>What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

With a quick Captain M (in keeping with the rum theme of the evening) under our belts at The Shack, Rio (one of the only people not wearing black, leather or sporting any tattoos) and I rocked up at Speedway Cafe just in time for a few doubles and a ciggie outside before the screening of the Hori Smoku documentary in the enormous adjacent hall.

A quick scan of the sober, deadpan faces around the room – Mahala on the one side, Vice in the middle, a couple of kickass tattoo artists and a sprinkling of pseudo musicians here and there – we established the cliques and decided to go on our own mish and crash on the sideline.  

In between the homosexual texts and snack baskets flying over my head, I tried to give the doccie my full attention, but I found I kept looking over my shoulder with this perpetual fear that the free (yes.. FREE) booze might disappear if I didn’t pay it enough attention. Like that feeling you get when you leave a super hot girlfriend/boyfriend alone en route to the bathroom…

After the hour-or-so long doccie ended, a wave of black leather flowed outside to suck on a large cloud of Malboro goodness before migrating towards the skinny bar next door for The Great Apes who honestly, weren’t half as bad as I remember them being at Assembly last Saturday. But honestly, I’m going to have to plead the 5^th here because apart from the shit hot, dance-worthy riffs that made me want to get on my knees and *lick* Antonie’s… uuuh, guitar, I can’t remember much. Musical rum-induced euphoria.

A couple of hours later, those sober, deadpan faces were replaced by sneaky ones, sporting bloodhoundesque eyes and wondering hands. Bench lines drawn, were replaced by a communal want for more sweet, sweet SJ and as the dregs of Cape Town’s freebie whores (myself included) yakked the biggest lot of kak outside, Norman Collins cackled down on us, pointing fingers.