reverse, a strategy employed by the He-Ghanaian. That was PG(pre-Ghana) of course. We would seek out the most expensive wines available working on the principle that we are too cheap to buy them. Most of these very expensive wines were indeed very good. So the better truth can be found in better wine. Ergo better truth for more money.

I have been to WineX with most of the play group. Once The Blonde and The Bald Eagle joined me. The Bald Eagle and I stood in line for 30minutes to get a miniscule sip of Dom Perignon so he could save some for The Blonde. She made a new friend in the meantime and the two ladies went about sampling the local bubbles. On another occasion I was joined by He-with-beautiful-name from Pretoria. He was determined not to like the expensive stuff. Sort of reverse snobbism. Pre Ghana both the He-and She-Ghanaian joined me. It was on this occasion that he discovered Crucible from Cloof. Even at the end of the evening it still made an impact. The He-Ghanaian liked it so much he kept returning to the Cloof stall until they refused to pour any more for him. It then fell to the She-Ghanaian and me to keep him in drink.

But mostly I go alone. Early on my lower middle class upbringing, and the drive for value that instil, meant that I had to swallow the wine I tasted. Prudence (thanks Mum) dictated that I don’t drive home immediately, so I went to watch a movie afterwards. Saw the opening credits of Rush Hour 2 and some kindly bloke woke me on the way out after the movie. From that day on, I spat. But if you are on your own, you still get through quite an amazing number of wines. One evening at WineX I tasted 40 different wines in just under two hours. Not swallowing did not help prevent early onset drunkenness. I had to leave after the 40.

Dip for truth

This year I had the pleasure of taking wine show novices to the show. Four of whom are from the Czech Republic. It was exciting seeing the reaction of people used to French and Italian wines. The local wines made quite an impression. From the feedback it seems South-African truths ⁽⁶⁾ can be had for cheaper prices than European ones of the same magnitude. I may live in a beer desert, but on an ordinary school night I can dip my tasting glass into the well of truth and come up with 550 different versions. ⁽⁷⁾ Can you?

(1) Strictly not only mine. Some clever Greek pervert probably came up with it first. Or was it Noah?
(2) Shurely that must be stomping it to within a millimetre of its life?
(3) Good name for breakfast cereal. This gag taken from the News Quiz.
(4) Thanks to Frozen Man for that gag.
(5) Obvious to me. I should know, I write this stuff.
(6) And you thought I’ve forgotten about this.
(7) Nearly forgot the one pompous sentence per post.

My World cup, part 2

In this post, part two of the highly anticipated ⁽¹⁾ world cup saga, I will lead you through excellent police work, extreme disappointment and one of the best goals of the tournament.  All witnessed by me, none caused by me.  Of course it also dragged me into South African criminal justice system and eventually took me to the SAB World of Beer.

When we left the story someone stole The Skinny One’s ticket.  Distraught, he started shouting his ticket was missing.  An apprentice police constable apprehended a guy scurrying along for no reason.  He had no ticket to a sold out game, therefore we safely assumed he was there for nefarious purposes.  His guilt remains unproven as he did not have the ticket on him.  We then proceeded with a police escort through the first security checkpoint.  I haven’t mentioned the totpacks ⁽²⁾ The Skinny One put into his gloves and beanie.  He was determined not to be cold all the way back on the train.  With a police escort, you don’t get searched by security ⁽³⁾ so the industrial alcohol made it through the first layer. 

There I was, 1500km from home, watching 83000 of my best friends going in to watch the game.  I recorded a video of the poor policemen that had to stay outside the stadium in an attempt to record the anthems.  On the replay it sounds like a lot of vuvuzelas.  Just like the rest of the Nameless Tournament 2009+1.  I also disposed of the alcohol.  In the plastic recycling bin, because it was in plastic.

At one stage the suspect started crying.  I got the feeling that in the absence of witnesses he might have fallen down (or up) some stairs.  By now we were resigned to missing some soccer.  We waited for a detective whilst The Skinny One’s statement was taken.  The police was friendly and efficient right through.  The detective found us eventually, he had to walk all the way from the stadium to what I will call outer perimeter security interrogation room 1.  He escorted us to the Match offices in an attempt to get a new ticket printed.  The people here were most unhelpful.  They probably took some tests in intelligence when applying for the job.  Those that scored above “troglodyte” were rejected as too smart.  The rest were happily accepted as productivity partners of Match.  Named with the same sense of irony as Hopefield.  With half time approaching I was sent in as secret agent double o dikkes.  If I found someone sitting on my brother’s seat, I was to contact my friendly neighbourhood policeman.  Small impediment at this stage, we did not know which seat his ticket was for.  Clowns to the left of me; jokers to the right.  We had to get the other ticket’s number.  This Skinny and the detective forced from Match in the end and was smsed to me.  In code.  No not really. 

Soccer City (or the First National Stadium as a bank would like it to be called) is impressive.  She is beeg.  Very beeg.  Signage can improve somewhat.  I walked quite some distance, humiliated myself by asking for directions, did not take the friendly vendors up on their offer of paying R30 for insipid, barely beer and found a scoundrel sitting in the brother’s seat.

The view from the seat

Now I am not one to shy away from confrontation.  I am one to run like a rabbit from a hound from it.  So there was a bloke sitting in the seat.  This was going to test me.  Suddenly I come over all clever.  I take the camera and do a panorama shot to the right covering the stadium, pan left and capturing the thieving bastard on film.  I took a few more pictures.  Sat for a bit and watched some football.  I came all this way to do so, so I did so.  I saw Forlan curling it round the wall, one of the goals of the tournament.  And this the first time I watched live soccer!

By now guilt took over from cowardice so I went to the nearest ushers (they were police) and explain the situation.  They are not too interested; they are trainees, until i used a phrase The Skinny One used outside.  “In possession of stolen property” That got them going. They checked his ticket against mine, yup same name.  Then they went to fetch the cavalry.  The arresting officer was a woman, who, when seen in civvies was quite attractive, but in uniform, all business. 

A bloke in body armour arrived.  Flak jacket, shoulder protection, boots with built in knee guards.  Like a knight in Kevlar armour.  If this officer told me to lick his boots, I would be on my knees slobbering all over it.  As they escorted the bloke to the charge office under the stadium, he casually asks how quick this bastard is.  Not too bad he reckons.  “Well”, he said while touching his gun, “we just have to inform you that should you run, we will have to shoot you.” 

After what felt like seven kilometres (I really am that out of shape, it is probably 1km) we came to the inner charge office.  Just as we walk in a woman says to my brother “I’m sorry sir, there is no one sitting on that seat”  I tap her on the shoulder, real TV dramatic style, and declare:” Here he is.”  Here, publically, I want to apologise to the colonel running the show there. 

Sorry mam.

The rest of the game we spent giving statements.  The police were brilliant once again.  Whilst my brother waited, clearly in distress, the police behind the counter invited him to watch the game with them behind the counter on the small TV they had there.  Good to know they care. 

If you missed the Ghana vs Uruguay quarter final you missed a great game.  I know, because I saw it on TV in the middle of the night.  It went to overtime as a 1-1 draw.  An idiot, named Suarez, handled the ball in the penalty area denying Ghana a semi final spot.  Ghana missed the penalty.  So the game went to penalties to decide the winner.  The police finished with us as the penalties were taken.  I showed my brother which way the gates were (remember he never went in as he was with the detective the whole time) and he ran into the stadium to go blow his vuvuzela.  The team from South America won.  Cheating ##%*! 

The stadium empties quite well.  It is a new generation stadium so it should.  We walked back to the train station to catch our train the lovely transport company kept waiting for us.  So if Suarez did not handle the ball, The Skinny One and the Fat One would have walked home.  Well, walked some of the way and got a lift with an ambulance the rest of the way.

After an exciting day train travel is the best way to unwind

The train ride back was uncomfortable.  A packed train, a distraught sibling and lack of tot packs.  At the station the police and private security waited patiently for us to collect the car.  We collect some sugary drinks and go home.  All the Skinny One had to drink was tequila.  So we ate the food left by The Long Suffering One (Very good, thanks) and drank very ordinary tequila.  We talked about forgiveness, plans not working and bonding with your brother.  And watched most of the game on TV.  Went to bed before the hand ball.  Had to read that in the papers.

In part 3 we will get to a happy ending, a triumph for justice and further bonding.

(1)    By me
(2)    Cheap booze in a small plastic bag
(3)    The Police