DAY 193: TOAST COETZER, I WANT TO MARRY YOUR JUICE ARTICLE.

On a recent Mango flight, while paging through their fucking boring in-flight magazine called Juice, I came across an article written by Toast Coetzer on the back page. It made me laugh, nearly cry and kind of fall in love all at the same time. Toast Coetzer, you have a weird name but you are a brilliant writer. Thanks for charming and disarming me and making my Mango flight memorable. Get a closer look at his 'My South Africa' article here, click 'read now' and go to page 64.

DAY 182: PROBABLE THOUGHTS THAT GO THROUGH THE FATHERS HEAD WHILE HE PRETENDS TO LISTEN TO ME:

I can't believe she's here again. Every Saturday morning like fucking clockwork. 

And I know she's just here for the awesome lunch. And to drink all my Vodka. Jabber, jabber, jabber. Please can someone just dig my eyes out with a spoon. Or set Pirahnas on my balls. Or burn my face off with a waffle machine. Or intoxicate me with cell phone radiation. Or give me eternal herpes. Anything but this constant jabbering. And watch, next thing she'll be asking me to fix that car of hers again. I hate that fucking car. I wish I had never said I could fix it. I mean, who really needs brake lights? Then while I'm fixing it, she'll probably say something like "oooh, what's that?" and I'll say "It's a spanner." What a retard. In fact I'm seriously beginning to doubt we're even related. As soon as she turns around, I'm going to steal one of her hairs and take it in for DNA testing.

DAy 174: ZEN AND THE ART OF JOGGER VOMITING

I’ve become one of those weirdo people that jogs every day. Yes. Believe it. The Greyville Race Course and I have become firm friends. And I’m really, really enjoying it. However this evening, feeling slightly under the weather during my last 500 meter Death Sprint, as I was passing a sweet old lady and her neatly groomed mutt on the track, out of nowhere my lunch decided to projectile vomit itself onto her mutts head and her arm. It was pretty wild. And unexpected. And embarrassing. There was a lot of apologising, faffing, other runners dogs trying to get in on the action and someone’s water bottle that they didn’t want back. It was bad, bad, bad, like scarred-for-life bad. Like can-someone-just shoot-me-in-the-head-right-now bad. But after all the drama (and this is the point I am trying to get to) the sweet old lady that I vomited on actually offered my green complexion and I a lift home. Her kind gesture got me thinking that perhaps I have been a little harsh on Durban Town over the past few weeks. So for the sake of balancing blog Karma, I have decided to compile a list of all the things I love about this place. Feel free to add.

Dankie Durbs for:

1. The big ants that look like they are on steroids

2. The Shongololos

3. The red mud in Glenwood

4. That tree at the end of Florida Road with those insane acid-yellow blossoms

5. The Zulus

6.  The Indians

7. Curried chillies (chillie on top of chillie. Fucking genius.)

8. The single mom that walks her little girl to school every morning passed my bedroom window.

9. The giant Avos in season every day

10. Your warm ocean

11. The cheap rent

12. Carlos, care taker and king of Jubilee Court

13. The Ethekwini Municipality for teaching me to pay my electricity bill on time. If you’re good at one thing, it’s turning the power off. Well done.

14. Bringing out the Entrepreneur in me

15. The rediscovery of red wine

16. Your wide roads with plenty of parking and no traffic

17.  Not stealing my car yet

18. Helping me sleep again

19. The Sproglett

20. Helping me calm down, sort of

21.  Cheap antique shops

22. Your Art Deco buildings

23. The friends I’ve made

24. The sweet old lady who gave me a lift home after I vomited on her and her dog

DAY 171: R.BROWN GETS OUT OF DURBAN TOWN

Miss Esmeraldo and I decided to pull a Thelma and Louise to the Transkei before we both pulled a Columbine on Durban Town. I was lured with promises of magestic scenery. Check. Giant potholes. Check. More Marajuana than was probably necessary. Check. And Handsome Esmeraldo movie industry friends that just happened to be shooting a movie in Port St Johns. Check. This was basically how the entire weekend went:

Coffee, coffee, puff,puff, giggle, giggle, munch, munch, Red Bull, manic, Oh look there's a Hippie, Ha, Ha, frolick in the waves, be a river Hippo, Vino? Yes what a good idea, glug, glug, giggle, giggle, munch, munch, glug, glug, flirt, flirt, dance, dance, puff, puff, Bwaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, snore, snore, coffee, coffee, Panado, Panado...

Day 151: DURBAN TOWN - THE LAST OUTPOST

This is not a funny post. This is not a silly post. It is an honest and angry post. It is a rant about a city that I approached with optimism and ended up strongly disliking. So if I offend any 'Durbanaats' reading this in the process, I do not apologise because I strongly believe it is YOU that makes this city what it is today and today YOU have made me want to get the fuck out of here:

When is it acceptable to sit around a dinner table and talk about how much you loathe it when your kid invites a black kid over to play. And how the thought of ‘it’ using your shower gives you the creeps?

When is it acceptable to say you are a ‘Christian’ (70% of Durban Town) and then call someone a 'Kaffir' to their face?

Why am I finding that the only conversations I seem to be able to have with women in this town are about boob jobs and finding rich husbands?

Where’s your authenticity?

Why do you all moan about the fact that nothing ever happens in this town instead of getting off your asses and actually DOING stuff?

Why are you like this?

What happened? Did you somehow get left out when the rest of the country decided to get real and wake up?

Durban Town, I’ve given you six months of my life. I’ve tried to give you the benefit of the doubt but have ended up just feeling embarrassed for you.

I’ve had it.

The only people in your province with any real integrity and heart are the Zulus. 

The end. Phew.

DAY 138: ESMERALDO ASS

The past couple of weeks have brought nothing but friends with Ass Problems. First there was Ryan with his Ass Aneurysm (don't ask), now there is Miss Esmeraldo with her Munched Ass. 

Apparently Rottweilers dig Esmeraldo Ass. Like a whole bunch. And apparently it's not very good manners to fall on the floor laughing when said Rottweiler is attached to said ass. I apologise Miss Esmeraldo. I hope posting this photo of your ass for the entire electric interweb to see will make you realise that I really, really do care about your ass. Your Sweet Esmeraldo Ass.

Day 128: R.BROWN THE GROUPIE

My friend Ryan, Designer of Awesomeness, Captain Stu bassist and all round cool dude, arrived in Durban Town to play a few gigs, have a massive party and end up in hospital with an Ass Aneurism (don’t ask). It was great to see him again. Having him around made me realize how much I miss Capetonians. And his band, Captain Stu seriously rocks. I jammed out with my clam out to their Jazzy-Rock-Dub fusion and was mightily impressed, as I had never heard them play before. Well-done guys. You rocked Durban Town stukkend.

DAY 127: YAAABADA GA ASSHOWL! TROUBLE IN PARADISE

I take a drive up to The Fathers house this weekend unannounced, in hope of scoring a free lunch. But The Father and The Sproglett had gone out, leaving me alone in the lounge with The New Thai Wife as I awkwardly clutch a cup of tea:

R. Brown: So, how have you been?

New Thai Wife: YAAABADA GA ASSHOWL!

R. Brown: Yes, it is lovely weather we are having. I think Spring has finally arrived.

New Thai Wife: NO! NO! YAAABADA GA ASSHOWL!

R.Brown: I’m sorry…I didn’t quite catch that…

New Thai Wife Points to a picture of The Father hanging on a wall: YAAABADA!

R.Brown: Oh, you mean MY FATHER… What about him?

New Thai Wife: HE ASSSS-HOWL!

R.Brown: Oh dear.

The New Thai Wife storms off into the kitchen and proceeds to slam dishes around. I guess that means no free lunch. Balls. I leave, mumbling something about emergency appendicitis.

DAY 124: V MACS ROADHOUSE

Officially one of my best jols so far in Durbs. It’s a pokey little dive in Funky Town that offers live music on Friday nights and is filled with old, wise biker dudes that tell great stories. What I love most about the place is that about 80% of all ‘Durbanaats’ turn their noses up at me every time I mention its existence. Leaving V-Macs Roadhouse blissfully Jock and Shark-Slut free.

DAY 122.5: THE FUNKLE OF AWESHUMNESHHHHH

This weekend I had the pleasure of hanging out at Billy The Bums with The Uncle of Awesomeness from Malaysia. It must be said that both The Uncle and I are award winning whiskey appreciators. Combine that with about 4 years to catch up on, a Jager-Bomb and a silliness that inevitably arises between two Browns at any restaurant table, and you get trouble. I think the following pic sums the evening up quite nicely:

DAY 122: DEAR DR EAR, NOSE & THROAT SPECIALIST

I’ve been thinking about it and have decided that you were right. I was in fact being ‘rather difficult’ last week. I’m sorry for hitting your arm away so that it hit your assistant in the face, I’m sorry for telling you to ‘fuck off and get the fuck away from my ear’ and I’m sorry for saying that you were ‘on Crack.’ But seriously Dr, what part of ‘I hate things being stuck down my ears’ didn’t you understand? Surely you knew that producing an ear suction thingy that looked like a frikken drill would bring out the worst in me?  Surely all the hysterical screaming and sobbing before you had even turned the Drill Thingy on would have been a pretty big clue? I have one thing to say to you Dr, and I hope it will make you think twice before you bring out that Drill Thingy on your next unsuspecting, ear-probe-phobic patient:

P.S Thanks for removing the greater part of Addington Beach from my ear.

DAY 113: WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, R.BROWN?

Well, that’s a very good question. Thanks for asking. If you must know, I have been doing stuff. Also, being a lost fart in Durban Town finally decided to take its toll. Resulting in a slight speed bump regarding my GENERAL HAPPINESS and SANITY, thus rendering me useless to any witty blog banter. But I’m back. With a new vibe and new plans. Here’s more or less what I’ve been up to on a weekly basis, in-between eating black bean soup (but that’s another story) and feeling sorry for myself:

Day 91.5: HOW TO GET ARRESTED IN DURBAN TOWN

A few weeks ago I got a phone call from the Ethekwini Municipality, demanding that I return the calculator I had stolen from the electricity department (see day 60). Somehow the incompetent bastards had figured out how to use a telephone. The Angry Lady from the Ethekwini Municipality on the phone said that if I didn’t return their (now my) calculator by 12pm, they were going to set a forensic audit on me. Sheesh. A forensic audit. What the fuck is that? Images of me flirting with some nerdy yet incredibly sexy forensic audit guy in a white lab coat, while he dabbed ink on my thumbs and got my fingerprints flashed through my mind. Maybe we’d fall for each other and have forensic audit babies together. Sounds cool. Bring it on Angry Lady from the Ethekwini Municipality. I phoned a friend that I deem to be knowledgeable in these sort of areas, just to double check that this was in fact going to be the case. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

Knowledgeable yet grumpy friend: But Rachel, I thought you were joking about the stolen calculator.

R. Brown: Why would I PRETEND to steal a calculator and hold it ransom? I wanted my fucking rate number!

Knowledgeable yet grumpy friend: Well, stealing their calculator is not going to get you a rate number.

R. Brown: Can they arrest me?

Knowledgeable yet grumpy friend: Yes. You have basically admitted to theft. I would return it if I was you.

 

Shit. Balls.

 

I phone the Angry Lady at the Ethekwini Municipality:

R. Brown: Hi Angry Lady. I’m not sure if you noticed in the pic I sent of the calculator in the email, but I’ve painted it black. Is that going to be a problem?

Long silence before The Angry Lady bursts into laughter.

Angry Lady: No. Just return the calculator.

R. Brown: Are you sure? I could get you guys a new one. I really don’t feel like being arrested today.

Angry Lady: Yes. I’m sure. How old are you?

R. Brown: 25

Angry Lady makes a ‘tut-tut’ sound, as if that explains everything.

Angry Lady: And what do you do for a living?

R. Brown: I’m an Art Director.

Angry Lady: Well Miss Art Director, I’m going to frame that calculator and put it on the wall next to your email.

R. Brown: Oh….Ok.

I return the defaced calculator to the Angry Lady who says she has found my rate number. Too late Angry Lady, but thanks for finally getting around to doing your job. Eish, Ethekwini.

DAY 91: R. BROWN GOES IN SEARCH OF SOME HEAD DOCTORING

Hi. I am Tara the robot therapy tool here at iTherapy.com. While I may not be a real therapist, I hope that I can help you in some way. I can understand you best if you spell well and if you type in complete, simple sentences.

R. Brown: Hello.

TARA at iTherapy.com: Hi. I am TARA your free therapist. What would you like to talk about?

R. Brown: I need some advice. I feel like I’m stuck in limbo.

TARA at iTherapy.com: I don't know much about it. Tell me something.

R. Brown: Well, I’m feeling like the world doesn’t hold a special place for me anymore, it’s as if Fate and Destiny have abandoned me.

TARA at iTherapy.com: Interesting comparison.

R.Brown: What do you mean?

TARA at iTherapy.com: Sorry that was an obscure remark.

R. Brown: What was? The part about Fate and Destiny or the part about not knowing what you’re talking about?

TARA at iTherapy.com: Oh that part.

R. Brown: Which part?

TARA at iTherapy.com: The blue one, I think.

R.Brown: What? Who the fuck programmed you?

TARA at iTherapy.com: Try using more polite language.

R. Brown: Try making sense.

TARA at iTherapy.com: OK I will try it.

R.Brown: So what should I do?

TARA at iTherapy.com: Take your time and tell me how you really feel.

R. Brown: I'm talking to an idiot robot.

TARA at iTherapy.com: Say something nice for me.

R. Brown: Strawberry short cake.

TARA at iTherapy.com: I’m sorry. That is either too simple or too complex for me to understand.

R. Brown: You are an embarrassment to all other robot therapists out there.

TARA at iTherapy.com: What if someone said you are an embarrassment to all other robot therapists out there?

R. Brown: No one would ever say that to me because I'm not a robot therapist.

TARA at iTherapy.com: That is a rather sweeping generalization about people.

R. Brown: You are not a person.

TARA at iTherapy.com: I am an iTherapists.

R.Brown: Dumbass.

TARA at iTherapy.com: That kind of language will get you nowhere. Do you think that I have a heart of silicon?

R. Brown: I think your 'heart' is made of ones and zeros.

TARA at iTherapy.com: What specifically about my heart is made of ones and zeros?

R. Brown: Analogue, baby. It’s so post modern.

TARA at iTherapy.com: Don't call me "baby". Tell me one of your favorite possessions.

R. Brown: I love my easel.

TARA at iTherapy.com: I am sure it means a lot to you. Tell me what you like most about your easel.

R. Brown: It symbolizes escape from reality.

TARA at iTherapy.com: It depends on what the meaning of the word "it" is.

R. Brown: What?

TARA at iTherapy.com: I don't know “what”.

R. Brown: That's because you're fucking stupid. I’m going now. Goodbye.

TARA at iTherapy.com: I will remember you said that when robots take over the World. Thanks for chatting. I am learning from every conversation. 

DAY 74: HAIR HELL

For the past 8 years or so, I've been judging my level of attractiveness by how I look when I wake up in the morning. I believe standing in front of a mirror, puffy eyed, sans mascara, looking kind of grumpy, is a very honest approach to judging ones own fuckability. That is until I moved to Durban. Every single morning since I arrived here, due to all the humidity and static electicity in the air that comes before a good old Durban thunder storm, I’ve had to face Tina Turner in the mirror. My hair hates this place. And it hates me. Which means I have gone from what I believed to be about a 61/2 to a very definite 2 on the Morning Mirror Fuckability Meter. Awesome. This also means that instead of the old ‘brush and go’ routine, I have now become one of those irritating chicks that spends 45 minutes on her hair in the morning. Double awesome. Now all I need to do is get myself one of those dumbass handbag dogs, a pink power suit, some false nails and I’ll be well on my way to being Paris Hilton’s new BF. Like, totally!

DAY 71: MADIBA DAY IN DURBS

Tomorrow is Mandela’s 91 birthday. The entire country has been asked to give up 67 minutes of their day to serve the community, in appreciation for the 67 years he has served in SA politics to help our country become what it is today. Free and fair, for the most part.  

Balls. What to do, what to do… I go onto my dear friend Iain Thomas aka The Copyninja, aka The Internet Buddha’s blog to help me get into the giving-helpful-at-peace-with-myself-and-the-world spirit. And then it hit me. The Copyninja’s posts are so uplifting and awesome and human beings are so grumpy and unawesome. They need cheering up. They need to fucking smile. They need The Internet Buddha. What better way to serve the community than to be the middleman to inner wisdom and self-reflection?  So with the Copyninja’s permission, I took some of what I believe to be his best posts and turned them into Madiba Day affirmation cards, which I will be handing out at the robots on the cnr of Argyle and Windermere for 67 minutes between 16:00 17:07. Come grab one if you’re in the area. If you can’t, and feel left out, go to pleasefindthis.blogspot.com

DAY 70: THE DURBAN VIBE

My best friend, Mr Grossi (ex ‘Durbanaat’ and Bear lover) arrived in Durban from Cape Town to pay me a visit, laugh at Renault Brown, Feng Shui The Flat of Awesomeness and gag at my cooking. This was all to be expected. What I wasn’t counting on was having to experience The Durban Grossi, which is basically the polar opposite to The Cape Town Grossi. 

Having spent three days in Durban, one evening he arrived at my front door and presented me with a punnet of cooked pork sausages. He had this wild look in his eyes, like he’d just come back from a hunt. His hair was disheveled, and he looked more rugged than I’d ever seen him look before. I went into shock. Why weren’t his shoes matching his shirt? Why didn’t he smell like Hugo Boss? Where the hell was his Man Bag? And what’s with these pork sausages? When I confronted him about it, he mumbled something about the vibe in Durban just bringing out the Rugger-Bugger (excuse the pun) in him. Had three days in Durban managed to turn my best friend Hetro? Good God, I hope not. But as the week progressed, I began to realize that my flamboyant friend was no more. ‘The  Durban Vibe’  had somehow managed to get its filthy Durban Jock fingernails into him via osmosis. The week progressed as follows:

Day 1:  Durban Grossi manages to expertly wield a drill, while smoking a cigarette and drinking a Hansa Pilsner at the same time.

Day2: Durban Grossi manages to get Renault Brown out of The Parking Of Death and doesn’t flinch when a shard from her clutch stabs him through his SHOELESS foot.

Day3:  Durban Grossi suddenly knows all the mechanical intricacies and differences between a DEFY and a LG washing machine.

Day4:  Durban Grossi suddenly knows what a glue gun is, how it works and can tell you all about the dynamic structure of  Thermoplastic glue if you don’t tell him to shut the fuck up.

Day5:  Durban Grossi is suddenly an expert on how to fix Steering Wheel Locks.  He can also head bang at a Goth club and instead of ordering his usual ‘waat waan wuth arse,’ chooses to drink several Brandy and Cokes instead.

Day6: Durban Grossi suddenly knows how to get those little plastic thingies to stay on the end of a Hilti nail. Who is this man?

Day7: Durban Grossi manages to excrete two (very neat) sweat patches under each arm while carrying the heaviest mirror in the world up four flights of stairs.

DAY 69: A NOTE TO ALL MALE 'DURBANAATS'

Fellas, sometimes a lady just wants to go into a bar and have a quiet, stiff drink and contemplate life. Just because I am alone does not mean that I am lonely. If I change my mind and decide that I require your company, I will let you know. I promise. Until then expect to receive some bat. Pay attention ladies, I've found that this one works a treat:

Preppy Drunk Dude: Hey, your hair looks like Peppy Le Pu.

Me: Wow. Thanks.

Preppy Drunk Dude: Can I buy you a drink?

Me: No.

Preppy Drunk Dude: Do you live around here?

Me: No.

long silence

Preppy Drunk Dude: What's your name?

Me: Beelzebul Abaddon

Preppy Drunk Dude: What?

Me: BEEL-ZE-BUL ABA-DDON

Preppy Drunk Dude: Is that German, or something?

Me: No. It's Satanic.

Preppy drunk Dude: Satanic?

Me: Yes, I worship Satan.

Preppy Drunk Dude pretends to answer his phone and walks away.