The Prince

Once upon a time there was a maiden. This maiden lived in a beautiful land where the deep blue seas met the pure white sand of the shore, in a turquoise burst, as vivid and enchanting as the brightest star in the sky.

The maiden was not blessed to be laden with gold. She laboured many hard hours a day in an effort to raise enough gold to visit the weekly market; to care for her noble steed, Geraldine; and to buy enough candles so she never had to brave the dark.

The maiden lived at the top of a huge stone tower. Late one noon, sitting contentedly by her window, holding her quill and parchment, she was writing a declaration for story teller named Penguin, informing the people of the land how wonderful his works were. When suddenly, a grey-breasted carrier pigeon flew through the window and landed delicately on the maiden’s hand.

Cape Town Chronicle: The Foundation

Almost 22 years ago (it’s my birthday this week, gifts are welcome), I was born in the sunny city of Durban. I loved it there and had a wonderful childhood and youth. After matric UCT offered me a scholarship and it was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down.

Although my sister and her family live in CT, I decided that I wanted to go into UCT Residence (Res). We had been told throughout high school that if you had an “A” aggregate and held a leadership position within the school, you would get into one of the top Residences – either Fuller or Baxter. As this is what I had aimed for and achieved, those were the ones I applied to. Low and behold, I was placed in Tugwell Hall because 2007 was the first year that placements were completely random and no academics were taken into consideration. Great!

After doing some research, my mother and I had a bit of a panic attack especially as we heard a rumour that a girl had recently been raped and murdered in Tugwell. Ominous clouds hovered over my future in CT. I began visualising scenes of my imminent death which centred on me getting into the shower, as a katana-blade yielding psychopath tiptoed into the Tugwell bathroom after me. (I was however, tanned, toned and thin in these nightmares, my only reprieve).

Reality Bites

In a recent study, it was found that young adults would rather watch a few episodes of a series as opposed to a movie. Furthermore, for at least 43% of them, their series of choice is Reality TV. "I can watch it all day and I don't feel bad. I love it so much. It just makes me happy" said a 20 year old lass. However, its not just the girls who are going gaga for reality shows, "Ya I dig them because they're just really funny.".

Where did this obsession with Reality TV stem from? Instead of spending time with actual friends, people are content to sit on their couch/bed/chair/floor/toilet and silently watch other people who they do not know from a bar of soap.

Awkward Child Moment of the Week

Things got a bit awkward with niece number 2 this week. Apparently she overheard some people talking. Things went a bit like this:

"Kayli" she said innocently.

"Yes, niece number 2?"

"Whats a golden shower?"

"You heard wrong. There is no such thing. They said golden power. It's a little cloth you use to clean gold jewellery."

"Oh."

 

I'm getting HUGE

It's 10:28pm and I just got home from gym.

I plan on getting enormous. Like this magnificent piece of statuesque greatness. She is my muse, her name is Genevieve:

Please note the following facts which make her such a fabulous example of womanhood:


1. Her dam-like cleavage clearly portrays her earth-shattering sexuality.
2. A tan which would make Hercules ashamed to be called a Demi-God.
3. Her necklessness, a shrine to her power and grace.
4. Her bulging, globular veins, a testimony to her determination.

Someone Help

I wrote a blog. A long one.

I wrote it in Word, but now I cant paste it here. It just wont let me. I may cry.

How do I make it work? I have a sad face right now.

Very Naughty Men II - The Fan Walk

Other than working at Caprice (ie. slutty men beach bar) I worked at all the Cape Town soccer matches on the Somerset Road Fanwalk. We had a quaint bottle-green hut, with a rose-red roof and a canary yellow door. Or so I thought. By the end of the World Cup I referred to said hut as a minuscule, creaky shed, with vomit-green walls, a congealed-blood-red roof and a pus-yellow door.

We made pancakes. No wait a second, I made pancakes. Up to 500 a night. 500 pancakes. 6 pans. 1 Kayli. I never want to see anything flat and round ever again.

Very Naughty Men

I have been trying to pull myself together and write about the World Cup for quite some time. I really wish I had written throughout the month because now I just have to much to say. I LITERALLY don't know where to begin. This story may be muddled, so please forgive me, but I shall try my very best.

So South Africa hosted the World Cup. People feared that the crime would be so horrendous that entire hotels of foreigners would be stolen. People feared that terrorists from our neighbouring countries would suddenly attack, using anthrax and air-born AIDS to kill the Universe. People were wrong. We hosted the most beautiful and moving World Cup that I think has yet been seen.

The Villiage Idiot

The stupidity of certain people really blows my mind. Like really.

I mean, we all make mistakes. Just the other day I was looking in the freezer for something to eat. Upon finding nothing which interested me I decided to close the freezer. My mommy always told me never to leave it open. The problem was that I forgot to remove my head first. I escaped with both a bruised right ear and ego.

But at least I was at home and up until the posting of this blog, no one knew of my sin.

People on Facebook however are publically re-tarded.

^Insert Interesting Headline Here^

I think I have become boring.

I can not think of any witty things to amuse my millions of adoring fans with. Im not sure what is going on, but it seems that my brain has switched off. Maybe I have been over worked this alledged "holiday". Although I still insist that I haven't had one. Yes, thats it. I have been over worked and until the end of the month finally arrives, I am still underpaid.

As my dearest Gran always says in response to a simple "How are you?": "I'm fit, fat, overworked and underpaid". That sums me up pretty nicely. The other day I ate so much that if I didnt know better I would have feared pregnancy. But no, nothing to worry about on that front.

I need a few more days to gather my brain from its various places of hiding, as it is most definately not in one piece. Once I have done so, I will have a bit of a tale to tell about my experience during that "Thing-That-I'm-Not-Allowed-To-Mention-In-Connection-With-That-Thing-Where-People-Kick-A-Thing-Around-On-A-Thing".

I hope the college Bosslady doesn't mind the delay. Maybe she won't notice.

It’s Time to Slut

I slept at The Sister last night. This morning I woke up to very cold weather. Very, very cold weather. I was busy pottering around the house making a cup of black Rooibos Tea with no milk and one sugar and I was wearing black, slightly faded skinny jeans, a white long sleeved t-shirt, a charcoal jersey with a hood and rather fetching leopard print slippers, when all of a sudden The Sister yells out:

“OH MY! THERE IS A MAN IN MY GARDEN!”

A Bitch of a Day

I’m glad I don’t drive trucks for a living.

Today I drove only 200km, but by the end of the day (9am-4pm) after listening to the same CD four times before realising how much I hated it and then being forced to sit in silence as there was too much Justin-freaking-Beiber on the radio, I came to the conclusion that driving a lot sucks sweaty, hairy, Portuguese, male prostitute ass.

I help manage the Cape Town branch of a promotion company. I loved the work, it was great fun- until today when I had to go to each of the events which were taking place in order to take photos of my “little sweetheart” promoters.

Milnerton->Tokai->Parow->N1 City->Brackenfell->Franschoek->Milnerton.

Fuck. My. Life.

I thought I would be clever and take supposed “shortcuts” which resulted in the trip being about two hours longer. It also took me into what a friend of mine refers to as “gum country” where I feared gangs of teenage miscreants standing at street corners; wearing black pleather jackets over white wife-beaters, baggy jeans which somehow floated just below their rectums and boots with metal toes.

Most of the “women” had crew cuts with tattoos of skulls and snakes on the back of their heads. They all had hardcore arm muscles and chains hanging out of their pockets. It was weird. I think they must shop at the same place as the miscreants. It's either that, or the fashion in “gum country” doesn’t vary much.

The men around town either looked like the above mentioned miscreants/”women” or would be accompanied by what seemed to look like an average family. These families were very sparse but the one common link between all of them, was that the fathers all carried kids on their shoulders. Letting them roam free on the ground obviously wasn’t a wise move, as a metal-toed boot could make easy contact with a small child’s head.

Another issue which I encountered is that at each and every parking lot I managed to lose my car, Geraldine. All the parking lots were built large enough to house the cars of the whole of the Asian Empire. I was already at a disadvantage as I have no geographical skills whatsoever and now I had to deal with this madness too:

In Franschoek I felt a glimmer of hope as I got to eat about 18kg’s of cheese at the Cheese and Wine Festival. Problem was that half the crowd was as hammered as the folk on the Tiger dancefloor at 3am. Avoiding them was the trick. Anyone whose eyes were glazed over and had a swerve in their step was to be avoided at all costs or you risk them trying to lean on you for support, attempt to engage you in riveting conversation or, as I witnessed (thankfully) from a distance, throwing up on your shoe.

All in all on a scale of 1 – incredible, I would give my day a particularly average 4. No, I lie; I would give it -2.53. It was a really, really crap day. In the larger scheme of things I rate I should stop being such a whiny bitch. But right now that’s exactly what I am: a whiny, complaining bitch.

And on that note, in the wise words of a friend: “Puberty is going to hit Justin Beiber harder than Chris Brown hit Rihanna”. Damn is he a whiny bitch.

Ten Reasons On Why Not To Drink Crackling & One On Why Its Not That Bad.

CRACKLING (n):

Used to indicate a wine that is mildly sparkling.
A crisp wine with a good acid balance that is fresh and lively.
The bubbles are crown shaped when they reach the top of the glass, which indicates a good sparkling wine or cava.

They make it sound so good. They lie.

Crackling is evil.

Crackling can be purchased from your friendly bottle store for a whopping R19 for 750ml or what is fondly known as a Missile, or R36 or 1.5litres for the mighty Bomb. But don’t assume that this fizzy, little piece of budget-friendly “heaven” is going to be as light on your body and mind as it is on your pocket. Quite the contrary. Crackling is a vicious beast which torments the body, mind and soul in a way which can break even the strongest man into a blabbering, vomit-laden mess.

In case you have not yet been convinced, here are a few more useful reasons.

If you drink Crackling:

1. You will hate the taste of it.

2. You will fall over frequently when moving from sitting to standing position.

3. You will undoubtedly hit your head on the car as you attempt to get in.

4. Your blood will be so thinned from the alcohol content you will bleed profusely.

5. You will not care that you may be dying from blood loss and will demand to be taken to the jol.

6. You will enter Tin Roof, stumble over to the bar and try and order a bottle of Crackling.

7. You will be turned away by the barman and focus all attention on finding someone to hook up with.

8. You will hook up with the most unattractive and most pungent smelling person on the dancefloor.

9. Your friends will try separate you from the man-bear-pig who you have pushed up against the wall, and whilst sucking on their neckfolds you will tell your friends to “Furhk Offk! I’mmn i welly dig dis dis pherswon”.

10. When you are finally dragged away from the siffest human being on the planet, you will end up passed out in the bath, covered in your own vomit whilst tonguing your muck-ridden shoe and groaning quietly until the early hours of the morning.

11. You never remember anything the next day.

This is where the Cardinal Rule of drinking in general comes in:

What you do not remember, most definitely did not happen.

My Tribute to Sport

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of...

My friend had a dream:

“I was walking down the street when suddenly pigeons began flying at me so I started to run. And every time I tried to hit them away, they would suction my fingers with their bums and when I ripped my hand away, it was covered with bird poo.”

The Rules To Domestic Bliss

Last year I lived with one other girl and six guys. It was the best year of my life. The bond that is created by living with people under such circumstances is one which i will cherish for the rest of my life. However, there are times when you want to kill one another. You just want to tear out their eyeballs and shove them down their throats, before sticking their heads under the toilet seat and bashing repeatedly until their brains begin seeping out their ears.

But sadly, this isn’t an option.

RULES TO LIVE BY SO NO ONE IS CHARGED WITH MURDER:

15 Again

Slightly drunk 15 year olds standing on a pool table, arms linked, drinks in hand, crying uncontrollably whilst “singing” wildly to good old Kel-dog, was a weekly occurrence in 2002 when Kelly Clarkson won the first season of Idols.

Last night something magical happened:

Kelly. Clarkson. Came. To. Cape. Town.

My best friend (the pool table owner) and I relived our youth as we jumped up and down, singing madly for two hours. We were surrounded on one side by a group of about ten 14 year old girls, who were being escorted by a frantic looking mother trying to keep tabs on all of them. On the other side was a large group of extravagantly dressed gay men, appropriately clothed in a combination of Kelly Clarkson T-Shirts and either leather pants, colourful skinny jeans or leopard print tights.

Jason Hartman opened the show. He wasn’t as bad as I expected; he croons away quite nicely. However, he happened to dedicate one of his songs to “all the sexy ladies in the audience” and since I know his fiancé, that didn’t bode to well for me. Ass.

Either way, at this point the 14 year olds felt the need to scream to the point that my ear buds began to throb in this strange way that I have never experienced before (maybe I am getting old), whilst the gay men just mumbled about how it was such a waste that he was straight. So while Jason strutted his stuff in his black silken blouse, sweating profusely and throwing cheeky winks at girls in the audience, we were anxiously looking at our watches in high hopes that “this will be his last song”!

By this point the anticipation had grown to such a degree that we were expecting fire, lightening, a flock of peacocks, a herd of white stallions and dancing wild cats alongside Kelly. At 8pm the moment arrived. Everything went quiet until the audience began its roar and then, the music began.

Her performance was absolutely flawless. Geez can that woman sing. She hit every note and entertained us through out, bouncing around the stage like the excited children (and older folk) in the audience. And the most important bit – it was actually her singing. No lip sync, nothing. Just pure, natural talent.

That’s the thing about Idols; the contestants who get to the final stages are very talented artists. They aren’t just a pretty face, where huge technical teams adjust every word they sing, in order for them like something other than cats on heat.

It was an awesome night and so worth having most human beings laugh at me when I excitedly told them that I was going. I know they were all secretly jealous anyway.

Funny thing, it all came full circle when one of the 14 year olds commented to her friend “Her songs really do sound like they were written just for us”.

The gays just sauntered about, shaking their booty’s on the d-floor.

Lets Paint Ourselves Blue and get Fakked.

“YOU APPLIED TO UCT BUT YOU DID NOT GET IN!!!!!!!!”

Was stuck in my head for roughly 43 hours. That is a long time to have a song stuck in your head. It has also felt like quite a long time for those in my company, as at random yet quite frequent intervals I tend to burst into song. Funnily enough it is yet to be followed by applause.

On Monday night was intervarsity. I’m not the greatest rugby fan, although I do appreciate a good (looking) rugby player, but something strange happened on Monday night. Something very strange. Actually, stop. Let’s go through some background information.

Prior to studying at Red and Yellow I was at UCT. I had never been to an intervarsity match before as I figured that it just wasn’t really my vibe. This year however, when all my friends said they were going I had a major case of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) and decided it was time.

From the moment I whipped on my UCT Ikey Tiger supporters T-Shirt and slapped some blue stripes on my face and rummaged through the cupboard to find the blue Vuvuzela, I became a different person. Never before have I been so excited to watch rugby in my life. A few of us began the trip to Stellenbosch together and as soon as we crossed what UCT students call the “boerie curtain” the fear kicked in. For every Ikey supporter, there were at least 50 burgundy clad Maatie supporters rambling on in Afrikaans (and for a Durbanite, Afrikaans may as well be Ancient Gaelic).

After standing/pushing/bumping/whining/sweating/waiting in what was supposed to be a queue for about 30minutes inside we were. 20000 people. 5000 from UCT. As if via pure magnetism off we flocked to the swarm of blue and then the magic happened. No matter whether or not you knew one another, if you were wearing blue, you were best mates. Those in burgundy you eyed suspiciously, sometimes even throwing out a childish remark about how awful Stellenbosch/burgundy/the Maaties are.

From “YOU APPLIED TO UCT BUT YOU DID NOT GET IN!!” to “WE WON THE BOER WAR!” and even “F*** YOU STELLENBOSCH, F*** YOU STELLENBOSCH!” It was as if we were one person, one large, blue, rude person.

UCT may have lost the rugby (although I stand by the fact that we shouldn’t have) but I realised something very important: When people come together to support a common cause, no matter who you are, you become united. Gender, age, race and social standing become insignificant when you are grabbing shoulders with a sweaty, beer-drenched stranger, whilst jumping up and down to the chorus of “A U! A U! A UCT!”.