Masonge Blog

Now that I am on the other side of the weekend and have, by and large, survived, I can say it was a super one. My body is broken from 10 hours of dance rehearsals during the weekend. It didn't help that for the majority of those hours I was suffering heavily from various hangovers and sleep deprivation.

I'm still alive, right? On Sunday morning, I was wishing otherwise. Can't remember the last time I felt that horrible. It's inexplicable how terrible I felt. I kept on falling asleep at rehearsal, much to the amusement of the girls. Mental note never ever to mix beer, vodka, and whisky ever again.

Talking of dance, the show is in 6 days. JC still isn't walking without her crutches, but she should be ok. Then there's the krumping piece which we are doing, which is way too fast for me to piece together in my mind and perform.

There's a lot of banter from the boys in the office. It seems they'll be turning out in numbers to jeer, hoot and howl. Just to make a menace of themselves. I'm getting very nervous, generally just because of that krumping piece.

I was watching So You Think You Can Dance on Saturday, and it made me feel very inadequate. Gave me a lot of tips and tricks. Perhaps I'm hard on myself, seeing that I have been dancing for all of 5 months, but I would have it no other way.

It's gonna be a nervous week, one missing vodka and whisky and beer.

The big show is finally upon us, right out of nowhere. I'll be in six dances all in all, so it should be worth a watch.

Tickets are selling like hotcakes at R50 apiece, so give me a holla if you want in. If you not into the dancing, then seeing me falling on my ass should be worth a watch.

FIFA10 is absolute rubbish. There, got that off my chest. I'll have to apologize to my boet later, the FIFA fanatic he is.

While I'm venting my spleen, can anyone tell me who this Justin/Jason Bieber is? And why is he/her/it famous? I could Google him/her/it, but that's time I'll never get back. You could argue that the time it took me to write this, I could have used it to school myself, but fuck that. I get the feeling it ain't worth it.

I've been trying to get back to reading, but pickings have been slim when it comes to reading material. since I stumbled upon that bookstore in Mowbray that sells books for R20, I have refused to shop anywhere else. it doesn't help that the store closed down. so far, I have started two books and quit after 20 pages, one about a 14 year old girl, and another about a 16 year old discovering liqour. I'm about to start 'Sushi for Beginners'. Usually, a love story would have no place on my bedside table, but I did mention slim pickings.

It's a trying week ahead, trials and tribulations and all. I say "bring 'em". It's been that kind of year, and I'm still standing.

Did I mention the new "do"?

Before

























After

This post was written in the bog and under severe pressure. Not the kind of pressure brought on by my irregular bowel movements, the consequence of dodgy garage pie, but constant requests to update the blog. So if it’s crap, well... 

So the WC has come and gone, and by now, the flags and other paraphernalia are down, bar the one or two mirror socks that haven't been diefed. I must be honest and say I hardly enjoyed this WC, bar the opening game and the Germany/Argentina game here in CT.

First of all, from a football fan’s point of view, it was a horrible WC. I didn't see too much of USA ’94, but enough of it to know it was terrible. Teams were negative, scared of losing, and the tournament suffered as a result. 2010, footballistically, was on par. I can count the number of memorable games and moments off the top of my head.

Then there's FIFA. I’m not going to go into how they raped and pillaged the country of billions, and even bullying Madiba out of bed, in his state, to watch what was an awful closing ceremony (the opening was no better) and sit through a final which summed up the tournament. Downright awful.

I don't have that feel-good feeling everyone is walking around with because we hosted a superb showcase. Unlike everyone else, I knew we would pull it off. I'm proud to say I never had an inkling of a doubt we would do it. Hosting international sporting events is what we do. We even managed to host the IPL on a month's notice. The feel-good factor wore off ages ago for me. No other country has hosted the rugby, cricket and football World Cups, and we did it despite the rest of the world (bar Sepp), who must still be chewing on that humble pie (he’s rolling around on a bed of $100 bills).

The dance show creeps closer, and my last guesstimation has me doing five (5!) dances. Just going over them in my head gets the flutterbyes fluttering away in my belly. JC keeps breaking her ankles and knees, and if she's involved in another "accident", I'm ruling out clumsy/accident prone and labeling her "a danger to her own self", or downright suicidal. If I was being blunt. If she breaks down, we are fubar. And because karma is such a bitch, the joint will be as packed as jeans on a fat ass. 

Don't know if I can bear to watch those 22 nobodies posing as Boks tomorrow, but I'm damn excited to see the Aussie backline in action. Nonetheless, GO BOKKE!!!

Well, Bafana's, and all of South Africa's dream of advancing to the second round of the World Cup ended rather disappointingly. Around the watercooler, I was lamenting the celebratory mood of the country. For the period Bafana played against 10 Frogs, they drew 1-1. And considering what was at stake, it was a real lame effort from the boys in the 2nd half. I got labeled a traitor and other colorful names for that, but I still refuse to celebrate mediocrity.

It's another dance show this weekend, 'Dancing in the Moonlight', and we are even less prepared this time. But I'm refusing to panic, unlike JC, who's hands, never mind finger, are continuously banging on the panic button in a ferocious manner. Of course it's easy for me since I have two dances, one of which I'm only involved in half of, if that.

We took the time the time on Saturday to hang out with the crew from the studio. Turned out to be a rather hilarious affair on my part, suffering from the giggles after a few joints. Big time. The consumption of large amounts of braai vleis usually isn't a laughing matter, but you know how it is. And I did consume a lot of vleis, and the sweet potato... You had to taste it. And the pasta salad deserves an honorary mention as well.

So, with flags coming down, vuvuzelas at half mast, and mirror socks consigned to the scrap heap, the question now is, who to support now?

As I predicted, nerves were the main feature of Saturday before our dance. After waking up in the morning and engaging in chest-beating bragging of mastering my nerves, my bravado quickly wilted away as we prepared for the day. The bravado turned to weeping cowardice practiced in the foetal position with incomprehensible ramblings thrown in for good measure.

Luckily, I had the leader of the crew with me, and I would love to say it was her calm disposition that got me through it, but it was her own weeping and Smegal-esque ramblings in the corner that made me feel I was in good company.

In the hour preceding our routine, we were sat in a small, cold room outside the dressing room with the other dancers, and we took comfort in each others nerves. It helped non that they changed the schedule on a whim, which had the dressing room in a frenzy.

I'm glad to say the nerves didn't get the better of us during the dance. My inexperience, on the other hand, did. I made a couple of small mistakes which I let stew in my head during the dance, which meant I wasn't fully focused. While it is widely believed I was good, I believe I could have been a lot better.

We were just so happy to get through the evening, JC and I went on a bit of a tequila run. Double shots. We don't fuck around. Not everybody could handle it, but at least the barman had faith in our abilities to hold our own. He's obviously not THAT clued up about his job because he reckons JC can hold her liqour better than I can. But I was not the one who, minutes later, was rolling over her ankle, unimpeded, and had it not been for that poor door, which she clung to for dear life, would have had a lot more to worry about than her poorly ankle.

Needless to say, we left the studio at a rather ungodly hour. There will be a repeat of Saturday at the end of the month. This time, it will be on an actual stage. Should we do the 'Russian Roulette/Imma Be' routine again, we'll be just fine. Otherwise, there will be more cowering and jabbering and weeping.

I've decided to give the world of Twitter another go. What does that make me? A Twit? I noticed the button to update your status on Twitter says Tweet, not Twit. For obvious reasons. No one would click on the damn thing to confirm they're a twit.

Anyways, I'm finding it to be a bit more fun this time. I'm following a bunch of celebs who's activities I may be vaguely curious about, such as Bryan Habana, Graeme Smith, Quade Cooper, DJ Fresh... Fresh was Tweeting every 5 minutes yesterday, which is ridiculous. I mean, really now...

You can catch my Tweets on mozez22

Saturday is the dance show, or extravaganza. Whichever way you put it, I'm crapping my pants. Mostly because I don't know what I'm doing, and partly because that's what I do. I crap my pants. I'm double booked that night. Or the appointments overlap, on some level. The Drowleys are doing a birthday thing at the Skank Motel. We haven't seen each other since last November, so we had a catch up session last night, watched Vampire Diaries... like old times, really.

The party has the potential to be awesome, or disastrous. Since I'm getting there after my routine, which I have no ETA for, I will either be ecstatic it went well, or devastated it bombed. If I'm ecstatic, I will be high on adrenaline, and will be the hub of energy of old. If it bombs, I will be a miserable cunt, and will drink heavily, and, well, I'll still be a hub of energy, but I won't remember, knowing me and that crew.

Potentially an awesome weekend. Potentially a forgettable one. Could go either way. I'll keep you posted, or just take a peek at my Tweets.

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02:17 A.M, sleep is hard to come by. Funny thing that, seeing that every waking hour of yesterday was spent wishing for just that. The irony...

Before you ask, yes, I have counted sheep. I had excersize from dance class so I should be pretty knackered, and I just read as many pages as I could take from the "Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy" before realising it was as futile as anything I have tried.

Last option would be sex, but it's not really on the cards seeing that it would be me and Han(d) Solo. You ask what's so hard about making a fist and milking your now hard member, and I could come up with a few good reasons. But it's 02:17 A.M, and non of them come to mind.

So I forayed into the refrigerator for the other well known facilitator of sleep, booze. I clearly did not learn my weekend's lessons, because this drink is like three fingers vodka, four horizontal fingers apple juice.

The only good it has done is excite my bladder, otherwise fuckall. I would try TV, but what is the use of falling asleep in the lounge? The five feet it takes to get to my bed would put paid to all the sleep garnered. At this moment, Mai Hand is starting to look like an attractive Asian secretary.

Ghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgbn gvgjs fg hhuuuuuj

Nice, it seems writing the blog did the trick. I fell asleep (on my phone, yes) while trying to think of what to write next. Or thinking of the Asian secretary, not sure which.

Anyhew, problem solved.

During my 6-day sojourn to the Eastern Cape, the locals of King Williams' Town, the townships of Phakamisa and Zwelitsha, as well as the nearby villages, could not stop talking about the serial killer that was uBhere. By the time I got there, he was something of an urban legend. One of those "a friend of a friend told another friend..." kind of stories were popping up everywhere. Every man and his dog had Bhere on their lips, and everyone had their own tale to tell. Some even claimed to have known this cat out of Sweetwater.

Bhere is a serial killer, who approached his victims, usually a couple, in a most innocent and innocuous manner, and would ask to speak to the girl alone. The man would obviously have his reservations about giving up his girl to some dude, and Bhere would kill the man upon voicing his concerns. The girl would be raped, and ultimately, join the fate of her other half.

This had been going on for about a month, and by the time I was in the E.C, the story was Bhere had moved to raping both his victims before killing them. Everyone was watchful of who they let into their house, and gone were the days when one could just leave one's front door open, as they do. He was caught two days before I left, and was due to appear in court on Monday.

He is said to have once been an ordinary fella, but something snapped in his head. He may have been one mfugly mofo (judging by his picture on the 'Wanted' poster), but his mother asked the cops nicely to capture him in a humane manner, although they promptly put out a ZAR10 000 reward for him, not specifying whether they wanted him dead or alive.

Despite the man terrorising the area for a month, the locals took it all in good spirit, often making light-hearted jokes about the man. In fact, the legend of Bhere was the highlight of my visit to the Ciskei.

With the talk of the town behind bars, life will again ever be so boring in the Ciskei.