On this occasion, it was 3 am, I was in Room 36 at the Hilton Hotel, and my brother Nicholas thought it would be bloody hilarious to wake me up from my slumber to enjoy a few seconds of euphoria, before realising it was March, and the Royal Show was a few months away. What an asshole. He really is brilliant. 

Fast forward to July 2021, and I found myself waking up to go to the Royal Show. And yes, I did have a tremendous sense of euphoria. This was despite the news that the showgrounds have been sold, and the days of the Royal Agricultural Show are another vestige of the past. 

Vestiges of the past. Remember going to Mike’s Kitchen and trying to get as many lollipops from the barrel by the door? Remember the fish tank at Da Vinci’s? Remember going to Capital Towers to watch a movie? Remember soft serve from Icy Cool Piping Hot? Remember being underage and trying to get into Buzz Bar? Remember Shuter and Shooter and getting lost in the sea of shelves? Remember going to Super Bodies to watch your mum do aerobics and being blinded by the men in unitards and leg warmers? Remember having a K-TV sticker on your space case and buying a snap bangle from the Lion’s Fair? But most of all, remember the Royal Show. 

I still remember going on the “baby rides” and anxiously looking for my mummy amidst the crowd of parents. Fast forward a few years, and I’m on the carousel, and my dad is standing on the platform next to the pink horse that I’m riding. He’s there in case I get scared, which is almost inevitable because if my Pre Primary report cards are anything to go by, I have the coordination and balance of an inebriated baby giraffe. On ice skates. Later that day, we’ll stand in the queue so my brother and I can get temporary passes to go into the members’ stand so we can watch horses do things I don’t really understand. The name Gonda Beatrix echoing through the loudspeakers. In those days, there was candy floss, those shakey balloons, and toffee apples that I still don’t see the point of. Siff. 

Then it was off to the army display, which was the same every year, but we still went because that’s just “what you do.” A visit to the rabbit hall, which incidentally I got banned from because one year my best friend David had the temerity to ask a woman with a very large “friend of the bunnies” rosette, whether they supply the Boston Barbeque. Sheep shearing, cows on parade, dodging animal crap, lots of hay. The smell of animals with a whiff of doughnut. Lining up to go through the “this is the rainfall cycle” just so that you could get a free Clover yoghurt. And speaking of free food, trawling through the food hall for free samples. Pretending you’re a connoisseur of preserves, with R25 to spend on a jar of posh jam, just so that you can carry on scoffing. Giggling as you walk away thinking you’d hoodwinked the cross jam lady with an ‘I’ll come back later and buy a jar.’ 

And then the second-best bit of the show. The much-underrated hall with all the weird shit made by grannies, bored homemakers, a few house husbands, and kids. I once entered a rock animal, and I’m proud to say that I got a “Commended” award. The judges’ comments applauded my imagination, but were stern in the amount of glue I’d used. ‘Take care not to use too much glue,’ they said. That’s right kids, stay off drugs. Obviously the kid who won had an overzealous mother, or maybe was just blessed with better artistic genes than me? Perhaps this child with the ravishing Highly Commended Rosette was given proper modeling glue instead of a bloody glue gun? Who knows. Safe to say I didn’t enter an artwork again; the judges clearly don’t know genius when they see it. 

In the early days, the arts and crafts hall was the main hall. You entered, and it was just chockablock with shit that would give Marie Kondo a cardiac infarction. I don’t know who makes and collects porcelain dolls, but can I just be clear? Porcelain dolls are more terrifying than clowns. They’re also porcelain, so you can’t play with them. Stop being weird and just buy your kids a Barbie. After the terrifying children of the corn exhibit, it was onto the cake decorators. The same woman won every single year, and I don’t know why other budding cake artists even bothered. 

But the best was looking at the scones. I’ve had a fascination with scones for a very long time, and I really think that if you need two women to judge a scone-off, you could do worse than me and my Emotional Support Animal’s mum Hester Joseph. Hester Joseph is a sconnoisseur, and if you try to deviate and make scones in a muffin tin, or make them square, you won’t get any support from us. There are firm rules about scones, and I’ve done a lot of research into where you can get good scones. You can’t. Bake them yourself; it’s the only way. If you want disappointment go out and order one, they usually crumble into dust, are served with marge, don’t have nearly enough cream, and come with that weird grated cheese that is all melted together in a mess. Have some respect. 

My young self used to spend hours lingering over the glass display cases scrutinizing the scones. Before I’d read the judges’ comments, I could tell that Sheila had overdone done it on the baking powder or Neville had overworked the dough. I could tell Doris had gone rogue and used margarine instead of butter, and that Maureen had nailed it. I didn’t even need to shift my eyes left to the purple ribbon claiming Maureen Queen of Scones for the third year running. 

No matter what age you were, the Looping Star was the major showpiece. Sure the Enterprise, the Breakdancer, The Ship of Death, The Wall of “What The Fuck We’re All Going To Die,” The Swings of “Don’t look up at the rusty latches,” and the House of “Horrors” were all worth a go. But in the end, it was the devastating and sheer Russian Roulette of the Looping Star that made all of us queue up in delighted terror. I maintain that it is the most dangerous roller coaster in the known universe, and it was out of order for most of the show, so it really was a race to get on it. One year people were left dangling upside down from the loopy part, and not even that stopped hyperactive kids from gamboling up the metal stairs once the out-of-order sign was removed for the umpteenth time.

Where were our parents, you might ask? Well, as we learned later on in life, they were off getting pissed at the Foaming Tankard. As we grew up, our priorities changed. Sure we still went on the Looping Star, but not before we tried to sneak in a few Hunter’s Gold, Solanti’s Spices, or good old Black Labels from the well-protected beer tent. Some of us had connections, others relied on older siblings, and some used their powers of persuasion to get any kind of illegal booze past the gates. The trouble is nine times out of ten, someone’s mum or dad recognised you, and then the game was up. ‘Terry, I saw Jaqui and her mates trying to get into the Foaming Tankard.’ Shit. 

And then it was the era of “the big field” where we’d all congregate with a bottle of Mokador and a few Peter Stuyvesant Blues we’d knicked off some suspecting parent. Dressed in our washed-out grey outfits and Dr. Martens, we’d mosh to The Narrow, sing along to Just Jinger, Wonderboom, Sugardrive, and the Springbok Nude Girls, and lose our shit to Fokofpolisiekar. Later we traded our washed-out grey outfits for Coco Bay; some of us held onto our DMs, others opted for Turtles. We were always late for whatever parent drew the short straw and had to drag our teenage asses out of there, still yelling “Lonely Lonely Sunday Morning” at the top of our lungs. A few days later, pneumonia nearly always kicked in. Worth it. 

2021. Everything is so still. So quiet. I can still hear the creak of the turnstiles, the soft crunch of the hay underfoot. I can smell the frying onions and burgers from the Hilton Lion’s Stand, and those doughnuts stationed around almost every corner willing you to be tempted by their tiny hot bods. A crack from a child throwing a pop-pop onto the ground, a sobbing child who’d just dropped an ice cream, and in the distance, the thunderous roll of the Looping Star. Beckoning. 

I get to the Olympia Hall. It’s so quiet. No one is looking at the building built in 1930. People are transfixed by their phones, tapping away. I feel like I’m part of the cow parade, but none of us are mooing; we’re just being herded into the various areas. It’s efficient; it’s cold, the lights flicker. I hear the laugh of a porcelain doll’s ghost in the distance. But I don’t care. I’m as excited as I was to climb those damn metal stairs up to the Looping Star. As the vaccine jabs into my arm, I feel the wind rush on my face as I approach the loop. 

‘Next!’ shouts the nurse. 

And like that, it’s all over.

Growing up in South Africa in the nineties, there were a few things that every single child had in common. Everyone wanted a strange man dressed in a Simba costume to come into their classroom, yell “surprise”, and give away free bags of chips. I am addicted to crisps, sorry chips, so I would be more than happy to suffer an over-zealous and awkward encounter with a dweeb in a Simba outfit, provided he was armed with crinkle cut salt and vinegar. Every child wanted to shout “Forward ford-ford-ford ford! Grab! Grab!” down his/her landline telephone, in order to win a Sonic the Hedgehog hamper; and perhaps even the star prize of a Sega Mega Drive. Fuck me! That was a helluva upgrade from the generic TV game console we had (red and white made in China- you know the one) if we were lucky. And then, the absolute motherload, every single child had the dream of getting selected to play the “Reggie’s Rush”. We were obsessed with the dream, we strategised during school breaks, we imagined the sheer rush… We all had our “If I got chosen I’d…” narratives.  

The Reggie’s Rush… it echoes in our eternities…

The game where you got an empty trolley and 30 seconds to dash through the aisles of Reggie’s toy store and grab whatever you could. Beautiful simplicity. Perfection.    

I remember filling out so many damn entry forms in the hope of getting selected. Actually this isn’t strictly true. I filled out entry forms with my brother’s name, because Nick and I had an agreement due to the fact that I am physically very “remedial”, and he was Sonic the Hedgehog in human form. To put you in the picture, the whole school clapped when I made it into the long jump pit (once, fluke). I was lapped so many times during a school running event that a kind teacher told me I could stop running because the race was very much over and I was at risk of being lapped by tumbleweed, and then there was the running around hurdles caper of 1995. I was in Std 5, using the junior hurdles (shame), and I was so terrified that I just ran around them instead of going over them. Reggie’s Rush material I am not.

So, Jaqui Hiltermann was clearly not a candidate for the high-octane world of panic dashing. And besides which, if I was chosen I would bring so much shame on the rich heritage of the game. K-TV Kids everywhere would marvel at my lacklustre performance, salivired Coco Pops would cling to television screens- remnants of abuse, “This girl is rubbish she’s miles away from the game consoles!”, “She can’t even run! What is she doing?!”, “Look how carefully she’s placing those Barbie’s into her trolley… What a dork!” Not even Reggie the Clown would smile. And, what if he told Simba I’m a lost cause? Reggie’s Rush was clearly not a game for me, but that didn’t stop me from having hours of planning and strategy sessions with my brother.

Nick agreed that he would add to my Barbie collection if he got selected, but only after he’d got a Sega Mega Drive and all the games he could foist into the trolley. The Reggie’s Rush brought my brother and I closer together, we had a shared dream, a shared goal. It was the glue that stuck us together and avoided him doing Judo on me and making me eat crisps out of an ashtray. Nick was never selected for Reggie’s Rush. But the dream still lingers.

And then today, day 67 of National Lockdown, I had my Reggie’s Rush moment. Well sort of.

Yesterday was a hectic day in our household. The last day of “no booze sales” in Mzansi. My folks and I are twitchy eyed when thirsty, and anticipation is something we’re all a bit antsy about. For the past week I’ve resorted to drinking back-of-the-cupboard rum, lime, and soda, and having an after-dinner port (heavy pour) is not uncommon, neither is a 2am headache for that matter. Port. Fuck me. That shit leaves a mark (read blinding headache). Stocks were running perilously low at our abode, and we knew the Empire Could Strike Back and announce an about-turn on booze sales. The three of us had a strategy meeting and decided we needed to strike while the Iron Lady was cool- Margaret Thatcher took milk away from kids, NDZ took alcohol from an entire nation… we may need to level her up to Tungsten. Anyway, it was decided the divide and conquer approach was the way to go. My mother and I would hit the shopping centre that pensioners go to, it was a bold move but with ankle protection we might come out unscathed. My stepdad agreed to stick local and try stealthy. A three-pronged attack… the goal was to buy enough wine to satiate a thirsty Lannister, whisky, and “forward ford-ford-grab emergency alcohol” (not port)!

Stockpiling is not the answer until it is. I’m a worrier and a forward thinker… and I saw how those damn Cape Town joggers nearly screwed the pooch for everyone. South Africans are not known for their good decision making while under the influence. In fact South Africans are bad bad dogs when it comes to drinking. And I use dogs as an analogy because if you put food in front of a Labrador it’s gone like a scone. Every South African is a bad dog. Don’t kid yourself. The feeling in our kennel was that NDZ could smack us on the noses and take away our kibbles… so we’d better make a plan. We were not going to wait for the potential about-turn. We were going to arrive before 9am. We agreed to be those people. We were metaphorical Cape Town joggers.

I didn’t sleep last night. At 3am I got a bad case of the “ports”, but mostly I got a sense of the rush. I wished more than anything my brother was here to take up the mantle, but I realized that today would be my day to shine. This was my Reggie’s Rush moment, my “Beveragie’s Rush” debut. I didn’t hit snooze this morning. I bolted out of bed, put on my New Balance, and hit the kitchen for a settling cup of tea. My heart was racing.

When we got to the shopping centre I joined the rebels without a cause outside of Picardi Rebel. I was number 10 in the queue. My trolley was empty. There were several pensioners ahead of me, for obvious reasons. Pensioners strike at dawn. The pensioner behind me didn’t have a trolley, my ankles were safe. For now. I surveyed the shop windows and began strategising. As with Reggie’s Rush all the good shit is towards the back of the store or on the top shelves… there was a lot of sherry and Advocaat… Not for long. That stuff is like catnip to the Norman’s and Edna’s of the world. A grey haired lady in front of me exclaimed, “This could be the most exciting day South Africa has ever seen!” “Extraordinary”, I thought. This little old lady has lived through some pretty dark shit… but this is her Reggie’s Rush moment too, she was fuelled by the promise of Monis Pale Dry. “I’m going to buy as much as my pension will get me!” from the chap behind me, with the grey tracksuit and Makro takkies. I started to get frightened… Have these old fuckers been prepping by watching YouTube clips of Reggie’s Rush in anticipation? Am I out of my depths?

And then after 23 minutes of queuing, group 4, my group, were allowed into the store. We’d seen the 9 before us leave, some armed with a simple bottle and others heaving trolleys with the last of their pension fund…

I was up… “Jaqui Hiltermann are you ready?! 3. 2. 1…GO!”

What a fucking rush.

For the first time in over two weeks I went out into the world to buy food. I’d been putting it off for a few days and living off rice cakes, which I’ve nicknamed “nice cakes” in order to Emperor’s New Clothes my taste buds. Fun Fact, they still taste crap but they’re a suitable vessel for almond butter and one step up from a teaspoon or finger. Actually screw that, give me the jar and my finger any day..

‘Introducing new Almond Butter licked off a Finger- it’s the Covid-19 version of Fugu… it’s the “near death experience” that makes it so tasty.’

Shopping during an apocalypse is a completely different experience to pre-apocalypse (PA) shopping, because there’s a general tendency to favour the canned food section. But you know me, I like to live dangerously so I went ape shit for the lettuce. I went fucking bananas because I feel like I’m getting scurvy and even though lettuce is basically crunchy water I just couldn’t help myself. Italian mix, Romaine, baby gem, you name it I bought it. And, this is Woolworths lettuce, so it’ll survive longer than most of the cans you’ve got stashed in your walk-in pantries. Grapes? 2 for R60 “Yes Please!” Broccoli? “Come at me!” Butternut, onions, potatoes? No chance, this is the apocalypse and the whole butternut is the new avocado.

So, I meandered from the bountiful Woolies salad bar, past the barren wastelands of hardy “cupboard” veg, and reached the aisle where the long-life milk used to be. Unfortunately, suburbanites seemed to have got my memo about “nice cakes” because there were only two really fucked up packs of those, which I reluctantly drop-kicked into my trolley because I felt sorry for them. Plenty bread though; as my dad would say, “Plentch!” People obviously aren’t aware that you can freeze bread, or that we haven’t actually gone back in time to the “old days” where you had two days to eat your weekly loaf. Maybe okes around here are still banting? Who knows?

Toilet paper for days. Literally days of toilet paper. I hate all of you bastards for making me spend the last two weeks with 1Ply. It was kak. I do not recommend. 0 Star Rating.

It’s absolutely no surprise that there had been a “clean up in aisle four” and the shelves were completely devoid of canned food. A lot of kids are going to be really chuffed with another night of “tuna surprise” I’ll tell you that for free. “What’s the surprise mum?” “The surprise is it’s crap!” No jokes though, “the great can shortage of 2020” did upset me because I really fancied making that Sweetcorn Bake I read about in the Your Family magazine of May 1994. Never mind, when the apocalypse is over canned foods will no longer be a luxury item and I’ll be able to treat all of my friends to a nice plate of hot slop.

Fresh milk- 2 litres, and again it’s Woolworths milk so it’s as long-life as it gets. I should be concerned about how long Woolies food lasts but I’m not. I survived the 80s as a Tartrazine kid I’m basically bullet-proof. And, as it turns out cheese is no longer a hot item in the suburbs either… Seriously what the fuck are you people eating? You do know that cheese is basically frot milk right? It doesn’t go off… you just scrape off the manky bits and you’re good to go for at least another week. People are giving up on cheeses… bunch of heathens and sinners. Repent! So, after twenty minutes of not very careful shopping I was ready to join the social distancing queue and avoid those horrible healthy snacks in the gauntlet of financial ruin. FYI on the Woolies Snack Pack of Mixed Nuts Index, the economy is thriving.    

There’s an unwritten rule at supermarkets where you’re allowed to check out other people’s baskets and trolleys and pass judgement. It’s kind of like Vampire Rules, but you have to be a little bit discreet, you can’t point or be too obvious about your snooping. Yesterday I got some serious judgement and I could tell that people thought that I’m definitely not taking lockdown seriously at all. Not only was I wearing my “Not Today Satan” t-shirt, not only did I have way too much fucking lettuce (I think I may have buyers remorse), not only did I have the makings of one helluva cheeseboard (“What the fuck is this asshole celebrating doesn’t she know we’re in the midst of a pandemic?”), not only did I have zero canned or frozen items (not my fault), but I also wasn’t wearing a face mask (make up doesn’t count).

It’s weird that even though the shops are still open for business, and we’re told not to stockpile, there’s this mentality that we need to embrace the “Apocalypse Menu”. It’s wartime, and we have to go back to austerity cooking in order to show that we’re doing our bit for the war effort. And while I was musing about apocalypse cookbooks, as luck would have it, my friend “Jeff Goldblum” sent me an absolute clanger of a message.

‘So for some strange reason my diet is reverting to the mid 90s. Is it OK to crave Ultramel custard? It’s like Mandela is about to be released and we’ll never eat again. Buy Ultramel and toilet paper.’

‘And let’s not mention brown onion soup in a sachet…’

And then it happened… He sent two photos of “that chicken dish” and the potato bake made with the help of our friend Royco.

And as I looked at Jeff’s throwback to the bad old days it reaffirmed my belief that food is political. The Apocalypse Pantry has become a window into how we feared hunger and rationing in the past. And all of those fears come with a wave of nostalgia for the foods that we associate with “national lockdown”. Our long-lost friends Knorr, Royco, and Maggie are invited back to our dinner tables, we slip back into familiar conversations with them, and it’s like we’ve never been apart.

“Can someone please pass the Aromat.”      

While Monkey was spreading his smoked snoek mousse on his rye bread with a plastic teaspoon, I was sipping away on my crisp wine. Crisp wine was crisp because of my fancy wine wand which looks disturbingly like a sex toy. A sex toy for wine as it were. The wine sex toy was a hit with passers-by who marveled at the fact that not only does the wand chill the wine BUT it has a stopper and pouring spout too…

31. White people love Yuppiechef.

Anyway after listening to Dave bang on about the magical properties of apple cider vinegar it was the turn of Gareth and Sarah to step up to the podium and receive an emergency phonecall from their au pair. It turns out young Arya had fallen off the jungle gym and had a suspected broken arm. Arya was obviously an ironic name.

Sarah was white madam cross because ‘how could they be so selfish…?’ ‘Why did kids have to play the fool?’ ‘Why couldn’t they just behave like they were told to?’ I was with Sarah… kids are real assholes.

Didn’t they know it was Cat Stevens?

Gareth, not being the recalcitrant type, morphed into super new age dad and began sweating and pacing… He’s obviously a Grey’s Anatomy dad cos he was using words like ‘STAT’ and ‘push 2 cc’s of epi’… OK that’s an exaggeration he just asked if Arya could move her arm.

Silence…

It was time to bring out the big guns and talk to the son… the au pair was clearly an idiot…

‘Tristan! Fetch the iPad STAT and get onto Facetime… you’re going to have to show me Arya’s arm…!’

I’m getting hella excited now thinking Grey’s Anatomy Gareth is going to talk Tristan through surgery using nothing but an iPad and and a ballpoint pen. Gareth takes a sip of his Merlot and mops his brow. Sarah is telling Beverley that she’s not letting her kids spoil this for her… this is the first time she’s been out the house for months. Gareth is now Facetiming Tristan and I’ve refilled my glass excited about Tristan going rogue on his first surgery. No such luck Arya can move her arm but she’s screaming like a real little asshole. ‘I think it’s just sprained’ says Gareth…

A few minutes later…
Gareth: ‘I’m going to have to go home and sort this out…’
Sarah: ‘Can’t we just wait until after the concert…?’
Gareth: ‘No Sarah what if it’s serious?’
Sarah: ‘I don’t think it’s serious… I mean she’s always hysterical… she cries over anything…’

Gareth abandons his post to make the long journey back to middle Constantia to sort out young Arya, and Sarah goes back to complaining about how kids can be a real buzzkill.

‘I do hope he makes it back in time for the concert’

(Originally posted on Facebook 16 November 2017)

That fucking amphitheatre is like a sugar free, dairy free, gluten free, lactose free, ice cream truck. White okes flock to it like the salmon (smoked of course) of Capistrano (to quote Dumb and Dumber).

At 4pm yesterday afternoon I found myself panicked as the tumbleweed rolled through the hummus aisle at Woolies Food Newlands… I was too late… there was one rogue tub, lidless and crusted over.

“Fuck the hummus let’s get out of here!”

“Fuck the hummus let’s get out of here!” I screamed while grabbing the last of the fancy cheese, a stray rye loaf and a bag of those newfangled pop chips. We were going to be late… The ticking in my head was deafening. Now was not the time to wait for Monkey to select which choccy milk he wanted.

The thing you have to know about getting older is, not only do your milkshake cravings escalate, but time-stress is amplified. As each decade passes, the need to arrive at airports early increases incrementally. It means that by the time you’re 90 you’re at the airport a full 24hrs before your flight. Just in case. The same applies to summer concerts. Usually if gates open at 6pm… I’m there at 5pm. However this was Cat Stevens… the pied piper of the over 50s. We had to be ahead of the game.

It was 4pm… we’d missed the window.

Luckily we were obviously ahead of the hippies from Hout Bay and the 40-something parents who had battled to leave little Ava and Sam with the au pair. Monkey and I were OK. We joined the front end of the queue of disgruntled dressed by Cape Union Marters. As a white person queuing is not my favourite thing. However it’s a superb opportunity to build on my ‘Shit that white people love’ list. Yesterday I got to add…

26. Discussing their cholesterol… and how low it is. ‘Ya Trevor my cholesterol is very low… I changed my diet but I tell you it’s the apple cider vinegar… at first it doesn’t taste great… but now I love the stuff. I LOVE it.’
Woah easy there Dave… Save that love for your kids.

27. Introducing friends and family to new line items from Woolies… ‘Aaaaah Beverley these are pop chips… yeah try one they’re new. I know 80% less fat than regular chips and they taste just as good’.
‘Oooo I’m gonna buy these, these are great Sharon…’

28. Repeating over and over again that Cape Town is the most beautiful city in the world, no… the UNIVERSE. So beautiful it makes you forget about queuing. For about a millisecond.

29. Hating on people for pushing in… but muttering and developing new, better strategies for queuing, rather than getting rowdy.

‘We should get numbers at the gates… I mean in the old days we could enter earlier and enjoy our picnics while we waited…’

God forbid you’re so uncouth as to begin eating your picnic in the queue like Monkey did. It’s fine he’s Asian… they don’t know about the subtle art of picnics.

And let me tell you… that Tanja really does know how to pack one helluva picnic. The envy of all her bookclubbers.

Which leads me to 30.

30. Fuck me but white people just love a fancy as fuck picnic. White people will moan about spending money at a restaurant but not an elaborate picnic. There’s no ‘buy a 2l of Jive and share it amongst your friends’ at Kirstenbosch.

‘Oh Hells no Lungani’. If you aint packing some serious cheese, at least one variety of artisanal bread, and the mandatory hummus you’re exiled.

And at this exact moment a flustered woman abandons the queue… hot foots it down the path, sweating…

I can only imagine this was because of the Party Sized Bag of Doritos she was clutching.

‘Fuck man Jessica… did you not get the memo about pop chips?!’

These observations whiled away the time and we found ourselves doing the ‘hurry up and wait’ shuffle for 15 minutes in the hope the ticket gatherers would throw us a bone and open early. Have we learnt nothing?

It was during the frenzy of the eye rolling and sighing that I caught sight of the old bird with the crutches… This would be a spanner.

I said to Monkey, perhaps a little too loudly (one glass of wine (not screw topped you animal!) in), ‘Monkey… if we have to take her out with my waiter’s friend that’s just something we’re gonna have to live with…’ Keith, ‘hey you’re the guy from the queue friend’, snorted and said he would collapse her legs with his baguette and we could run past her on our good legs. Obviously they procured their baguette on Friday… heathens.

After a blurred rush of orderly chaos, Monkey and I found ourselves spread out on our purple sleeping bag, surrounded by the guilt of too expensive for my budget cheese, and plastic Woolies packets.

Shame… Shame… Shame!

No matter… we killed more time by watching all the selfies. Fogies taking selfies… I’m gonna have to warn the Millennials about this.

And then just like that it happened… The oke just walks onto the stage as if he’s no big deal and starts strumming his guitar in that Cat Stevens way… and for a moment I’m so confused and overwhelmed that I feel like I’m in a helluva cheese dream.

While we’re being honest I cried three times. OK I think I did the white girl cry. I was a mess. The thing is with proper musicians is that they have a sound. A guitar in the hands of any other human just wouldn’t develop that Cat Stevens sound. That one key note… more crying.

His band members could play every instrument on the stage. They moved around like kids playing musical chairs. It was alarming and totally fucking cool.

The encore was Morning Has Broken and that Saturday Night song… I barfed out loud but no one could hear me above the swishing of side to side hand clapping and singalong. The bad white dancers fuelled by the enigmatic pop chips.

I still can’t believe they’re 80% less fat.

(Published on Facebook Nov 12 2017)