Jaaassus, Dis maar 'n lekker jol ek se!

The night started with the obligatory pre-event "warm-ups" on the way to D'Kama.  Accordingly, most people managed to get themselves significantly inebriated prior to entry saving those valuable pounds sterling.

A notable indulgee was Kerry "I-can't-remember-you-being-there" Power, sticking her tongue out and scrunching her face up to say hello to us greeters (Shane, Yianni and myself). This, we could only imagine, was her impression of a bumhole under the duress of some strange gastro-intestinal infection (forgive the crassness). Either that or she was extremely intoxicated. Damn good impression it was nonetheless.

By 8pm everyone had pretty much arrived. The place was packed to the brim with all of Chiseler’s (Lance's) mates. A taxonomy of the attendees includes: The greater portion of the Westville populace, some Joburgians, a few other Durbanites, a couple of inbred Ozzies and a really inbred half Australian, half South African who thinks he is Italian (what a loser). A dangerous mix indeed.

The theme was "Roundup of the Space Cowboys", a good idea, but again a throwback from the Chiseler’s proclivity to dress up in strange clothes (more often than not, ladies clothes. His makeup wearing is another issue) and his insatiable desire to do anything that involves "boys".

Notables on the dress up scene were the Chiseler (the transvestite robot), Steve Young (doing an impersonation of space age watermelon); Craig "Pete" Sampras (the Space Cow Boy- get it?); Shane "I-can't-pull-the-trigger" Collins (muscle bound robot), and Ryan Motorbike (raver robot)...oh, and some guy I didn't know, came dressed up as Buzz Lightyear (Good work mate, but where was your "cowboy" sidekick Woody?).

The rest of the crowd, being the repressed individuals that they (okay, "we") are, donned the obligatory "Cowboy" hat and the requisite "Space" lasergun. Personally I cannot criticise, considering I purchased my lasergun about an hour before the event and then ended up stealing someone's cowboy hat. Borrrrring.

The first round of heats began in earnest with happy hour cut-off of 8:30 imminent. The bar became nicely cloaked with a morass of alcoholic-wannabes, scrambling for their 35 drinks- each. I noted that they abused that poor bar, but knew all too well that that poor inanimate object they were kicking and jumping on as means of getting served first, would later be holding a good many of them up, as they tried to combat the effects of excessive amounts of booze.

The times for the second and consequent heats were decreasingly slower, as could be expected. The marked increase in prices of liquor (due to elimination of Happy Hour from the proceedings) caused an equally commensurate decline in the performance of people's consumption according to the certified mouth to drink ratio.

The prices? Well, try £4.50 for a beer. That is a bottle of beer, not a pint. Mmm, that's a whole lot of apples folks.

Just to help remind you of your post-event babbelas: At the current exchange rate, that translates into about R50 FOR A SINGLE BEER. Geez, I remember back in the summer of 1993 when I purchased 24 beers for about R35. What is it now? About R60, I think. Are you feeling that babbe again, yet?

By the time the finale' had come, there had already been many fine performances. These consisted of: Drinking, dancing, drinking, a little bit of scuffling (allegedly the Chiseler’s boyfriend got jealous of another guy), some more drinking, and finally some more drinking.

For the Grand Final the stage was set: The nude ice busts were heaved onto the bar...

(For those not lucky enough to be present that night, the management of D'Kama, kindly present two ice statues, from the genital region up to the neck, that are used as conduits for hard liquor. The athlete stands in a contorted yoga position, which allows him or her to cusp the mouth around the ice genitalia, and then once "in the blocks" (or should I say "bollocks") the official starts the flow of liquor from the neck. The rest I will leave to your collective sordid imagination.)

...Anyway, the busts were put in place and the people were in the "bollocks". BANG! They were off. 8 Bottles of schnapps, 2 melted busts and 23-odd, very liquored and sticky people later, the finals were over. Who won? Pff, who cares.

For the victory lap, a few more "The-cost-of-a-case-of-beer-in-South-Africa" Beers and cocktails were vanquished by the hordes. Dancing had turned into moshing (unintentionally of course) and conversation had turned into a spitting competition (not sure if this was unintentional). People's costumes had eventually become pseudo-examples of avant-garde fashion, which would easily have found its second home in the Tate Modern's Gallery of Hysteria.

As for the "rounding up" part of the night, all the single guys were unlucky enough to have Pat "Snatch" Fenton in attendance that night, who managed corral all the girls into his pen. Needless to say, Snatch has a predilection for using his mouth to transport himself across a room- put another way, he leapfrogs from one girls spit repository to the next, with neither conversation nor breath needed. Mighty impressive I tell you.

Eventually the lights came on and the party was over. People yelled, "AFTER PARTY AT LANCE'S!!!". All but Lance went home and slept. What an awesome night.