Early this year I covered the J&B Met for a magazine. It was interesting.
What I know about horses is dangerous. The sum total of my knowledge is that they featured prominently in the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the girls who rode them when I was at primary school always smelled faintly of a paddock and had bigger arms than me. I'd also had the misfortune of going to the Vodacom July some years ago, an experience which made me swear that I would never go within 100 metres of another horse race again (My question to everyone: what is it about paying a lot of money to dress in uncomfortable clothing, get crushed in crowds and scorched in the sun for a full day that makes everyone so excited about the July? Because if you want an excuse to get drunk and flirt with scantily clad girls or guys with popped collars, that's what Toti's for, and it's cheaper.)
So considering this and the vast depths of my ignorance of all things equine, it was with some trepidation that I covered the J&B Met. Would it be obvious to all and sundry that I couldn’t tell a stirrup from a bridle, a stallion from a nag or a jockey from a gaily-dressed child? Fortunately, it seems that about three-quarters of the 45,000 or so people who went to the J&B Met this year were as badly versed in horse-lore as I was. What was also fortunate was that my wife could join me, and we were given tickets to the J&B Marquee.
It’s hard to describe just how awesome it was without seeming hyperbolic. If modern day oil sheikhs were nomadic and threw lavish parties in Bedouin tents I somehow doubt they could top it. There was more excellent food and drink than you could shake a riding crop at, mostly inoffensive live entertainment (though in a mid-day radio kind of way) and beautiful (and, in many cases, deranged) fashion to gawk and – if I'm being honest with myself – laugh at. Suffice to say much of the day was spent in a gastronomic daze, alternately heading between the buffet, ice cream station, bar and racetrack to yell at the exhausted horses as they ran fruitlessly in circles. I wish I’d had a copy of a gossip rag on me, because it would have been a fun diversion to play celebrity bingo. Michael Mol! Marc Lottering! Bryan Habana! Roxy Louw!
Early in the day we decided that we needed to get in on some betting, but realised looking at the programme that we had no idea how to pick a winning horse. So, as one does, we went with names that appealed to us. I ended up backing the splendidly named Eagle Squadron, which I thought could only be as sleek and fast as its title. Shockingly, a horse’s name has little to do with its speed. This would be a hard lesson I struggled to learn throughout the day, as all the horses I backed lagged traitorously towards the rear.
It was hard not to be romanced by all the abundance around me – all that food and drink couldn’t appreciate itself – but at the end of the day as we trudged through the horse pat bestrewn grass back to the car and passed the unwashed masses groaning in the dust and dressed in sackcloth, I realised a simple truth. Horse-racing is only worth a damn on someone else's dime in an air-conditioned tent while feasting on craft beer and fillet. Also, it helps to pick one's horses properly when betting, and for that I'll develop a foolproof system in the future, probably based on the jockeys’ outfits.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
It's been a while...
What the flip, guys? In the year since I last posted on this stupid blog, Greta and I left our jobs, moved to Cape Town, then after four months left the meager things we had going on there, and moved to Phuket, Thailand. It's been scary, it's been gnarly, it's been fun.
We've seen a guy riding a motorbike with a live eagle on his handlebars, dogs that look both ways before crossing the street, a dude with too many thumbs (it is as it sounds), kiff beaches, a bunch of jungle, lots of really sunburnt British people, a wasp killing a tarantula, a whole bunch of stonefish while snorkelling, and some other stuff that escapes me. Suffice to say, it's pretty interesting here and we're having a good time. I should post some photos, but I'm feeling lazy today. They'll come in time people, I'm a work in progress.
I've had a chance to make a heap of progress on my book (which has subsequently stalled again since I started working full time again - I'll get there eventually folks), so I thought I'd post a short, actiony clip from one of the chapters I'm semi-happy with. Fun times.
----
It’s a typically glorious Cape Town summer afternoon. The sunlight glints off every reflective surface and I start to feel better. The trees are green, the mountain looks awesome and the detective seems to believe me. Maybe I won’t find out much more when this becomes a full-blown police investigation, but at least I’m not going to be sitting in Pollsmoor Prison wondering whether I’m to be the new plaything for the 26s or 27s.
I direct Detective Roberts to my hotel, but it’s a slog. The traffic in the city is a pain. I remember being told a while back that Cape Town’s traffic is so bad because the roads weren’t designed for 21st century traffic volumes. I can believe it. I really need to find a guesthouse or something in a pleasant suburb away from the nail-on-a-chalkboard irritation of city traffic.
Eventually we get to Camps Bay. There’s no street parking in front of the hotel, so we have to park about 200 metres up the road. Opposite us, loads of people hang out on the grass and walk on the promenade. A few yachts ferry sightseers a little out to sea.
Unsurprisingly, the hotel is pretty busy when we walk though the foyer. Detective Roberts is as quiet as ever, though I can tell his mood is light. Finding new evidence is probably like catnip for the po-po.
We wait a few minutes for the lift, and take it to the eighth floor. I don’t ordinarily like staying so high up in any building – I can’t help but imagine the innumerable, freak ways I can plunge to my death, and I’m a little ashamed to admit that these imaginings sometimes keep me up at night – but there are few rooms to choose from over Christmas. A panpipe version of My Heart Will Go On warbles over the speakers. The lift stops on our floor and as we walk down the passage I realise the song is following us. The scourge of muzak.
“Can I have your key card?” Those are the first words the detective has spoken in about 15 minutes. He must be in a good mood; he swings his car keys around his finger as he whistles along to the panpipes. My estimation of him takes a sharp downward turn.
As he opens the door he drops his car keys.
“I’ve got them.” He opens the door as I bend down to pick them up. He takes a few steps inside the room before stopping in surprise.
“What-” I look up from behind him as he fumbles for his shoulder holster. There are four quick bursts of muffled gunfire, and blood and flesh explode from Detective Roberts’ head and back as he falls backwards against me. There is hair and something soft and warm in my mouth. I scramble back, spitting, as more shots hit the plaster of the wall above me, which is flecked with gore.
Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap. I find my feet after what feels like forever and sprint the few metres down the passage to the stairs. Another bullet bursts into the wall just next to my head. I half run, half jump down the stairs. I can hear a few pairs of feet thudding in the stairwell behind me. My back feels so naked, but I can’t turn my head or I’ll fall. A bullet zings against the railing next to me and I shriek. I make sure I keep against the wall and more bullets zip into the steps from above. I can’t tell if they’re getting closer or not, and it feels like I’ll never get to the bottom. I pass a lady who glares at me. I’m only a few seconds past her when she screams; they’re pretty freaking close.
I finally reach the bottom of the stairwell, burst into the foyer and sprint across it to the doors. People start yelling just as I reach the street and turn right up the road towards the detective’s car. I try to zigzag a bit in case they start shooting, but there are so many people on the pavement I doubt they would. Just before I get to the car I turn around and see two guys in suits running towards me about 30 metres away.
I duck into the car as one guy takes aim and hits the windscreen on the passenger side. I turn the key and pull off. A car swerves around me, hooter screeching. Ahead of me, one of the guys is standing in my lane. He fires a few bursts as I duck my head below the steering wheel and floor it. Bullets smash through the windscreen and rip into my headrest. I hear people screaming and cars skidding as their drivers hit their brakes. Suddenly there’s a thump, the windscreen breaks and something hard smacks me in the head, blurring my vision momentarily. More bullets hit the side of the car and then I’m past the shooter. I lift my head and wrench the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding ramming into the back of a parked car. A few more half-hearted shots ring out but nothing hits the car. I floor it and weave through the busy evening traffic for a few kilometres.
I shake my head and try to clear my vision, but the wind is blowing against my eyes through a huge hole that’s been smashed through the windscreen. Only then do I see the body in the passenger seat.
“Holy cr-” I panic, and tug the steering wheel to the left by mistake, and jump a curb before jamming anchors. It’s one of the shooters, minus some of his head. His legs are up against the headrest, and his head rests against the floor. Blood, bone and what I can only assume are bits of his thoughts and personality pool on the carpeting. Bits of glass litter his body, glittering in the evening light. A stray hair still in my mouth reminds me of the detective. I open the door and puke into the street.
I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. My body feels like it’s turning in on itself, like my oesophagus will burst out of my mouth and envelop me so that I look like a giant, glistening sausage. I vomit until there is nothing left to bring up, and after a few extra agonising dry heaves my stomach stops bucking my body further towards the ground. I close the door shakily and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. My mouth tastes foul; I’m ten-years-old and have gastro; I’m an awkward 17-year-old, drunk out of my mind at a crappy action bar, eyes glazed, conscience numbed.
“Hey man, are you okay?” A young guy materialises at my window. I can’t respond before he sees the dead dude, swears and starts running. “Call the police, call the police, there’s a dead guy in that car!”
Crap. I start the car and roar back onto the road before anyone else can get to me. Where the freak do I go now?
----
We've seen a guy riding a motorbike with a live eagle on his handlebars, dogs that look both ways before crossing the street, a dude with too many thumbs (it is as it sounds), kiff beaches, a bunch of jungle, lots of really sunburnt British people, a wasp killing a tarantula, a whole bunch of stonefish while snorkelling, and some other stuff that escapes me. Suffice to say, it's pretty interesting here and we're having a good time. I should post some photos, but I'm feeling lazy today. They'll come in time people, I'm a work in progress.
I've had a chance to make a heap of progress on my book (which has subsequently stalled again since I started working full time again - I'll get there eventually folks), so I thought I'd post a short, actiony clip from one of the chapters I'm semi-happy with. Fun times.
----
It’s a typically glorious Cape Town summer afternoon. The sunlight glints off every reflective surface and I start to feel better. The trees are green, the mountain looks awesome and the detective seems to believe me. Maybe I won’t find out much more when this becomes a full-blown police investigation, but at least I’m not going to be sitting in Pollsmoor Prison wondering whether I’m to be the new plaything for the 26s or 27s.
I direct Detective Roberts to my hotel, but it’s a slog. The traffic in the city is a pain. I remember being told a while back that Cape Town’s traffic is so bad because the roads weren’t designed for 21st century traffic volumes. I can believe it. I really need to find a guesthouse or something in a pleasant suburb away from the nail-on-a-chalkboard irritation of city traffic.
Eventually we get to Camps Bay. There’s no street parking in front of the hotel, so we have to park about 200 metres up the road. Opposite us, loads of people hang out on the grass and walk on the promenade. A few yachts ferry sightseers a little out to sea.
Unsurprisingly, the hotel is pretty busy when we walk though the foyer. Detective Roberts is as quiet as ever, though I can tell his mood is light. Finding new evidence is probably like catnip for the po-po.
We wait a few minutes for the lift, and take it to the eighth floor. I don’t ordinarily like staying so high up in any building – I can’t help but imagine the innumerable, freak ways I can plunge to my death, and I’m a little ashamed to admit that these imaginings sometimes keep me up at night – but there are few rooms to choose from over Christmas. A panpipe version of My Heart Will Go On warbles over the speakers. The lift stops on our floor and as we walk down the passage I realise the song is following us. The scourge of muzak.
“Can I have your key card?” Those are the first words the detective has spoken in about 15 minutes. He must be in a good mood; he swings his car keys around his finger as he whistles along to the panpipes. My estimation of him takes a sharp downward turn.
As he opens the door he drops his car keys.
“I’ve got them.” He opens the door as I bend down to pick them up. He takes a few steps inside the room before stopping in surprise.
“What-” I look up from behind him as he fumbles for his shoulder holster. There are four quick bursts of muffled gunfire, and blood and flesh explode from Detective Roberts’ head and back as he falls backwards against me. There is hair and something soft and warm in my mouth. I scramble back, spitting, as more shots hit the plaster of the wall above me, which is flecked with gore.
Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap. I find my feet after what feels like forever and sprint the few metres down the passage to the stairs. Another bullet bursts into the wall just next to my head. I half run, half jump down the stairs. I can hear a few pairs of feet thudding in the stairwell behind me. My back feels so naked, but I can’t turn my head or I’ll fall. A bullet zings against the railing next to me and I shriek. I make sure I keep against the wall and more bullets zip into the steps from above. I can’t tell if they’re getting closer or not, and it feels like I’ll never get to the bottom. I pass a lady who glares at me. I’m only a few seconds past her when she screams; they’re pretty freaking close.
I finally reach the bottom of the stairwell, burst into the foyer and sprint across it to the doors. People start yelling just as I reach the street and turn right up the road towards the detective’s car. I try to zigzag a bit in case they start shooting, but there are so many people on the pavement I doubt they would. Just before I get to the car I turn around and see two guys in suits running towards me about 30 metres away.
I duck into the car as one guy takes aim and hits the windscreen on the passenger side. I turn the key and pull off. A car swerves around me, hooter screeching. Ahead of me, one of the guys is standing in my lane. He fires a few bursts as I duck my head below the steering wheel and floor it. Bullets smash through the windscreen and rip into my headrest. I hear people screaming and cars skidding as their drivers hit their brakes. Suddenly there’s a thump, the windscreen breaks and something hard smacks me in the head, blurring my vision momentarily. More bullets hit the side of the car and then I’m past the shooter. I lift my head and wrench the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding ramming into the back of a parked car. A few more half-hearted shots ring out but nothing hits the car. I floor it and weave through the busy evening traffic for a few kilometres.
I shake my head and try to clear my vision, but the wind is blowing against my eyes through a huge hole that’s been smashed through the windscreen. Only then do I see the body in the passenger seat.
“Holy cr-” I panic, and tug the steering wheel to the left by mistake, and jump a curb before jamming anchors. It’s one of the shooters, minus some of his head. His legs are up against the headrest, and his head rests against the floor. Blood, bone and what I can only assume are bits of his thoughts and personality pool on the carpeting. Bits of glass litter his body, glittering in the evening light. A stray hair still in my mouth reminds me of the detective. I open the door and puke into the street.
I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. My body feels like it’s turning in on itself, like my oesophagus will burst out of my mouth and envelop me so that I look like a giant, glistening sausage. I vomit until there is nothing left to bring up, and after a few extra agonising dry heaves my stomach stops bucking my body further towards the ground. I close the door shakily and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. My mouth tastes foul; I’m ten-years-old and have gastro; I’m an awkward 17-year-old, drunk out of my mind at a crappy action bar, eyes glazed, conscience numbed.
“Hey man, are you okay?” A young guy materialises at my window. I can’t respond before he sees the dead dude, swears and starts running. “Call the police, call the police, there’s a dead guy in that car!”
Crap. I start the car and roar back onto the road before anyone else can get to me. Where the freak do I go now?
----
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