Falling in love isn’t what it used to be. It was once a leisurely stroll along a pearly beach, the soft embrace of her hand upon yours as the sun carelessly drops beneath the horizon, your lips touching, deep breathing, passionate coitus upon silk sheets with a light breeze and the aromatic fragrance of rose petals permeating the air. Now, it’s a bottle of cheap wine, a 4am MacDonald’s meal and the courtesy of a “thank you” after she managed to make her feet touch the back of her neck. Romeo and “undying commitment” has been replaced by Chris Brown and “fist gestures” and Valentines Day is now only good for a “Dress only in Red” party at Tiger Tiger. And thus marriage’s sanctity has lost the value it once held. No longer is death the only reason to part ways; inSouth Africait is now legitimate to cite “impotency” as a legal ground for divorce. “I swear baby this has never happened before… should have signed the fucking pre-nup.” Now Im 25 and I see people my age slowly starting to tie the knot. Is it this fallible commitment doomed to collapse? Or is it now time to take relationships a bit more seriously?

InAfrica42 percent of girls under-18 are married. In over 92% of those cases the male is old enough to legally buy beer. And while I’m sure that Sierra Leoneans are keen to get their drink on before they come of age, one has to consider that love is not the mitigating factor when it comes to wedlock. This is seen on a global scale, where 23% of American marriages end in divorce before reaching the 5 year mark and 43% by the time they hit their 15 yearCrystalanniversary. Love is eternal? Until the money runs out, or she adds those extra pounds that her mother’s waistline warned you about. Shakespearean romance appears to have dematerialized; we might still see the occasional couple who are in their nineties and still happy as peaches, but that’s because they got married 70 fucking years ago. How many grey haired wrinkly old stooges will still be wrapped in each others embrace come 2080? Do I dare be the Cupid executioner and say that love does not last? You smell the same morning breath steaming down your neck enough times and eventually that fountain of love will run dry.

But don’t, for a second, think that entering a marriage doomed to failure is a fruitless endeavor. Rupert Murdoch’s wife fleeced the old hound for 1.7 billion dollars when their nuptials finally came home to roost. But I can understand from her position:

A.)  He is, invariably, a poes.

B.)  His man-stallion must look like 16 dried apricots on a string.

Age, unfortunately, removes beauty and if the love isn’t intertwined through the heart of the relationship then by 60 you have little to hold onto; especially if you can leave him for a Spanish pool boy and enough cash to build your own nuclear power plant. The advantages of staying with a person versus leaving them sometimes just don’t add up. This is coupled with our celebrity role models who can’t seem to hang onto a marriage longer than a sky jumper’s freefall; the famous Kardashian 72 day ultra-marriage paying homage to that. Britney Spears’ fleeting day long marriage holds a rather blistering torch to ‘ol Kim’s transitory matrimony, and these are the people our young ones hold in esteem. Beniffer, Brangelina, Tom Cruidman (OK that was my attempt, but trust Cruise to fuck everything up), are all twisted doomed engagements that our kids look up to, why wouldn’t marriages fail?

At the end of the day my folks got married when they were 25 and are still almost strangely perfect in wedlock. Should we get married that early though? With what we know about marriage nowadays should we be saying “I do” before we say “I have a boil on my bum and I need you to do an evaluation”? What’s the hurry?  Fall in love, treasure that love and don’t take the obvious route. Know your partner back to front and inside out. Divorce is not something that should ever happen and in the 1800’s suicide was a more preferable exit. For the first time two years ago the average age of Americans getting married went past the 30 mark. Good. You don’t get a tattoo of a scorpion on your dick when youre 16. Why? Cause youre gonna feel like a right chop when you know better, even though it seems genius at the time. This is all of course until you knock some chick up, then get on one knee and be eternally regretful that she didn’t just get down on both of hers.

~Stroob~

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Its funny how my idea of “mob justice” has been morphed, prodded and influenced by Francis Ford Coppola movies. I envision a Southern Italian with an ironic flower nickname like Bobby “the daffodil” Puccini giving concrete swimming shoes to a police informant, and then celebrating with a bowl of Spaghetti Napolitano. But this stereotype has been molested by the Hollywood guild and a South African context bears little, if any, semblance. Thabo “The Eastern Cape Protea” Mandonsela hardly wields the unrequited fear that his Sicilian counterpart is so well renowned. Yet the local Saffas have power in numbers, and quite strangely; social responsibility. Now I must preface my words with the standard “I, in no way, condone violence in any form”, but a community backhanding a cell phone thief does get my highly esteemed golden star. Its no secret that the SAPS has failed your average South African. Im not talking about the white Bishopscourt housewives receiving foot rubs from their ADT guards, Im talking about the working class general citizens who live in shanty town squalor and whose New South Africa world resembles a lawless wasteland. Its in these townships of desperation, where the law is as effective as a condom in a Kardashian household, that the community is police, judge, jury and executioner, and a rather heavy handed hangman at that! Is it a legitimate way to drown the flames of anarchy?

Basically the idea centers on a notion that due to limp-dicked policeman, a town leader will drag the accused into a communal setting. Charges are catapulted from all corners and eventually the “mob” decries a guilty verdict. This is followed by beatings, stonings and, according to Captain Malcom Pojie of Plettenberg Bay police station; “group discipline”. However in the case of Derrick Shwati, a cluster of 2000 protestors swarmed the poor oke, and the bottom-end of Plett’s warped socio-economic disparity, got their freak on. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” But if youre the seventh dude hurling rocks at an accused child rapist then youre in an ethical grey area. This is where my main problem lies. Poor Mr Shwati had more black guys on top of him then Lohan at the ass end of a crack binge, and just like Lindsay Id be surprised if a third of them even knew his name. When adrenalin is pumping and everyone is riding the bandwagon like it’s a Porsche Boxter, people don’t care if he’s guilty, what his crime is or if the law has taken its course. “This dudes getting moered with stones… and I love a good ‘moering’.” There’s no fair trial, no thought of the consequences, its simply the heat of the moment; and its fucking boiling.

Our courts are the sacrosanct cornerstone of the South African constitution. And while our leaders might treat them as canine fecal matter beneath their shoes, the general public is required to regard their verdicts as gospel. However, in yet another case in Kwanokuthula township outside Plett, a man who had served his allotted jail term of 18 years for child rape, was shown the wrath of the community he returned to and was killed within days of his homecoming. Now Im the first person to think child rapists should have Hummers slowly reverse over their testicals, and 18 years doesn’t cover the deed, but the man served his sentence under SA law. He abided by our country’s legislation and did his time. If you have a problem with that, vote the rule makers from power, fuck even draft a complaint with your municipal counselor, but to go all Boondock Saints on a dude who has experienced 18 years of ass rapeage isn’t the correct way to instill a sense of obedience.

The idea of killing someone because they stole a cell phone is archaic at best. I don’t see the mobs of this world lining up outside Luthuli House to stone the thieves who steal billions of Rands of public funds every year either. But this only serves to highlight that the law enforcement in the majority of this country is failing worse than Tom Cruise’s attempts at heterosexuality. Mob justice leaves itself open to catastrophic wrongful convictions. A man inLimpopowas killed recently after he was found sleeping in a barn where stock theft had taken place. An eye for a cow? Doesn’t quite ring true and most certainly wouldn’t pass scrutiny in civilized society. We have an army equipped with enough artillery to make Pakistan spread her legs, yet we cant police our own townships? Get the military involved, hold the leaders of these mobs severely accountable and prove to the masses who get implicated in these killings that there is recourse. Because currently, our mobs are making Al Capone seem like Pope John Paul at a soup kitchen!

~Stroob~

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Our glorious Rainbow Nation, filled to the brim with an eclectic melting pot of kif okes, sweet babes and vuil naais. But there isn’t one singular collective that encompasses all and sundry; for instance I can smell a Joburger from twenty paces, and its not just due to the mandatory 2 cans of Axe body spray that is applied before having dinner in a shopping mall, theres just something about people from all 5 corners of the country that resonates. For a guy who has been thrust into Mzansi magic since birth, there is a definite twang about people from different phone codes, and while Im probably only going to need “911” once half the steroided Stellenboschians have had their morning litre bottle of Klippies and then read this, its still vital that foreigners know what theyre getting into before they visit the doldrums of the new South Africa.

Cape Town

“Chill man, everythings irie, lemme quickly adjust my suspenders on my skinny jeans and I’ll serve you your Jack Black within the next 20 minutes…promise” –  That’s your standard reply from one of the 800 000 former advertising students who are actually just too cool for the industry and are taking some time out, working at a Long Street Bar to really “Find themselves”. Inevitably they go on to do a photography course, followed  by starting a fashion label, all the while insisting that the smell of reefer promulgating the air is helping the flow of creativity. Just a pity about the fucking dedication. It is like the mountain enforces Einstein’s theory that time is relative, but its not, and you need to stop asking for an extension on your deadline. If its not chilled out film students over-pondering irrelevant philosophy then its, well… sweaty gays. Order a hot dog at 4am at BP at Somerset road, make sure you acquire the “extra saucy” option. Better yet, try it in leather pants. Ive got fifty bucks that says you wont make it to your car without at least 4 of the most fabulously divine he-shes begging for “just a little bit of help changing my tyre in a dark alley”. Capetonians are too relaxed, focus too much on midweek partying and designing flyers for upcoming gigs and need to get a real life, where they aren’t 35 and still taking acid at a bush rave and calling it spiritual.

Joburg

“Yussis boet, cant believe this whey protein doesn’t come in more than a 20kg tub”. Personally I don’t know how the majority of Vaalies don’t stare at themselves in the mirror and burst into tears. Word of advice, if you have taken so much muscle builder that you can actually see veins in your forehead, you need to eat some broccoli and take a long introspective walk in a garden maze of some kind. They say the economic hub of the southern tip is high energy, fast paced professionalism. True, but the over abundance of aggression, throughout the economic and social spectrum, is enough to make Ghandi take up arms. If fully grown straight men had a championship to see who could wear the tightest fitting t shirt emblazoned with diamante sequins and tiger prints, then Joeys would account for the 1^st 2^nd and 3^rd teams. I have to wonder if they watch Jersey Shore episodes and have a brainwave of summer fashion.  Fair enough though, I would probably also be a muscle bound rogue if I had a 5 in 4 chance of being raped every day. The crime rages to a point where no one walks along the streets. A good idea of a night out features extensive tours of elaborate shopping malls, where a first-class view is considered to be the people at the other end of the courtyard youre sitting in, or the giant neon “Sports Scene” above the shop adjacent. Joburgers: Chill out, smoke a joint, and stop fucking invading Plett to catch a glimpse of what the ocean really looks like in December.

Durbs

I hate three things in life: The idea that Julius might one day be president, people who wear socks in sandals, and a Sharks supporter trying to blame the ref when they lose another crunch match.  I have tuned the okes from Joeys about aggression, but try wearing a Province shirt to a Saturday Night at Joe Cool’s after a Sharks loss and there will be gang rape. Its definitely a sign of the times when boardshorts and flippies are acceptable attire in a nightclub. Wipe the humidity out your ears and have maybe a little more to show for 200 years of existence than Shaun Pollock and the highest case of domestic abuse in the country. But leader Jacob hails from this section of jungle. So ya… ummm… there’s that. Way to go. By far the sweetest accent on the planet, the cacophony of a Durbanite bears remnants to a deaf Jamaican on ketamine  – “So way kiff bro”. If its not roadside rickshaws its an Indian burning rubber in a modded out ’95 Astra that will get you. Durban poison wasn’t always a weed, in the 70’s it was used by the Apartheid government to nuke all traces of “kiff okes” and sweet “chicks”. They tried to survive, but all you see now are mutated rejects grovelling around a Toxic wasteland. Shame, at least they can claim Stefan Terrblanche. Kif.

Stellies

See Im half unsure whether I should back away from lambasting farm people like this. “Friendly, Warm and Welcoming” translates into 17^th century Stellenboschian dialect as “ a soft poesklap”. More adept at drinking beer, then say… tying your shoes. They have literally tried to get weapons fighting into a local farm church’s charity parade. Masquerading as a varsity town its a place where debauchery and indeed farmyard sodomy reigns supreme. Nestled in the mountains away from the bustle of Cape Town and the ethical obligations of civilized society, The Bosch is a homeland to post-pubescent study-nuts who never want to grow old: A Boere Neverland if you will. And while it might only house these academics for a few years, as they swiftly move to greener pastures, the impact upon them will last a lifetime.  If the B Com Marketing degree you got from Maties doesn’t find you a treasure trove of work, feel safe in the notion that theres always your uncle’s sheep pleasuring business up the road. Long live the Dutchmen.

So you see, everyones a cunt in SA. If you haven’t been mentioned in this article then that is proof that youre even more of a cunt then most. The nice part is that occasionally we all come together in some thunder ball of genetically modified bullshit and we have this multi cultural unique world of intrigue and coloureds train surfing. If you can stand aside and just appreciate them all for the own tangible differences, then we’re the “Oh my god it’s a double Rainbow” Nation. The regular Rainbow nation, but on drugs and shit.

~Stroob~

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Seriously, stop what you doing and watch this. These guys have got some massive balls to do this. Adrenalin pumping stuff!

Every young child enamoured with his or her own imagination dreams of many things: Flying, space travel, three-way sex with that chick from Isidingo and a moustached Ron Weasley (okay too personal). Yet since Dr. Emmet Brown reached 88mph in “Back To The Future” , there is an infatuation with time travel unrivalled. Steven Hawkings’ claim to fame, besides having the brain of ten men and the body of a Kenwood Toaster, is his theory of the space time continuum and how time is not linear, and travelling through it is a plausible ideal. However most children aren’t likely to magically travel the speed of light, enter a black hole, and come rocketing out backwards on a nuclear charged Big-Wheels in the year 2056. So, for at least the moment, we are going to have to be content with 2011 and all the ethically backward Norwegians that come with it. However, all hope is not lost, Futurama is in the process of becoming more than just a Simpsons spin-off that shouldn’t have been cancelled.

Dr Robert Ettinger is, or rather was, the founder of a movement that advocates storing frozen bodies; which kind of aggrieves me, because I store just 3 and half bodies in my freezer and I’m all of a sudden “The bad guy”.  However, the sweet doctor has been researching, since World War 2, the possibility of cryogenically incarcerating tissue in ice, to be revived at a later stage. Until last week when he himself passed away and has been stored in his own personal sub zero tomb. The idea is that nano-technology in the future will be able to repair broken tissue from hypothermia and then, once a cure for your ailment has been found, bring you back to life. And while it might sound like a fantastic premise for the screenplay of “Snow Zombies 3:Battlefor theArctic”, his research remains relatively sound.

The Future of cryonics is based around the notion that science will develop to the point where any procedure can be possible. It just doesn’t exist yet. But it will, or at least that is what the 256 current icicles trapped inside a snowy limbo, where their right hand can’t even touch their own penis, are hoping.  Temperatures below 150 degrees Celsius literally stop the metabolism, casting the individual in a permanent pose, waiting for the day when they are thawed and can come bounding out of the ice with a smirky “I told you so bitches” to all their critics.

But would I freeze myself? At the moment, not a chance. If I were to contract a deadly illness then I would view it as the karmic circle of life biting down hard, and let nature take its course. With global warming, nuclear terror and Perez Hilton all on a steadfast incline I’m not sure if the future would be such an ideal place to live anyway.  I don’t want to wake in 500 years time and all I have to show for it is a fragile body and the modern day global knowledge of a Christopher Columbus detractor. I’m quite keen on remaining exceptionally intelligent in a 21^st Century context and living out my days in the sun. If you’ve ever read Stephen King’s “PetCemetery” then you’ll be aware that things that are buried (or frozen) don’t always come back to life as expected. Sure our tissue might be intact, but our consciousness and brain activity could differ drastically. In the last twenty years we have seen the invention of cell phones, new cars and the internet, in centuries the world could be a place that would easily skewer our sanity, and im already on rocky ground!

However, I definitely think there is a need to remain in an elongated state of cryogenic suspension. Space travel would become plausible, sending astronauts further than ever before, allowing us to understand further parts of our universe. It would also allow first hand accounts of history by literally sending academics into the future. We’d be able to let Justin Bieber be the 23^rd Century’s problem through a series of rogue kidnappings and truly teach future generations what not to do. But beyond all doubt, the number one reason to lock yourself in a chilled prison is to awake in 250 years time, meet and shag your great great great great grand daughter, lie back, light a crispy genetically engineered Marlboro Light and quietly mutter to yourself “And you thought you were good Joseph Frietzel”.

~Stroob~

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Its hard being a highly educated white male in a contemporary South African social order. At the tender age of 8, the ANC became a governing force, liberating this young author and the land upon which he lived. The world rejoiced, the people cheered and I eventually learned how to conjugate a verb. I grew up, side-by-side with black guys, constantly aggrieved that I couldn’t beat them at a 100m sprint, but emotionally unattached to our differing pigments. The blissful ignorance of youth shone brightly; contextually unaware of the past, yet ambitious enough to succeed at all costs. Life was good, Mandela was doing the rumba to an applausive crowd, Francois Pienaar was lifting trophies, Darren Scott didn’t have AIDS and here I was; dreaming of a bigger future. And here I am. Im highly successful, I have two degrees framed above my bed, I make an admirable living, im politically astute and my grasp on social issues is both poignant and opinionated. I’ve worked my arse so far to the bone you can actually see my pelvis if I wear a g-string and I’m damn proud to be where I am. So why, in this tumultuous time of racial divide, am I feeling guilty for being white?

The ANC’s mandate is covered in the Freedom Charter, a somewhat contentious document in its wording, but undeniably a skeleton on which to build a unified nation. It stipulates that the land belongs to all those who live in it, except of course the estimated  5 million illegal immigrants that have hop scotched our ferocious borders.  These include affirmative action, Broad Based Black Economic Empowerment and various other bits and bobs of racially orientated legislature. Apartheid sucked, Verwoed’s a poes, we get it. And I believe for the moment it is of clinical importance that such laws exist in order to level the playing field. But how many times can I say “sorry”, extend not just an olive branch, but a whole fucking grove, before free handouts are abolished? When does the responsibility of achievement and economic freedom fall on the laps of my black brothers, as opposed to taking from the white guy?
Enter Julius Malema, a man who makes Idi Amin look like Bill Clinton in sweat pants. This weekend the intellectual juggernauts of the ANC Youth League descended upon Midrand for their elective conference. And besides trashing a hotel to the value of over a million rand, they discussed nationalizing mines, banks and forcibly removing white farmers from their legally purchased land. The complaint is that  “Africans” don’t have claim to what is rightfully theirs, and those evil Mercedes producing, Microsoft programming, Johnnie Walker drinking devils of the West are pillaging “their” resources. But how do you lay claim to ancestral birthright?

The problem is in the definition of heritage. In fact if we look at our deep-seated history we find that the Khoikhoi (or Khoi San) were the first inhabitants of the land, migrating around the central and western parts of the country. Until the 1500’s what we know today as South Africa actually housed none, to minimal amounts of black tribes. The Nguni and Zulus moved down the east coast in the late 1500’s. When these burly black men encountered the San, they murdered, raped and enslaved them, taking their land, or at least the land in which they dwelled and turned them from hunter gatherers into foot massagers and bell boys. Wow sounding a bit like that time-that-shall-not-be-named *Cough Cough Apartheid Cough*. The Pedi’s, of which Julius Malema is a proud heir , didn’t reach our borders until the 1800’s, but I guess as long as you’re black youre entitled to everything under the African sky, without having to develop it yourself.

Our principle basis for land reform is the “willing buyer, willing seller” initiative. Since 1994, 95 percent of all fully functioning farms given to previously disadvantaged individuals have failed completely in production and are now either vacant, baron, or non functional. But as long as they have land, who really needs food production? Eating after liberation is a prudent mantra. The state owns roughly a quarter of SA’s land, but we know they aren’t going to part with any of it. So now King Jules wants to take it without compensation, without proper training and without any direct birthright to it, regardless of when the owner purchased the property? Seems fair!

He also wants the mines and banks. Lets lay claim to everything, even the minerals trapped kilometers below ground, that superior European technology excavated at considerable economic investment, the minerals the Pedis would have totally dug up if it wasn’t for Johan Van Niekerk and Willem FlikBliksem. The banks are largely owned by international companies and taking them would completely cripple our economy, so Im not breaking into night sweats about that just yet, surely common sense will prevail? Yes, because our country is known for its overwhelming  logic and sound judgment.

But my issue is not restitution. Blacks were heavily disadvantaged during the struggle, and they need  compensation. But who? And for how long? To what end? But more importantly everytime something goes wrong in this country; take a bit of responsibility. The ANC has been in power for over 17 years and every single state owned institution has gone to shit through corruption and mismanagement. Its your fault, you’ve ousted the whitey so now he holds 2.4 percent of governmental positions. Yet its always the “racist white agenda” that’s to blame. Fuck that. I had nothing to do with racism until you called me one. The weight of this country’s future is bestowed on your shoulders ANC and you cant simply take from the white and give to the black in order to right wrongs, we’ll only regress as a nation. So please stop blaming me for all the fuck-ups. I wasn’t as involved in Apartheid for those first 8 years as you’ll have me believe. Lets focus on educating the youth, equipping them with skills, stop Julius Malema talking about white people worse than Voldemort about muggles, and actually seeing the good that whites can bring to the country, and then this rainbow nation can finally have a pot of gold at the end of it, that we can all enjoy together.
 
~Stroob~
 
FOR THE RECORD: Im proud to be white, im thankful everyday. Not because of pre-1994 doom and gloom, but for the great achievements white people have made through the years. You can try and make me feel shame Julius, but it only makes my resilience stronger. A shaky flake of history shouldn’t determine the way you see us as a collective. We’re not all General Hertzog in disguise!

I’m going to preface this literary tour-de-force by acknowledging  I’m breaking the first holy grail of AA. That one that preludes the 1^st of the twelve steps: “Thou shalt not bequeath upon souls the events that doth occur in Alcoholics Anonymos meetings”. So first up was Brad, a blue eyed blonde haired Architect from Blouberg…

Acknowledging you’re a 24 year old alcoholic is like admitting you’ve thought about Ellen DeGeneres in the nude. Whether you’re a girl or guy at some stage you’ve ripped the cargo pants and sweater vest off that little lesbian and thought “maybe”, but it’s not something you’re discussing in public. So me, walking into that local church hall to an ocean of free coffee, biscuits and people’s shattered lives, was a particularly grand recognition that nights of reckless tequila binges and occasional public nudity, were becoming too much. I was so nervous I could feel my underarm sweat patch creeping towards my waistline. A sweaty 20-something super-boozer with Gin on the mind and vomit on the trousers? Watch out bitches.

It really starts exactly how you would think. Awkward banter among the familiars before a bald guy calls us all to order, and we take our seats. There’s an oddly jovial atmosphere in the air. I was expecting a room filled with people who’ve lost their families, wrecked their cars or given blowjobs to cats, but it wasn’t. People seemed genuinely happy to be there, almost excited. The host says a few inspirational words and quotes Al Gore of all people, before inviting the first alchy to take the stage. “Hi, I’m Deepak Chopra and I’m an alcoholic”, and while the name might not have been real, the overwhelming bellow from the crowd certainly was. “Hi Deepak” they responded in militaristic unison. I was in a rags to riches Sly Stallone movie, but for a change… it was awesome.

One by one, people of all races, sizes, shapes and ratings from 2 to about a 7 and a half on the “I’d hit that” scale, stood up and told truly emotional tales of the vicious tolls alcohol had taken on their lives. I’ve been caught up in some pretty nasty positions thanks to booze. Broken bones, arrests, car crashes, anonymous sex and inappropriate  acts with a frozen chicken foot (true story) and some of the stuff these complete strangers were telling me made my ordeals seem like high-tea with the queen. Im not one to take glee in the plight of others, but hearing how I paled into comparison to guys with one leg and a woman who had accidentally killed her own children, did somehow bring my racing heart to a beat not resembling a jackhammer.

But with such morbid tales of real life horror echoing through the room , there was a blatant irony in that everyone was happy. There was accomplishment in the air. I had entered thinking that these people were just boozers who’d taken tequila too far. And while they were, they were overcoming a genuine disease. Doctor House would have kicked them in the nuggets, and before I arrived I would have too. But here they were, bearing their souls, looking for a solution and battling a beer filled demon grabbing them by the ankles. Do I want to share the hope and belief these guys did? Sure. Do I want to quit drinking? Yes. Am I going to? For the moment, but more to avoid them forcing a sponsor upon me. They say you should go every day for 72 days. I might pop in next week, and then call myself Jack or Jose, just to mess with them…

~Stroob~

At the moment, in our glorious tip of a dark and dreary continent, we have Julius Malema and Steve Hofmeyer. Two talented “young” men who are doing as much for race-relations as Hitler did for yarmulke sales. These intellectual juggernauts are in a perpetual tantrum of race based folly, and, to be honest, they’re both losing. Steve, you’re a hardened Afrikaner, your biggest claim to fame is bad haircuts and meat cooked upon an open flame. Julius, chief, you’re a proud Pedi, you’re known for… well, having no word for hermaphrodite. The point being, you’re both about as helpful to the nation as scentless farts.  Luckily the majority of free thinking 21^st century liberals know these unique heroes to be nothing more than the rejects of genetic disposition they are. Unfortunately, these same free thinking claimants of modern day tolerance bear an ugly prejudice to anything “Here, Queer and ready to tear the shit out of stripper pole to a George Michael cover tune”.

 Recently parliament, the embodiment of post-apartheid South Africa, voted “No” to congratulate South Africa’s second consecutive Mr Gay Universe, Francios Nel. If America can have a black president then why the gosh darn cant we appreciate a gay white male? Is it because he’s gay, white and a male? Or is it because cabinet is worried about him starting a three way with Jacob and Nkosizana? But more importantly, in an eternal quest for a non-racial society, why is an alternative sexual preference still so frowned upon?

Jacob famously changed the whistle in his tune concerning two ball bags fluttering against each other, in a bid to harness the Cape’s vote during his 2008 election manifesto. His once vehement stance of families, ancestors and the straight man’s Giorgio Armani loin cloth, was skewered last minute in a bid to seem more “for the people”. Politicians changing their beliefs for power? I’ve had the horror shocked right out of me. The Mother City’s annual Gay tourism income stretches well over R250 million. How can he not dip his chubby little finger in that fudge pie? This same man, purporting to be an iconic symbol of equality, of a fight against oppression, is the same man who once called homosexuals “cowards and jackals”. “A better life for all”? As long as you don’t take it up the chutney.

We like to claim that as South Africans we are a tolerant and understanding forbearer for Africa as a whole. We have overcome indifference and formed a true Rainbow Nation that should inspire our continent. The archaic and bloody traditions that curse the cradle of mankind have seen gay men and women executed for wearing pink tops and simply mouthing the words of show-tunes. Yet they are the first to scream racism when the imperialist “white” west is late with aid, or shares a separate opinion.

Uganda is to gay rights, what Charlie Sheen is to sober Jehovah’s Witnesses. The death penalty is in place for any man who even reads Heat magazine, and that’s not the worst part. Our ambassador to this primitive land of sexual conformity, is former columnist Joe Qwelane. A man so foul he is quoted as saying “I would disown my own children if they were gay, they would never again step foot in my house”. Imagine if I said I would “disown my own children if they were black”, hey… Sometimes I drink and chow Viagra like potato chips. You never know. But as our emissary to a nation besmirched by what is now a humanitarian crisis, what kind of a message are we sending about our homophobic afflictions?

My point is that racism in our country today is endemic for a million reasons. Homophobia is for some reason cheered in higher echelons. Why? Are we all god fearing traditionalists in yearning for days where skies were blue, grass was green, and triceratops still roamed the open plains? This is the fucking 21^st century. You are inherently gay, you don’t decide to be this funked up little feline in a fishnet sweater vest because it’s the “in” thing. In a society like ours, why would you? Its how you were born. I didn’t decide to be white, covered in brown hair, incredibly good looking and burdened by a 10 inch man hammer, but I’m embracing it because its who I am. If someone is gay, and you assert to live a life of openness, tolerance and acceptance, then you walk right up to that little queer in De Waterkant and hug them now. Otherwise its your conscience and your values that are the real ones taking a cock to the chin.

Stroob 

*This article is dedicated to Ugandan Gay Rights Activist David Kato, whose name was published with many others in a government sponsored paper in an attempt to educate the public about gays in the area, that eventually led to his execution. Your fearless dedication to equality will not be remembered in the same light as Mandela or Sisulu, but to me and many others, your commitment to sexual freedom will live on forever. Respect oke.

So as some of you may know, our esteemed contributor and part time knee model Stroob is a big time heavy weight in Cape Town’s Film Industry. His lack of moral standing and continuous nagging has resulted in us being forced to put up his latest offering to the world of features.

Blue Crush 2 encompasses a whole bunch of people youve never heard of, and Roxy Louw in a speedo that just wont quit. A Brit plays an American, an American plays a Zulu and an Australian plays a bitch (although that seems a bit more realistic). Its filled with South Africans and was filmed up and down the west coast of our Rainbow Nation during winter last year. Stroob’s role as a colourist is kind of like photoshop for motion picture and he insists he was privy to nip slips and bikini failures for 3 months solid.

Either way this film looks ridiculously bad and its PG rating has ruined my dreams of Roxy in a naked asparagus eating contest. It wont make a cinema release but catch it on Blu-Ray, DVD, or .avi file on a friends hard drive soon!

I’ve never been conscious of death. I’ve never known the pain it causes. The rippling effect of dissension for the most certain act of life, its end, has a long reaching sphere that can touch people quite distant from the deceased. Its irreversible, definite and cause of the greatest fear in human existence. However my ignorance to its effects manages to highlight a more relevant topic than gays in the military: that we don’t celebrate the achievements and life of the individual as we mourn and grieve the loss. Sometimes we have to stand on our hind legs and applaud sheer awesomeness in the way those who are no longer with us lived their lives, and embrace their accomplishments. I could sit here for days in an inane ramble about how certain people had warm hearts and kind souls, but that’s for websites about family planning and the menstrual cycle. At Mycitybynight we look for an even greater “awesome”, a rich anecdote and salute to those who have reached the grave screaming “fuck, what a ride”. So heres to those who embraced the inevitable, and even if it was far too young, I offer a tipped glass to those who perished in the coolest way possible.

 Robbing a Bank

 “Everybody get your hands in the motherfucking air, this is a robbery”. And… erection. No man on this earth can look you in the eye and say he doesn’t want to strap on a Nixon mask, pull into ABSA, cock a shotgun and fire off a couple of warning shots into the roof. I want to get into a rusted panel van with bags of money and have a high speed chase that ends when the road stops on the brim of a canyon. I’ll slowly exit, with a hundred police guns directed at my brow, wryly chuckle and say those 5 words that make grown men woozy “You’ll never take me alive”. As I point my gun (in a screaming bout of slow motion to the soundtrack of Elton John’s Rocketman), my captors put a hole between my eyes. I fall back into the canyon as a gust of wind catches my loot and hundred dollar bills rain down, silhouetted by the sunset. I can almost taste the awesome.

Sexual Accident

A recent Swedish survey found that 93 percent of all men who die during sex are cheating on their wives. Not cool. Then I would minus another 5 percent of those who die through accidental asphyxiated masturbation gone wrong. Even worse. But that coveted 1/50^th of sex deaths summit a plateau where only truly accomplished individuals hold credence.  Obviously the main one is dehydration from just too much sex, where the maid finds you tied up and dry 2 weeks after starting a coital marathon. Suffocation from a clown mask would be well up there too, although make sure you die  with a smile. This is why suffocation from a clown mask beats suffocation by a ball gag any day of the week, just those small details that will linger in the coroners mind, cause lets face it that’s who we’re trying to impress here. Him, and hot angel chicks. 

Extreme Sports

I’ve never done a double backflip on a motorcycle, some of you may even know this. But if I got an incurable case of lupus and the doc declared my days numbered, then I would be hitting the motorcross track with vengeance. I want to try a trick so extreme that it would actually shut down Youtube, which kind of makes it better if I fall. A non-opening parachute is always good for hits, especially if you aim for something epic on the ground. Like a church. Imagine hurtling towards earth and falling straight from the sky at the end of mass. Scream. Death. Funeral. Forgiveness. Redemption. Applause. All in the matter of minutes.

Conquering terrain in an off road vehicle features highly on the respectable-ometer too. Out in nature, battling an onslaught of the elements  and having a catastrophic accident where it takes days to excavate you from a ravine. If they need a search party to find your body then you’ve unequivocally gone to the other side in style.

Battling a lion

Man’s primal urge is to conquer his challengers. Defend the roost, honor thy family, do tricks with nun-chucks that let you dominate a panther or other wild cat. You earn extra points for surmounting this primordial hurdle while wearing a loin cloth. Go full homo-sapien. Long hair, shaggy beard. I advise spending a winter with a pack of wolves; it tends to get you in that survival of the fittest mode. No guns or crossbows, this is hand to hand combat that Caesar would be proud of. Imagine being in a Coliseum and your daughter’s life hangs in the balance. The beast and you lock eyes and the survival instinct takes over. You both fight hard, a symbol of your bond with the wild, when the pair of you simultaneously collapse due to your wounds. You die with grace and dignity, and you kill a fucking lion. Are you as turned on as me?

Theres a few more but I’ve run out of time. Being a CIA agent, tied up and tortured by KGB insurgents but rather dying than giving up the armament codes is right up there. I’m quite aroused by deep sea diving misfortunes, avalanches or taking a bullet for the president too.

Realistically I’ll probably go in my sleep aged 89. My liver just giving up after turning into an actual raisin. But if I was tragically to depart before my time, then it would be doing something I love, with someone I love. And while it may sound like a Twilight movie on gayroids, there is no greater truth. Live a life with vigor and zest and if luck bestows you her greatest gifts then the coolest way to go is just having those who matter by your side. Fuck that, clown-masked poorly-planned doggystyle for the win!

Stroob

Raymond Hitchcock once said that a man isn’t poor if he has laughter. This suited us just perfectly on Thursday night when Kreg and I ventured to our good buddy Dylan Skews’s new one man show at “On Broadway”. We were broke, but according to ‘ol Ray Ray we were bathing in riches, because we enjoyed the privilege of one of Cape Town’s new comedic elite showcasing some fine talent.

The setting was ideal, as a relatively large audience was treated to 90 minutes of hysterics. Dylan’s crazy impressions of anyone from your local car guard to himself after three bongs and a large meal, kept the spectators screaming out loud from the word go. His audacious and confident demeanor was complimented perfectly by his white trash beard and “I don’t give a fuck” appearance which simply added to an evening that was both highly entertaining and incredibly humorous. Take our advice and go stoned, it was a better decision than the end of apartheid.

Dylan’s show runs until the end of next week and we cant recommend it enough. He has been kind enough to give us 5 tickets for Saturday’s show, all you have to do is tell us a joke of anykind and then like his event on the BookFace and you and a friend could be sitting up close and receive some of his long range spit balls to the chin. 

Good luck to all entries and thanks to Skewest man in comedy for a night to remember!

Theres a refined skill to courting a woman in three minutes, hell theres a refined skill in courting a fair maiden in 3 months… and that’s if you have a 7 figure income, a boat, a butler named Gabriel and a 10 inch dong. So when Monday night’s World record speed dating extravaganza reared its head upon MCBN’s illustrious social calendar, we knew we were heading for war. The Biscuit Mill provided a 70 degree Celsius setting that graciously caused larger wet patches under our arms than we were hoping to create on our bed sheets later that evening. Nothing says romance like sweating through your underwear. However the sweltering desert failed to deter our ravenous mojos and four double Jack and limes later we began to bring the A-Game.  As we plowed our way through three 18 year old 1^st year students in under 10 minutes, we realized we’d hit the mother load and before I’d filled out a single scorecard I had chewed the entire top half of my pen. But there has to be a strategy for this pit of anonymity and sexual deviance, and when I left that building I knew we must create a guide to help aspiring speedsters fulfill their goals, except Gareth Cliff, seriously oke, grow a chin, its like your mouth is joined to your chest.

First off by far the most important piece of advice I can convey, is lie. I actually nearly convinced an advertising intern to let me give her rhynoplasty. The key is that these women have no idea who you are, and chances are youre not as cool as your mum likes to believe, so become the “astronaught philanthropist who runs an animal shelter for wounded puppies” you’ve always wanted to be. Inevitably when dating 20 chicks in an evening you will encounter some “uggos”, and while our initial disparagement of meeting girls twice our size had gotten us slightly down, we soon realized that these were the morbid targets of plummeting self-esteem we’d always wanted. Julia from Rondebosch, I’m not really an Agent for plus sized models, I don’t have an agency called “Yetti’s Bettys” and no matter which way you wear that lip ring its not going to make Jesus love you. I’m sorry. However I’m definitely printing fake business cards for next time.

Secondly, don’t be shy of half time tequila shots. Our venue had been adorned with a full bar and it probably forced me to say things I would usually think twice before uttering. Things like “I only have one testicle but it makes me work twice as hard”, “I bet you’ve got great pubes” or my biggest regret for the evening “So… You’re from Durbanville? Awesome”. But the drinking does lubricate the social environment and before I knew it I had twenty girls eating out the palm of my hand, but not literally, normally I wait ‘til the third date.

So as the end of the night approached I reached my final date, my shirt was drenched with sweat and the sweet scent of young love. I entered the back seat of a Chevy Spark to find a 5FM DJ whose name I cant pronounce (Dineo) and whose slot time is so late her only listeners are security guards and prostitutes. We kicked it off instantly and now I’m doing a Bruce Springsteen ballot cover at 3 15am on Thursday morning. Finally our scorecards were entered and now I play this painful waiting game, to see if any of the young nubile nymphs dare climb into my lair of sexual disparity and broken promises. Who was as excited to meet me as I was excited for them to meet me? (And no, that is not a typo). I guess the last little bit of ironic knowledge I can bestow is that only time will tell!!

Stroob

PS: Huge shout out to 5FM, thanks for letting us be a part of the largest speed dating event in the history of our great planet. Thanks to Senor  Ginga Kreg and the guys from Trinity and Quirk for accompanying us along the adventure. But most of all, thank you to all the impressionable young girls that helped prove that large misogynistic events can still be a roaring success in the mother city!

As any impressionable boy child will tell you, viewing porn was one of the cornerstones of their upbringing. Whether it be huddled around dialup internet erotica or on their own trying to surgically unstick the pages of a second hand Hustler, each and every man saw the naked female form in print before person. And how deluded were we? Thinking that 36DD boobs and vaginas that glisten like Twilight vampires in the sun were the norm. Thinking that women enjoyed fivesomes with midgets and that all lesbians were blonde, slender and knew their way around motorized penis substitutes. Even thinking that milkmen, fire men and police officers were the few professions that seemed to engage in the most frequent of coitus through the most miniscule of conversation. Those were the days; quite literally 15 and living the dream. So I wanted to honour these vixens of unrequited teenage love and make them know, that through my appreciation, all those cumshots to the eye would be worth it. I started by looking at the AVN Porn awards, but with 75 catergories it seemed too much. Who cares about down syndrome amputee blowjob of the year? I want the hall of fame, the holy challis of pornographic super stardom. And thus I have created my top five, a list to end all lists!

Bree Olson

If your ancestors migrated from the Ukraine during the war, chances are you’re a pornstar. This blonde haired, blue eyed, neatly shaven wunderminx didn’t begin her career in a strip club earning money to pay for college; she openly admits wanting to be a pornstar from grade school. And while other girls were becoming ballerinas or playing field hockey, Bree was hard at work; planning her triumphant scene in the 8^th Day that scored her the AVN award for best All-Girl Three-way Sex Scene at last year’s AVN’s. I think I speak for all men when I say follow your dreams girls. Starring in over 170 movies her vagina is more famous than Francois Pienaar’s face, and has a cuter dimple. Her greatest inspiration is her grandmother that escaped a concentration camp in Austria, she is doing an upcoming tribute film for her entitle “Touch Me in my Auschwitzel”, it hits all classy cinemas this fall.

Jenna Jameson

Never have I been so glad one woman had daddy issues. The 37 year old starlet that brought hardcore to the silver screen will forever be emblazoned in the wank banks of teenage dirtbags and corporate businessmen alike. The most iconic matriarch of her industry was just 16 when she got into the game.  In 1990 she ran away from home with her boyfriend, ripped off her bracers with pliers and got a fake ID in order to join one of Las Vegas’ premium exotic dance shows. Since then her career has grown faster than the dicks of those who watch her shows and is now recognized as the queen of smut. She’s won more awards for anal sex than Spielberg won Oscars for Schindler’s List, She commands more cash per movie than Don Cheedle, owns her own production company, website and line of products, has a voice in Family Guy, Grand Theft Auto and Tony hawk’s 4 and her E! True Hollywood story is still the most viewed of all time. Now that she’s retired from the industry she is married to UFC fighter Tito Ortiz, they have twins. Apparently they still fuck, although its like throwing steak against the wall of a batcave.

Sasha Grey

Sasha has earned the world’s most ironic title as the Brains of Porn. And not just cause of that double penetration scene she did as librarian in ’04. Touted as the next Jenna J, she has struggled through sleazy  5 man orgies to become an up and comer in both modeling and mainstream Hollywood cinema. She has catapulted to the pinnacle of her field overcoming underhanded producers, touchy feely directors and over endowed costars to be known as the bulldog of adult cinema. So what if she can no longer walk in a straight line? She has even starred in Entourage as Vinnie Chase’s coked up girlfriend, yet still insists her mom and dad are oh so proud. I can only imagine the look on my mothers face if acclaimed director Steven Soderbugh were to announce to Rolling Stone “The unbelievable acts this woman is willing to do”. Totally shits on any tennis trophy I ever brought home.

Belladonna

Without doubt the dirtiest ‘ol hussy in porn began work at aged 15, at a Utah Subway takeaway where she keenly familiarized herself with all things 12 inch. Directors were shocked and delighted when her first ever role involved her urinating on a co-star, not unlike most Friday nights out with Matthew Caldecott. Her productions have been weirdly veiled under the “Gonzo Pornography” umbrella genre. Which to be honest sounds a bit like sex with a Sesame street character but who I am to judge. Her recent plunge into the niche fetish market has seen some of the best video titles of all time: Weapons of Ass Destruction, Dark Meat, Odd Jobs and even the highly acclaimed My Ass is Haunted. Unlike Sasha Grey I’m ninety five percent sure that her parents are not proud, but with an estimated net worth of over $30 million im sure shes making do.

Jonno Adams

The only male on our list hails from the dirty underbelly of Johannesburg’s foulest cesspit… Bryanston. This malicious character uses his wit, impressive facial hair and adequately sized penis to lure many unsuspecting girls into his web of deceit, shattered dreams and broken promises. Using phrases like “These jeans are nowhere near skinny enough”, “Does this chest hair make my bum look big?” and “18 is perfectly legit, bru”, he has conquered a seemingly endless list of prized poontang… and his career is now on the cusp of greatness. Using a suave demeanor and a sometimes violent sexual technique, his conquests are now being lauded on the Jozi underground amateur video network. At a time when people were starting to hail porn as banal and boring; Adams’ insatiable urge for the peculiar has kept viewers coming back for more. The underarm, the elbow, behind the ear; nothing is safe when this porn beast takes his prey. One word of advice, see a mental professional 4-6 days after viewing his material, your sanity, sexual virility and indeed your appetite might not survive the ordeal. 

You might think that this article took more research than a post-grad thesis, and while you are semi-right at no stage did it take an R18 turn. In fact all was done at work, on a highly guarded server. However the chances of you now searching for these sexual deviants is now high and with that in mind I would like to offer one small piece of advise: Don’t ever ever ever watch porn in blu-ray, somethings are just not meant to be seen.

Firstly I want to make it clear as crystal that I like slapping the pig skin just as much as any guy. The smooth touch of a woman’s shaven gammon curtain is one of the few exotic pleasures that titillates my fleshy flagpole. However, have you ever thought about how cool a furry piglet could be? An enticing little shaggy porker would make world headlines and literally shutdown the internet. And if you haven’t worked out by now then I’m talking about vaginas, not pigs. In fact I’m 3 8^th’s Jewish. However even in reality a sultry bush-laden minge does provide an over whelming horn on my behalf.

It depends on what mood I’m in but for the most part my impartial outlook lends itself towards well groomed rather than balding poon and if the aforementioned hairy piglet is starting to sprout dreadlocks then I’m singing “No woman no cry” all the way to the door. Keep it neat, keep it clean and if it smells a little bit like sweet melon then thats counting in your favour too.

So how do I keep the stallion? So smooth it shines like rubies? Or some mad Jungle Fever that requires a machete and a chainsaw just to tongue my pistachios? Neither, I have a dollar sign stencilled into my pubes… not really. My nether regions sit at a constant number 5 shave. Long enough not to prickle her forehead, but short enough so it looks bigger in the mirror.

Can men do landing strips without looking like Jenna Jameson with a shlong? Absolutely one hundred percent not. Who do you think you are? Is it ok for a man to get a belly ring? Is it ok for a man to have a dolphin tattoo on his lower back? No its fucking not, so why on earth do you think you can have a little tuft of sweetness right above your whacker and still believe you’re a manly super barbarian?

At the end of the day, I think you should keep it as comfortable as you can. If you’re in a board meeting and have to excuse yourself for a quick groin itch in the hallway then you’re doing it wrong. If you have to leave your nut sack in a glad wrap package of baby powder, then youre doing it wrong. Or if it looks like Jimi Hendrix’s Afro is protruding from between your thighs, then you’re doing it wrong. But I encourage experimentation. Go out and get yourself a snazzy design and just feel shexy, because you could always bed a freaky sex minx thats in the mood for something different. And if your’re a woman… that would be me!

~Stroob~

I’ve always regarded myself as a bit of a looker, and luckily my girlfriends room is coated with mirrors, so my herculean frame is constantly gracing the walls of our abode. I was fortunate enough to awake yesterday morning and come face-to-face with, if I don’t say so myself, the pinnacle of human form. My roundish belly had crinkled into 6 perfect rolls, also known as the Amstel six pack. My toe nails were unclipped, my face grisly with patchy stubble, bloodshot eyes  and a smell emanating from my mouth that was used to gas jews in the forties. Oh, and a 12 inch cock. I smiled wryly at this conglomeration of excellence and came to the conclusion that it is simply not right for me to keep this all to myself. I must share this gift with the world, give others a chance to wake every morning and see a life-size naked portrait of me on the wall. Fuck Jungle Oats, that’s how you start your day! And while I sat dreaming of this beautiful world I did consider the magnitude of my mental proclamation; would I be able to whip my kit off for the camera? Would my gran be able to behold the enormity of such awesomeness and still remain coma-free? But most importantly; could I walk down the street knowing that 1 in 3 people have seen my enormous man stallion? And is that why some dude in a low cut pink top is covertly trying to mouth me his phone number?

The notion that bearing your dermis likens you to  cracked up prozzies and dicked up kiddie fiddlers was heartily dismissed by softcore icons of the 90’s. I could say the words “Anna Nicole Smith” before I got my milk teeth and Jenny Mcarthy taught me how to truly love… at age 10. These were women who revolutionized modern sexual philosophy and expelled the taboo that whipping your kit off for cash was sleazy. Most recently PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, organized a mass celebrity strip-off with the line “I’d rather go naked than wear fur”. With stars like Eva Mendes, Holly Madison and Jessica Simpson embellishing Playboy’s pages; I’d rather they would be too. Contemporary published nudity has actually become trendy, leaving mortal’s such as myself at least considering a pantsless Facebook profile.

Then you have the other side of erotic glamour: stanky minge. Often heroes of celebrity culture venture down a rocky path of self-exposure and find themselves in less than favorable positions. Leonardo Dicaprio managed to merge himself with Elton John to form the gayest piece of man tail George Michael hadnt tied up and called pretty. His stint for Playgirl in his early days left me unsure if I was looking at Leo in all his glory, or Hilary Duff with a penis. The shoot was widely berated in the press and got the lashing it so rightfully deserved.  Helen Miren is a queen, a most honourable dame and indubitably a filthy little sex heathen. At 60 she spread her cheeks of wisdom and let the world inside her most special place causing quite a stir among the lawn bowls community. The supposed granny of the screen joined other “burlesque” failures like Chris Pontius of Jackass acclaim, shock rapper and part time cannibal Lil Kim, English cricketers and albino spokespersons Freddy Flintof and James Anderson  and finally Mini Me himself; Vern Troyer.

So would I transcend the bounds of nipple tassels and centerfolds? Could I really? Well soon after my 16th birthday I designed the first ever black man thong for teens and casually pranced my way through GrandWest Casino; giving even the most hopeless gambler a jackpot. My nude frame was on show for about a thousand people for just over  5 minutes. However that image is now privy to those fortunate few. Theres no current photographic evidence, no substantiation of my gargantuan meat hammer locked in a timeless vault. It was one-off and inspirational for many, if I don’t say so myself. I think some flashes are ok, but to openly reveal yourself to a camera is something not quite up my street. Its personal choice, but I’m going to be keeping my pantsless behind out of the press and in the aforementioned mirrored room. Oh, and to stay away from Jack Daniels and photographic equipment at the same time is generally a good plan for me.

Stroob

As a youthful whipper snapper I had the privilege of donning my red white and blue and touring the US of A for a year. I made headway through over 30 states before the fried chicken had as much affect on my exuberance for trailer parks as it did on my cellulite content. One thing that has never been the most hidden of truths is that those bastards are fat.

One day while passing through a MacDonalds Drive Thru, that was, in fact, attached as an attraction to a large chain pharmacy (true story), we were struck by the national treasure of American culinary delight: 19 cents burger Tuesdays. The fine print was the coup-de-gras in our search for the taste of capitalism; it stated that there was a limit of 10 per person. During our stay in a small Washington State town, just north of Seattle, we saw an esteemed officer of the law arguing tooth and nail at a pimply faced cashier as he had a rejected an application for 12 of these MacBeautys. This 300 pound buzz cut was about to tazer this poor boy long enough to light up Vegas when he eventually gave in and served the man. This triumph of fat badge wielding protectors of the nation over  the little guy existed purely because of its location and threat of impending hunger.

In reality overweight police officers are becoming a crime unto themselves and putting us as ordinary citizens in harm’s way. Our safety comes secondary to doughnut shops and all you can eat pap en vleis jols. I’m not expecting rippled super-models from Hilary Clinton’s rape fantasy, but I’d like to know that if they were chasing a criminal they would at least be able do a 100m dash without sweating blood.

Our current deputy police minister, Fikile Mabalula, who looks like he could commit minor genocide if he was entered into a midget eating competition, has hypocritically called on real policemen and women to  trim off the pounds in an ongoing attempt to change the effectiveness of the “force” (which is a term needed to be used very loosely). If they cant compete on a physical level with a worthy advisory, then they’re in for a treat, because through my experiences it would be tough for the majority of them to compete on a mental one either. However futile the initiative may appear it must be noted that it’s a positive step. The sight of a obese policewomen mouthing down a drumstick is ruining my stripper fantasies that use lines like “You’ve been a bad boy” or “Cuff him and put him against the wall” or my personal favorite “Have you boys ever seen anyone do this with a nightstick?”

My favorite part of this dietary ordeal is the response from a Benoni policeman when questioned about the impending legislation: “What do they expect us to eat? Green leaves and fruit?”. Not necessarily, I hear theres a new low-fat vetkoek about to hit the market. Yes you dumb fuckin idiot! Have some pride in yourself and your work and maybe one day you could make it to the hawks, or be Steve Hofmeyer. Yet even under the shrewd cloud of blinding logic they are still as belligerent as their American cousin we discussed earlier and yet again we, as the public, are the ones caught in the middle of a scrap between the unionized workers and government.

But fingers crossed the pigs learn that “pushup” is not a dirty word and that carrots are more than just tools to beat your wives. Lets hope that they take a stand and actually see how obesity is not as beautiful as Jacob Zuma makes it out to be. Lets hope that they see that sumo wrestling only works if youre an Asian in a thong. But most of all lets hope, pray and keep an eternal burning effigy of General Bheki Cele alight, in the chance that through thinner, stronger, fitter cops our over bearing crime statistics will be eaten faster than a polony Gatsby at a traffic warden meet-n-greet. Fuckin traffic wardens!

~Stroob~

I’m seated at the George departure lounge waiting for my 18:10 flight to Jo Burg. Theres a distinct aroma of moth balls and depressed pensioners perforating my nostrils. I swear if another elderly gentleman passes wind in my direction I’m going to use his liver spots as a bullseye in a plastic fork throwing competition. There’s a manic rush to board the final flight to Cape Town, as it is already delayed. Once the line has shrivalled faster than Clay Aiken’s boy bits at a Playboy Bunny pillow fight, final boarding is called. The plane remains stagnant. I look around for abandoned bags or Arab men wielding the aforementioned plastic forks. Al-Qaeda takes Wednesdays off in George. After 20 minutes, when I’m now sure that the pilot has been murdered or the miracle of nature has allowed a 70 year old to give birth prior to take off, a tall man with a 4 strong entourage casually swaggers through the security check.

The majority of passengers have been sitting on the plane for over half an hour when none other than police minister Nathi Mthweta decides to make a fashionably late entrance as if he were on a Mauritian island, in an Armani suit. The only way he could move slower would be to walk backwards and without so much as a word uttered he ambles through the departure gate. So here I sit, unable to pick my gaping mouth off the floor long enough to scream the deserved hate speech. Who the fuck does this dickhead think he is? I’ve seen serial killers do more “for the people”. So do these arrogant sons of bitches deserve the abhorrent salaries and luxuries bestowed upon them by parliament’s ministerial handbook? Not as much as they deserve leprosy…

 Our country has been plunged into social and indeed economic decay following what is now nearly a three week long strike action by the trade unions. They’re asking for an extra 0.9% salary increase. Your average municipal worker rakes in a whopping R6000 a month, the increase will translate into roughly R60 extra per month. If we took the wealthiest man in the country, Patrice Motsepe, and looked at how long it would take him to make that in interest off his estimated R10 Billion personal wealth we see he would make approximately 3 times that miniscule R60 every second. Seems fair. If the strikers take until the end of the week to resolve the dispute it will take each one 75 months to recoup the monies lost through their refusal to work. This working class is by far the majority section of the populace and is responsible for voting these monarchal hybrids into power. However the regulations that these so called governors abide by are self regulatory and thus they make their own rules.

The biggest flaw in this vast conundrum of self indulgence is that there is no law preventing them from securing large government tenders in a personal capacity. Ethics and morals to the modern ANC man is like water to cats, rolled up newspapers to dogs or the sound of rattling chains to the Asian midget locked in my basement; mildly scary, but not likely to change anything you’re doing. However when the people making the decisions regarding the tenders are indeed the ones benefitting from the multi-million dollar deals, then a jug of water isn’t scaring away kitty. Communications minister Siphiwe Nyanda has vilified all his political dissidents by racking up over 5 million rands worth of hotel expenditure, that’s worse than Bill Clinton during his Monica phase. He graciously slipped the taxpayers the cheque and drove off in his newly acquired Mercedes S600. Not bad since his holding company has secured over 500 million De Niro’s through tendering in a variety of forms including the communications industry. The worst part is that as soon as his Auditor General questioned the ridiculous allocation of the government’s fiscal funds she got fired faster than Satan claimed shotgun on Paris Hilton’s soul.

So our country is run by ancient Romans who earn six figure salaries and spit in the faces of the very populace that elected them. The country is burning and the Holy Grail of Black Economic Empowerment is causing even more dissention then it was designed to alleviate. We cant afford to R60 to the cogs who keep this economy turning yet our annual ANC NGC meeting can cost over R4 million in catering and venue alone. The so called leaders have such an over may whelming air of entitlement pay yet bear little, if any, accountability, ability or honour that has garnered them these positions. It is open policy that the ANC deploys cadres who are high ranking in the party hierarchy, yet have little or no knowledge of the fields they are now in charge of. With no specialties but the backing of the ANC, they now make decisions that will see the Rainbow Nation to its future. And with every single governmental organization in complete anarchy and disarray without funds due to mismanagement we ask ourselves whether they deserve the money they earn. In the same breath we answer “Not until you show me a department that has more success than failure”. For this article I will get called a counter-revolutionary. Fuck that. I’m a revolutionary. Because the sooner this cancer is removed, the sooner the money I fork out every month can bring a smile to the faces of the people this government is supposed to protect.

~Stroob~

So basically i was contacted by a UK magazine, who shan’t be named, cough cough Geeneus cough cough, and asked to write a sterlingly piece of sex-ridden literature to grace their pages. Alas the glamour of international acclaim comes with the necessity to contact solely through email and if your business plan fails you just simply ignore the budding authors to whom you’d promised the world. Anyway, ethics lectures aside the background for this piece was that they had sent someone to the set of the new Predators movie, being avid fans of the series, they had an epic time and loved every second. However upon return they were dismayed at how the sequel was so… Shit. Adrien Brody and the infamous Robert Rodriguez put together a shocker of a flick and thus they asked me to write an Article titled “Bummed by Predator”, and that, dear reader is how this all came about, enjoy!

It’s a stock standard night out; I’ve had too many drinks, I’ve struck out with every women that’s crossed my path and a homeless man has stolen my pants. While I sit shivering from the waist down I sip slowly on my third “last double Scotch”, it fizzes more than average but I’m too tired to care. My vision’s rather blurry when a dreadlocked woman in a mask hazily comes into view. Her vivacious swagger and full suit of body armour can only mean she’s the life of all parties. She gestures towards me in a series of clicks, which I convince myself translates to “lets fuck” in Morse code. Yutzi! Her nails sink deep into my arm as she tugs me away from my seat at the bar. In retrospect this, coupled with her shoulder mounted plasma cannon, should have alerted me that this might end poorly. But hey, we live and learn.

Her room bears the distinct aroma of canned meat and goat’s hair, the walls are draped in a lavish new age web material and flaming skulls adorn her four poster bed. I love a woman with taste! Admittedly I now begin to feel a slight bit of unease, maybe it’s the fact that there’s a group of elders in the corner about to watch a series of deranged fornication, or maybe it’s just that she has three toed feet and scales. She removes her pants. What lies before me is a penis with two eyes and teeth. This isn’t the Nubian princess my drugged up mind had conjured, this is an 8 foot dude from light years away and regardless of what happens next, its definitely going to result in tears.

He removes his helmet only for me to see a mouth that truly is the poster child for orthodontic headgear. I convince myself that he’s not an alien and probably just the offspring of Polish cousins. He glares down at my shivering naked body with disdain. Nothing says “fun times” like a lubed up extraterrestrial who cant smile. I writhe, kick and scream, but am horribly aware that my struggle is in vain, those pesky wire nets have ruined my evening yet again. Then it hits me: I’m about to be raped by a lobster with a face… and that’s not even in my top 3 favourite kinds of rape!

My mind flashes back to my childhood and Arnold Schwarzenegger battling alien Rastafarians in the Amazon.  It seemed way cooler back then: Militant wrist blades, shuriken ninja stars, invisibility and a brutish carnal desire to hunt the most formidable of prey. That indomitable warrior of the night has been replaced by a limp dick rapist armed with nothing but a pack of roofies and a penchant for same-sex coitus. He slowly turns me over, tasting my tears ; the only Viagra for impotent Martians. He spreads my cheeks and lets out a primal howl. I’ve just been bummed by a modern day Predator, the most painful two hours of my life.

~Stroob~

I lie awake at night dreaming that Deadmau5 would live up to his name and well… die! The epic rise to fame of this Canadian wunderkind has seen him travel the globe and make millions from uneducated dance music fans and aspiring strippers alike. His productions feature pretty much one sound, which was great, once. He repeats the same formula from his myopic hit “Not Exactly”, which was in its own right a fantastic track and rightfully is still one of the largest selling tunes of all time on Beatport. But his regurgitated bile that features so high on dance music charts is indicative of someone finding something that works and milking it, with disregard for quality, until the golden goose has shat its final egg. Like Britney Spears with daddy issues, or Paris with drug busts, its now starting to become a little too much. Add that to the fact that his largest selling products are his “remixes” which are usually sweet little more than re-edits selling on the Deadmau5 brand.

But fuck it, hes making huge dough so why should I care or take that away from him? Well he went on a rampage last year using the phrase “Djs are Fucking Cunts” more times than the Kardashian father should have used a condom. Keeping in mind that they are his bread and butter, his livelihood, I would have expected a slightly larger amount of tact. I don’t go running around saying all my readers are pricks (except you, you poes). And, the royal crown of this whole indaba is that he doesn’t DJ or play live. He uses Abelton and simply runs a few effects over a pre-mixed set, and then for all we know puts his feet up, plays some World of Warcraft and has the audacity to charge well over R1 million a set. He has no skill behind the decks, besides wearing a mouse head whose size is only rivalled by his ego. His argument is that only people who  make their own tracks are real musicians. Fuck Carl Cox, James Zabiela and Richie Hawtin (OK i know they have all made a track now, but they were world famous long before). No one would know who you are if it wasn’t for djs you self-obsessed freak.

And now to the tipping point in my grand hatred for the greatest prick in music. This past weekend a huge spark erupted into an earth shattering blow out between dubstep super producer and real dj/live performing artist Rusko and the shithead mouse. Rusko lit a joint back stage before his show, as he has al over the world, even in dubai. Deadmau5 was backstage and asked to him to put it out. When Rusko rightfully refuse the idiot called security on a fellow dj, or rather fellow person who stands infront of crowds and plays tunes. Now i’m sorry but WTF? I’m a big fan of the gays, but you sir, are a faggot!

I don’t want to rant or rave, I haven’t even read this over before publishing. But keep in mind next time you’re buying tunes online, Deadmau5 is a sell-out freak who doesn’t care about you or the industry he works in. His attitude is so shit and he thinks hes the tits for absolutely no reason. So if you have read this far i urge you, please go onto google, type in “download Deadmau5” and illegally rape the shit out a cunt who has raped and pillaged his way to the top. I hope your limbs get ripped from your body Joel Zimmerman, you are a disgrace to everything you touch!

Workplace semantics are governed by a set of rules geared to make it easy for employers to terminate their employees. This set of archaic guidelines have been seen since the dawn of man, even Jesus told his disciples that there was to be no JagerBombs until 7pm. They serve to increase efficiency and productivity in the office and to make sure secretaries no longer bear the unwanted bastard love children of adulterous CEOs. This sexual clause, in almost every contract, stipulates that there will be no gefoofling between coworkers. Of course because of this; inter-office affairs are above boiling point on the kink-o-meter, and thus sex on the boardroom table is the third most outlandish location to engage in coitus, right behind Pam Golding show-houses and under the stage during ANC Youth League election conferences. But the barrage of consequences for sexual indignation through actions, or even comments, has left many professionals unemployed or incarcerated. No longer can one look appreciatively at a female colleague and throw out a warm gesture of appreciation such as “fabulous camel-toe today Doreen”. No longer can a man have a semi and ask for a comforting hug at the same time, and no longer can companies indulge their staff members with the obligatory “no pants Fridays”. Are the occupational powers-that-be determined to quash any signs of truelove? Or are they generally trying to prevent testosterone fuelled perverts with sneaky hands from having a field day?

Now I’ve engaged in some pretty depraved acts with coworkers. Partly because of the convenience when crammed in my studio for days at a time, and partly because having sex with the CEO’s personal assistant is almost as legendary as a foursome with blonde Swedish triplets. Either way, I should be in jail. However its deemed “legal” because she was “asking for it”, no, hang on, that’s specifically what my lawyer told me not to say. Our esteemed female counterparts can arrive at work wearing a boob tube as a skirt, shirts that cover less breast than nipple tassels and thongs protruding to the arch of their back, but as soon as a male colleague retorts with a compliment he is the one who is signing his dishonorable resignation. After watching the Martha Stewart Show and contemplating this vexing notion I came to one irrefutable conclusion: It pays to be a skanky little hussy.

So while I sit and curse that I’ll never get to teach Meredith in accounts how to accurately shoot a ping pong ball out of her vagina, I must take my hat off to the various celebrities out there that have tried.  The most alarming incident has to be from the purveyor of justice, Nobel prize laureate and the first man to successfully eat 32 tofu veggie burgers in under 10 minutes, his Royal highness Al Gore. The most stringent activist for “tree rights” has not been accused of sexual harassment or rape, but merely “unwanted sexual contact”, surely anytime you have Al Gore lie ontop of you its unwanted sexual contact? Either way come July this year, the Goreminator will be in court for fondling his personal masseuse.

Probably the least surprising celebrity entity to engage in unwanted carnal desires, is Steven Seagal. Not only harassment, but trafficking too. He is a deity to aspiring young sex offenders the world over, the true pinnacle of his field. His assistant arrived on her first day of work only to discover that “Mr. Seagal had been keeping two young female Russian ‘Attendants’ on staff who were available for his sexual needs 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.” Am I the only person who thinks that’s the fuckin tits? Like rock solid, one hundred percent awesome? I previously despised the man, but now he keeps Russian betty’s for blowies in his cupboard to service his needs, and has got away with it for years. Teach me the ways sensei!

One of the more surprising candidates, and proof that when youre from the deep south entrenched gender roles become irrelevant, is Britney Spears. Her 500 pound black bodyguard resigned and filed charges recently when she jumped on him, naked, and insisted he give her a meat injection. The court case is ongoing but if you had any doubt Britt had fallen off the wagon, the fact that she couldn’t seduce a man who weighs more than her car might have just sealed the deal.   

Sometimes I feel its just unfair to the males. If youre at an establishment that only hires hot waitresses then because theyre selling sex one must expect a level of rather adventurous flirting. And if a woman dresses inappropriately in the confines of the office then she must expect a naked Steven Seagal to put her in a headlock. Don’t get me wrong males are not devoid of blame but we are primal creatures and if you flirt, we’re going to make like monkeys. Whichever way you look at it the laws are not going to change so gents instead of making your assistant bend over and pick up that pencil you just threw across the floor, rather get some chloroform, rohypnol and a clown mask, because what she cant see or remember, wont hurt you!

 ~Stroob~

Currently the racial tension between black and white is stretched tighter than size 32 checkered pants on Winnie Mandela. Certain utterances from our so called esteemed leaders have left the nation on a clinical knife edge that sees racial identity and indeed racial affiliation as a vital medium to define who we are as people. This is where I step in. Because until now, you haven’t known who you are. In reality we’re about one more “racist, agent, ‘baas ted’, don’t touch me in my studio” moment away from a fully blown race war. You have to choose which side youre on, which “colours” you’ll wear and which team you support. Because while this might seem like a racial rugby match, the state of the nation means this ball youre kicking is a prejudicial atomic bomb waiting to explode. So what defines our racial guidelines? What makes coloureds so “mos poes naai”, whites so “Nee man Twannie, net in die bos gaan kak” and blacks so “heres a knife in your chest for your cellphone but I’ll blame it on apartheid”? And while this might seem like the height of some clandestine bigot’s insufferablity, I find it irrefutably heightens the most accepted preconceived stereotypes we adhere to daily. So let this white-media racist begin his extremist blog and if you take offence after you’ve read this piece of unadulterated sarcasm, then please kind sir… fuck right off! It’s a laugh, and in the wise words of our most admired Julius Malema, whenever there is outrage over the vile he speaks : “don’t take it out of context”.

Well naturally the first racial group we have, are the imperialist whites. These heinous boers who dare try to bring Western principles to the uncivilized world have done nothing but enslave the African children since Jan Van Riebeck first arrived with his Christianity and the invention he called “the wheel”. They’re epitomized by khaki socks rolled to below their knees and Hilux bakkies carrying more sheep then the Van Troffel familie can eat on a Heritage Day cook out, nay… braai out. They have enough stock piled weapons to ensure the AWB could take down an army of Jack Bauer’s with semi automated RPG rifles. Extremist whites are the most paranoid people on the planet. Not because aliens are among us or that the FBI has implanted microchips in their brains, but due to the fact that they think every non-white is a criminal waiting to rape their children and stab them in the lung for a fizz-pop. Hiding on their family’s Ventersdorp plaas, 99% of them have farmed mielies since the Great Trek was a fashion statement. And for some reason there are so many moustaches I’m not even 100% sure that the males develop an upper lip. They are an unmistakable breed filled with Koos’s, Jaapies and Van Tonders and while outnumbered still remain a serious war threat. Don’t underestimate the boer, imagine a battle ground with 100 times the Blue Bull’s scrum pack, after a Lamb Chop and Kilpdrift kuier *shiver*.

Theres a famous adage that says you should never bring a gun to knife fight, but you know half the coloured population has a sharpened toothbrush and a fully loaded gat tucked in their “whose your daddy” boxers at every waking moment. Front teeth? Who needs ‘em; makes for more of a target in an all out fist brawl. This race has found itself estranged from the larger South African populace because they took Micheal Jackson’s song “It Don’t matter if youre black or white” far too literally. Theyre too milky to be black, too chocolaty to be white and sniff far too much glue to be Chinese. Ironically probably the oldest heritage of all of South Africa’s “indigineous” peoples they have struggled to find attachment to a specific political movement. Yet their oppression has remained an exorbitant part of their inherent culture. Woodstock, Mitchell’s Plain and Grassy Park “Upper” have been their hunting ground for years. But beware when entering these parts, as coloureds are taught to do drive by’s at 8 years of age. If there was a tik Olympics coloureds would be the Jamaican Sprint relay team, on steroids, with modified Toyota Corolla twin exhausts on their ankles. But due to this they have no need to sleep, so come race war time everyone else better get used to some late night tele!

The black population of our country has been claiming rightful ownership of the nation ever since Shaka was executing the Khoi San faster than a nude Eugene Terblanche at a “I swear I don’t like boys” conference. The size of Soweto is larger than the entire population of Cape Town, and by this time next year will have risen to 8 times the size of Yugoslavia (not entirely true). It actually grows faster than Pamela Anderson’s mammaries circa that Baywatch episode where Hasselhof still grew his own fringe. They serve as over 95 percent of the country’s homeless and have an average monthly income of under R6000 per family. Wouldn’t you want to rise up and whack some crackers if you were in their shoes? They speak ten of the eleven official languages but can ask for “just a 2 rand boss” in every one. By law they must now be welcomed first into any position of employment, before any other race. And rightfully so. They’ve been abused for years by Verwoed and his henchmen of neo-Nazi thugs. But we haven’t had a competent black leader since Madiba could break dance and with Julius in the wings, it doesn’t look like we’ll have one til J-Lo’s twins are old enough to star in pornos. But the black’s strength is in numbers, muscular potency, and penal enormity; because no-one wants to go to war with 4 million dudes who can bench press 200 and strangle a toddler with their dick at the same time.

And yes we have the Indians, who have never won a major war. They love peace and curry so much they could only try and fart their way out of a civil uprising, and because of this I say all the power to them. The Chinese are doomed because you cant win a war with knock off Gucci, and I think you’ll struggle to find a South African Jap who is willing to plow his Kia Sorento into the Union buildings. Self sacrifice is so World War 2. So where do we stand? The ANC wont discipline their Juju; who will just be “forced” to apologize even if he threatens international journalists. The AWB will still fly the old flag and promise “cleansing” of the fatherland. And the coloured’s will… well… still drive gesoopde Fiat Unos and rob you for a bunny chow any day of the week. So if we had a race war who would win? Answer: the Jews. Because at the end of the day, years of experience, connections, enough wealth to power the expanding Yugoslavia we discussed earlier, and the sheer command of the Yarmulke, coupled with the fact that they have been preparing for a race war since Hitler was still warming to the idea of solid foods, has made these kids the leading militaristic world super power. And let’s face it, is there anything more scary then Barbara Streisand with an uzzi?

~Stroob~

East London has brought many proud achievements to South Africa over the decades, Jody Scheckter 1979 Formula One World Champ, Marc Boucher before Madonna’s dentist got hold of him, Norman Catherine who produced artworks that look as if my 3-year old niece took a week long peyote trip with a paint brush, and finally that awful case of genital warts you got while road tripping through “obscure” parts of South Africa. But what we don’t usually accredit it with is world class electronic music connoisseurs: enter Kosta K. Somehow, as if launching a Chinese takeaway in Sicily, he’s managed to make a flower grow within in a desert, bringing high-end electronica to the Border region. MCBN caught up with him, to see what nuclear testing sight he grew up near as a youngin’ and what made this mad man so…. Human?

MCBN: So here at MCBN we’re known for our journalistic integrity and like to really explore unchartered waters of personal inspection. That being said, how old were you when you lost your virginity and was she a special gal?

Kosta K: Mmmmm, im terrible with vocab. So words like journalistic, integrity, uncharted and explore confuse me…. I lost my virginity at 15 in Greece, she is a lovely girl and is now married with two kids. My friend and I once had a threesome with her. Don’t tell anyone.

MCBN: You run the largely successful label Electric Sushi that houses our good friend’s Pascal and Pearce. What do you look for when you select a tune and what is your ethos behind the gig as it seems to be probably the best exposure for local talent around at the moment.

Kosta K: Um, Well its easy…. Im pretty much just like you or anyone else…. Except when I wake up in the morning and I put my jeans on…. I sign hit records. No to be honest, it just kind of falls into place if you would play it in a club, sign it.

MCBN: What is your functional role at the company? Do people call you sir and have you had an affair with your secretary?

Kosta K: The company…. Mmmm technically my assistant is a black HP laptop…. I have had one or two one hand affairs with it…. Depends how late at night and how lonely I am.

MCBN: What is the filthiest thing you have ever done for money?

Kosta K: Go down to Cape Town Harbour, just behind that little cornor by the aquarium. There I am known as Kouwerou…. Sushi doesn’t pay all the bills and Pasci and Pearce don’t come cheap….

MCBN: During your DJ years you must have heard some tunes to make 85 year old grey women kinda clammy. What is the best track? past, present and future?

Kosta K: Booka Shade – Manderine Girl, changed my life.

MCBN: Whats the weirdest thing you have ever seen while spinning?

Kosta K: A wolf. See Caption A (Go to the end of the interview there i have placed the captions for your viewing pleasure)

MCBN: I would hate to have to go through a roadblock at 5am after a night where Jack Daniels became an Olympic sport, with a surname like yours, so just off the bat I totally don’t blame you for adopting the namesake of Danny. So do you also take it in the batty or do you have a femalien humanoid stashed in the closet somewhere?

Kosta K: Again I don’t understand the words used in this question who is danny? but, is Yes okay? Yes! Can I have more that one?

MCBN: More to the point, if you had to kiss a man, gun to the head situation, who would it be?

Kosta K: Craig Stack

MCBN: We visit the Soul Candi website and see a world of splendor. It really is a thing of awesomeness. A lil birdy told us this was your doing. What is your job at Soul Candi and is it true that DJ Fresh is a miniature alien operating the new 7 foot black guy suite from Sony?

Kosta K: Ha, No I didn’t do the SC Website, I used to work there now I kind of do, making music for the label. Fresh is definitely an alien, is he black?

MCBN: If you could DJ alongside any of the world’s greats, dead or alive, who would it be and where?

Kosta K: That is an insanely difficult question, I would rather watch someone to be honest. I went to Ministry once and snuck in the dj box with Steve Angelo and Sebastian Ingrosso…. That was awesome they were so cool and bummed smokes from me all night and my one mate even kissed Steve…. They truly are amazing.

MCBN: You’re getting along in years now, your obvious erectile dysfunction aside, who do you rate highly as young up and comers to look out for in the future?

Kosta K: This is a very hard question. Funny you ask as to the rest of the world “Afrojack”, “Avicii” are up and coming and they already have massive careers and warrant remix fees in the 1000s of Euros. So technically anyone could be up and coming even someone like Supply with a plethora of releases under his name already. I think I have just about avoided that question pretty well. Everyone on Sushi is up and coming and will do well

MCBN: Finally our dreaded “Would you rather…” question. So, Would you rather have a penis so small even Caster Semenya would think you were a bit odd and be forced only to be allowed to wear clothes on Wednesday… or would you rather have no penis but two 9 inch veiny guys protruding from each of your elbows?

Kosta K: Ok the question before was nothing on this. I think for this I will use the Chewbacca defense.

Do you know that Chewbacca is a Wookiee from the planet Kashyyyk. But Chewbacca lives on the planet Endor. Now think about it, that does not make sense! Why would a Wookiee, an eight-foot tall Wookiee, want to live on Endor, with a bunch of two-foot tall Ewoks? That does not make sense! But more important, you have to ask yourself: What does this have to do with this question? Nothing. This question just does not make sense, and therefore I do not have to answer.

Thanks Kosta, We appreciate your time and look forward to receiving your sexual harassment law suit in the not too distant future!

Kosta K: CAPTIONS BELOW!

Caption A: WOLF

Caption B: EWOK/WOOKIE

In the history of the world, certain individuals have had a proliferating effect on vital causes. Ghandi was all over world peace, Hugh Hefner brought exposed double D breasts to the general public and Dean FUEL helped revolutionise dance music to what we see around us in Cape Town today. The literal “golden boy” of the Mother City’s clubbing scene has been making speakers bleed and women weak since I was bunking choir practise. So what better way for us at MCBN to get to know this legend then by sitting him on a surgical table and dissecting his frontal lobe… I mean asking him some questions.

MCBN: So Mr. Fuel, do you mind if I call you Mr. Fuel? ? When and how did this journey start?

Dean: A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away…

The journey began for me on the day I was born! My family is heavily musical, and their influence was always around me! I played various instruments (piano and guitar) and even had a band with friends in High School… Experiencing early rave and trance culture, as well as discovering clubbing led me to be 100% in love with electronic music, and once I made Cape Town my home (about 10 years ago), it wasn’t long before I bought my first turntables, and started spinning!

MCBN: If you could go back to one single event you’ve played at, and almost struggled not to cry its been so awesome, what would it be?

Dean: Tough one… so many to think about! For sheer scale and production – hard to beat the playing inside the Godskitchen Boombox alongside Armin Van Buuren! For crowd interaction, opening for Sasha in Cape Town was incredible. He (Sasha) actually made a special effort to come and hear me play, which was such a sign and stamp of approval – it blew me away! The closing set for infected Mushroom was also a rush – not an easy act to follow, a full psychedelic-rock band followed by just ‘me’ … loved it though!

MCBN: Have you ever thought that glowsticks, white gloves, vapour rub and a pacifier, all at the same time, was a good idea?

Dean: Every damn day! Just depends in what context … think about it!

MCBN: If one day you had a child and it had red hair, do you really think you could ever truly love it?

Dean: A ginger? Sure … why not? Nothing a little peroxide couldn’t fix

MCBN: Your style has become somewhat unmistakeable around our city, so much so that I’m actually starting to see little mini Fuel’s at shopping malls. The long blonde hair, the bright cap, the quirky yet stylish t-shirt (of which I’ve never seen you wear the same one twice) all make up your unique appearance.  In retrospect I think that’s more of a general observation, I’m not quite sure how to put it into a question. So… ever had a threesome?

Dean: What can I say? … I am a cap and t-shirt fanatic… in fact I’m an addict!! I can never have enough!

Have I ever had a threesome? No comment… I have a girlfriend, and she’ll probably read this…

MCBN: Ok, I think its time we had a serious question. How would you describe the style of music you play? I know you play varying styles depending on your crowd and venue, but how do you choose?

Dean: My secret DJ Magic 8 ball … never fails me!

But seriously, it really does just depend on the crowd and energy as to how any set will go.

My style? It’s a fusion of all electronic music, from House to Techno, Psy to Prog, deep and funky through to hard and driving… its difficult to really pin down my style, suffice to say, that it’s MY style 

MCBN: We’ve seen you wet your toes with a bit of production over the years. How’s this going and will there ever be place for a fully Fuelled album?

Dean: But of course… stay tuned!! At this stage though I have set up a new studio in my apartment, and am getting to grips with it! I just need to try find some extra time in the day to spend focused on the music production side of life… it’s a HUGE future goal of mine!

MCBN: If you could pick one track that used to inspire you, one track that currently rocks your boat and one track that will forever have a place in your heart, could you kindly do so now.

Dean: Inspiration: Leftfield – Open Up

Rocks my boat: Neelix –  Chainsaw

Forever in my heart: Age of Love – Age of Love

MCBN: If you could hit any person on the planet who would it be? Please note that answers such as “no one, I’m really not a violent person” will not be taking kindly to round these parts.

Dean: The Digital Divas … spank their bottoms with my paddle! … Maybe that Ronald MacDonald guy … what a clown!

MCBN: What’s the craziest thing you’ve seen while playing?

Dean: I’ve seen a stripper bare it all, and not even while in a strip club, but at a massive Fez street party… she was just a guest, who then proceeded to strip down and flash her va-jay-jay to the entire crowd… man, I love being a DJ

MCBN: Finally the dreaded MCBN “Would you rather…” question. So would you rather bob for apples in a barrel of rotting fish chum, or play a remix of “I’m too sexy for my shorts”, while wearing a pink tutu and no undies in a dingy gay club?

Dean: Haven’t you ever see me play at MCQP??? … For the past 5 years I’ve played “I’m too sexy for my shorts”, while wearing a pink tutu and no undies!!! It’s a real showstopper!

Well thank you kindly for your time dearest sir, we shall endeavour to participate in some dancefloor antics with you in the not-to-distant future!

Dean: Awesome… I look forward to it!

Don’t forget to check out my website (www.deanfuel.com) , and facebook fan page (www.facebook.com/deanfuel) and also make sure you tune into me every Friday night on Goodhope FM between 10pm and 11pm!

Armin Van Buuren and Dean Fuel

I swear Jacob Zuma was a blinged-up gangster rapper before he became our president. I can imagine him grabbing his balls and pouring $300 champagne all over the floor to Mshimi Wami, with Akon on back-up vocals. He’s been arrested more times than Snoop Dogg, loves money more than Mr-T and has the credibility of Lil-Wayne at a cocaine convention. And with his recent purchase of a 65 million rand pad in Nkandla, funded by yours truly; the taxpayers, he has a house that could have its own prime-time special on Cribs. All he needs now is to cap a hooker and he will be the incarnation of Jay-Z himself, with slightly less rhythm. But ill-MC’s and Def-Jam Record deals aside; he has now officially over-stepped the mark. He recently claimed his fifth wife, this polygamist assault on any moral foundation was thinly veiled behind a blanket of “culture and tradition”. Something that appears to alter in his favour whenever it comes into question. “It’s the Zulu heritage” was the excuse that came bellowing from the mouths of fellow ANC stalwarts, as they stirred their gin and juice in the backseat of their newly acquired “fly-rides”. And while I choose to sometimes broach the topic of what I like to call “forward-thinking misogyny” even I think that being married to multiple women is one of the more disrespectful things you can perpetrate against the female race. Either that, or just the sheer nerve that he can be “tapping them bitches and ho’s” and I can’t. The law applies to him, and not me (something that’s happened on numerous occasions with our almighty Msholozi). Bill Clinton famously stood up and proclaimed “I did not have sexual relations with that woman” and even though he was proven to be the Judas of America during the 90’s, I would rather that then our leader openly proclaiming “I had sexual relations with…” and then slamming a telephone directory sized book on the table, squeezing out a wry smile and getting a low-five from Julius Malema in appreciation. With our country being as AIDS ridden as it currently is, surely its time to abandon the ghetto pimpin… I mean culturally historic lifestyle and embrace a modern ethos from which your nation should live by?
 
But on a practical level Jacob and his Wu-Tang clan of adulterous misfits aren’t the only indulgers in this cess-pool of political incorrectness. All over the globe polygamy is cherished in various cultural abundances. So if you do choose to wed an array of feminists with the self esteem of a 75 kilogram fourth grader in a Speedo, then there are countries where like-minded individuals will welcome you with open arms. Honeymoon orgy participants of the world unite as we take a look into the scandalous destinations where you can celebrate your “special day”. First off I hear Somalia is great this time of year, just don’t try arrive by boat. If you manage to circumnavigate the high-seas where Davey Jones now owns a RPG Assault rifle, then there’s a lawless country still reeling from decades of civil war. There are as many tangible laws as starving orphans, but they’re in full support of multiple spouses  so ho-ho-ho and a bottle of rum, or R2500 Johnnie Walker Blue Label if JZ’s ceremony is anything to go by. Not into pirate life in a country with only 12 total divorce attorneys? Well then travel to the glorious state of Iran and help enrich some radio-active weapons grade plutonium, because simply exchanging rings is becoming so terribly passé. Theres no limit to the amount of women a man can wed in Iran, so place an order for a 24-pack of mail order brides and go ape shit. Do you think you get a discount for bulk orders? Apparently its 15% for a case of Russians. But if your loved ones aren’t partial to only showing the slits of their eyes in public, then head to Palestine; the global Mecca for polygamist honeymooners. It’s definitely an adventure holiday, dodging Israeli bombers and knife wielding villagers is sure to get the adrenaline flying. But I hear the humus is just great! The military regime of Myanmar doesn’t allow for free speech, freedom of religion or association, but hot damn can they do weddings! Even the head of the military Junta has a couple wyfies stashed in his palatial mansion. Probably the country with the most stringent laws on the planet, but you might as well be playing scrambles with marriage proposals because you aren’t confined to just that special someONE. So never fear Jacob, if the extravagance of your Zulu homeland ever gets too much, there are other countries waiting to service your vivacious matrimonial appetite.
 
Besides the excessive amount of cattle that is slaughtered every time Jacob says his vows, I have an issue with him hiding behind cultural values as an excuse for legally validated adultery. Sure its Zulu heritage that they’ve been practising since King Shaka was napalming the San people, but when did they start getting divorced? In the late 90’s our lover-boy president decided to part ways with his first wife Nokosazana Dlamini-Zuma. Even Google couldn’t tell me how many Goats were sacrificed for this event. Since there’s no word for hermaphrodite in Pedi, I wonder if theres one for “pre-nup?” Either way how can you have your cake and eat it? Have as many as women you like, because your ancestors have been doing it for thousands of years, but then choose to be “modern” as soon as the bitch decides she wants to leave the kitchen? And on the note of violent hypocrisy, you have to love the traditional attire Zuma wore to his ceremony, buck hides, leopard tails, Nike Air Jordans… Sorry what? Here’s this combination of West vs. Africa again. You cant vehemently oppose the one, but then use all the parts that suite you.
 
A couple of weeks ago JZ announced he’d slungshot his seed into his close friend Irvin Khoza’s daughter and now another lightie is going to share in the myriad of father issues at least 20 other kids currently experience. The country sat aghast as our eminent leader poo-pooed the situation, but even his most fervent supporters weren’t buying his treasure trove of excuses. The ball had finally dropped, which seems a rather fitting idiom when referring to our Comrade Zuma. With the 2014 elections just round the corner, is he planning to breed a support base for re-election? Defending his actions, that make Jenna Jameson sound like a nun selling purity rings, he has now called for a “National moral debate”, does anyone else think thats like Stephen Hawking giving high-jump lessons? At least there is little doubt that he’s packing a 12 inch behemoth boa constrictor under those loin cloths, because god forbid he falls foul of any African stereotype. This week he touched down in Britain, and while Gordon Brown was quick on the scene, eager for advice on how to use the Royal four-poster bed to its full potential, the media was anything but welcoming. The Daily Mirror called him a “former goatherder” who “defends his rights to several Mrs Zumas” and wrote a scathing article belittling his reason for visit. Is this really the best ambassador for our country?
 
Well Jacob, you may have children with 9 separate women in a country where over-population is a huge contributor to extreme poverty. You may have 3 wives, one divorce and one that committed suicide for reasons someone as scandalous as me wont even get into. You may have slept with tens if not hundreds of women while being “married” and set an example for all men in a culture where women are still down-trodden by their male oppressors. And you may have done all of this with money contributed by genuinely hard working South Africans. But you’re still a role model. Not mine, and I hope no logical thinking human being’s role model. But for some unknown reason people still look up to you. So the next time you got the lights turned down low, the candles burning and some sexy Barry White assisting you in your seduction of your 157th wife just think of the example you’re making to the kids of our struggling country. Finally a question that has flummoxed me throughout the writing of this article. If he has three wives, who lovingly dote on him 24/7; is a four-way legit? Booyah!
 
~Stroob~

Myself and Ricky ByNight ended up at the River Club driving range after a long debate about who could drive the ball the furthest, then we bumped into Skragg who had some serious wood and was owning the balls, his long game was terrific and we hadnt even started with the golf! Afterwards we sat down in the bar, wiped the sweat off our brow and got down to some business…..

MCBN: So, You use Rabdom L for your live gigs and I finally found out what Rabdom L stands for, care to tell everyone else…

Skragg: You don’t waste time do you? Its an acronym for something pretty random that I sucked out my thumb when I needed an artist name. Don’t want to elaborate more than that though……

MCBN: You played and still do every now and then with the Legendary Twisted System, how did you guys start and what has happened to South Africas favourite PSY group?

Skragg:Twisted System is myself, Shift and Phyx – we formed this project right at the beginning of this journey, using it as a vehicle to push the crazier edge of nighttime psy – with input from three of us we were able to write tracks quickly aswell as keep the tracks fresh and innovative. We released two albums and many singles as we tried to get the project exposure abroad however with three of us in the group we were not getting the bookings we needed to sustain the project viably. It’s a cutthroat industry this and all of us began focusing more on our respective solo projects. I don’t think you have heard the last of TS though….

MCBN: In terms of your production, you have been pumping out tunes regularly since Sept/Oct last year and with new tunes always being released, you must be working hard in the studio, are there any other projects you may be working on??

Skragg: No at the moment I’m focusing everything I have on RABDOM L – aim to take this project to the next level in the forthcoming years. Also doing a lot of collaborations with artists I like – I find working with other artists keeps me inspired and keeps the music exciting.

MCBN: So you’ve made people scream, girls faint and partygoers make savage faces in a variety of different spots all over the globe. Where is the best party the wind has blown you and why?

Skragg: WOW this is a very difficult question to answer because I’ve been lucky enough to experience so many awesome moments with all you nutters out there. Despite that I would have to say my best ever set was at the 2002 Solar Eclipse Festival in the Kruger Park. Vortex, Alien Safari and Etnicanet threw the most amazing event in the middle of nowhere where. Myself and Phyx were given 4 hours from late in the afternoon to early evening, back to back, 4^th or 5^th day of the party. What happened that day was truly mystical experience for me, connecting on so many levels with such a diverse crowd. By the end of our set the dancefloor was frothing at the mouth prompting all the big names in trance like Dino Psaris and GMS etc to try and hijack the decks after us because now the floor was popping and they wanted in on the action. In fact I’ve travelled to various places around the world where people have come up to me to talk about that set.

MCBN: As one of the most respected DJs on our dark continent you must get sent more tunes then Facebook Friend Requests, What are your top 3 tracks in you dig playing at the moment?

Skragg: I wish brutha – it always feels like there are so many tunes out there I don’t have. I’m lucky enough to know a lot of producers and that’s where I get most of the music I play in my DJ set. If you make music they want then you’ll get theirs and obviously it gives you an edge when you can drop exclusive quality material. Unreleased doesn’t mean not good enough, it means its red hot off the press and hasn’t been made available to the masses yet. My top three tracks right now are Rabdom L vs Cybernetix – Daywalker, Rabdom L – Braindead and Rabdom L vs Deliriant – Torque.

MCBN: Growing up as part of Cape Town’s PSY parties, have they changed for you at all, what do you think about the scene at the moment, the amount of International DJ’s flowing onto our shores is incredible?

Skragg: Yeah the parties have changed a lot since the early days. Firstly from a musical standpoint, we’ve seen the emergence of a digital era in the last few years whereas in the early days the music was restricted to powerful analogue platforms. Technology has advanced enabling musicians to access new realms of sound production and processing resulting in what we hear today – huge, full, pumping and massive sound. Then also the crowd has grown and become so diverse – in the early goa-trance era (Mark Allen, Tsuyoshi, Kox Box, X-Dream) we saw mainly hippies and real psykadelik freedom fighters, it was still very underground back then thus not many people had ever been exposed to it. Over the years it has become more and more mainstream in Cape Town. In the beginning there was only two party organizers – Vortex and Alien. Now we have at least 10 and there’s a party every weekend during the summer months – its off the hook! I think that leads me to your next point, with so many parties the respective organizers have to make their party attractive to make people want to attend – duh! Anyway, booking a big name from abroad is one way to do that. So we’re all lucky enough to see the top names in trance all summer long and believe me – they love coming here – who wouldn’t – we really know how to gooi uber gees down here in the south.

MCBN: Being able to play your own music to thousands of crazy and usually twisted fans on the dancefloor must be an awesome feeling, but at the same time, must have led you to see some special things, anything stick out in your mind as the craziest thing you have seen behind the DJ box?

Skragg: Not just one dewd, plenty but I’ll narrow it down to two things. The first was at a NYE Vortex, cant remember which year exactly – anyway I was jamming from 11-1 crossing over into the new year. 15 minutes before the clock struck 12 their was a power cut and everything went black and the sound system kupped om. The crowd went beserk, like Zombie’s just wanting to tear us limb from limb – hurling massive abuse and everyone so trollied and hyped up, thought they were going to storm the box and start biting the machines and shit – Luckily the power was restored 5 minutes prior to midnight and the rest is history. The other amongst so many craze things was getting a strip show virtually on the decks at some dodgy indoor by two hot brazilian lesbian strippers who just decided they couldn’t take it anymore and just had to get it on right there – needless to say no-one objected or did anything to prevent them from expressing themselves.

MCBN: We recently saw you up on stage with Biorythm, that was an awesome set to say the least. Who are your favourite local DJ’s and your favourite international DJ’s at the moment? And if you could play alongside anyone, alive, dead or yet to be born who would it be? PS: Ghandi on flute is not an answer.

Skragg: Nooit I heard Ghandi rocked Cubase bra – or did he use Logic? Yeah Biorythym invited me to join them on stage at the Rezonance 2010 festival – we jammed after the A-Team and was amazing playing on such a sick setup to a massive and charged up crowd. My favourite local DJ is The Jester but I think what you really want to know is who is my favourite local producer?? Well I have a few – firstly Lost and Found is definately my number one – but he is now one of the best in the world and certainly my pick for the worlds best psytrance maker – so powerfull, innovative and massive. Then I really like Biorythym and Rubix Qube, Cybernetix, Deliriant and Pitch Hikers, but the list goes on – Headroom is super phat and Solar Axis is a project I’m watching very closely when it comes to the daytime stuff. Zion Linguist is rocking, Dirty Motion, Frozen Ghost and Hiyarant and the list goes on – we have so many great producers in Cape Town now, certainly one of the highest concentration of quality producers in the world. 

MCBN: If one day Jacob Zuma declared Trance illegal and all offenders would be shot on the spot, what music would you turn to?

Skragg: I’d move bra, Trance is a part of me and I couldn’t fathom an existence without it.

MCBN: So youre sitting with Megan Fox in lingerie and she looks over to you and makes an R18 mouth gesture and begins to climb under the DJ table, is this the perfect dream? or is there another famous apple of your eye whose distraction you’d prefer?

Skragg: This is a weird question Dr. Phil. As far as Ms Fox goes – I doubt I’d try and prevent her from doing that

Been good talking with you, thanks to everyone for all the support and great times over the years. Lets keep it going!

After a long arduous day at work creating mystery, mayhem and literary art for all you intrepid readers; Ricky and I had to drop a mate off at the airport. Little did we know we would be bumping into none other then one of the greatest trance DJ and all round legendary guy: Painkiller. So before he departed our fairest lands, we decided to pick his brain on a couple of rather pertinent topics. 

MCBN: So this is your second visit to Cape Town, did you enjoy it as much as we did? How was your Vortex expedition, besides the sweltering heat? 

Painkiller: Well, I Hope you all enjoyed as much as I did!!! hehehe and I wish to stay in the HEAT for more time cause here in Europe its freezing… br br br… 

MCBN: You have circumnavigated our planet playing to audiences on a truly global scale. If you take a look back on your travels, where is the place that jumps up, grabs you by the man plums and shouts: “Hey, that was undoubtedly the greatest venue ever”?  

Painkiller: Ive been to Burning man 2000 (the craziest festival on earth in nevada “black rock” desert), this changed my life I could say, and manyyyyyyyy other parties and festivals along the years that I definitely will remember for good! Its hard question because you always find something you haven’t seen before… and you always meet new people everywhere and that adds colours to you adventures. 

MCBN: We’re rather proud trancers down south, we like to think we’re the Dalai Lamas of loud thumping psychedelic beats. How do we compare to the rest of the world? Are we really as crazy as we think?  

Painkiller: Its DEFINITELY kicking in SA, mainly Cape Town ofcourse, and with its High Quality events, with proper sound and audience and everything. Wow, we are lucky coming down here and playing the new fresh tunes among the well known tracks and we were just very happy with everything! 

The atmosphere is crazy, but much better, cause its already beyond craziness. You people show that you REALLY love what you do, and that you really Love trancing together and share those pure energies ! 

MCBN: Playing in front of massive crowds and getting to watch them stomp on the front of the dance floor to your own tracks must be a lifelong goal come true. But what is the most outlandish, bizarre, deranged, even borderline illegal thing you have seen while spinning? 

Painkiller: A little secret…since I realize I need glasses to focus my sight.., I see less and less bad things, cause when I play I take them off, and than everybody is beautiful, and “only good things” happens… hehehe …

MCBN: You are part of Nutek records, you must receive more tracks than Paris Hilton receives venereal diseases, are there any Up and Coming DJ’s we should keep our eyes open for? 

Painkiller: Sure, you can always find yourself updated on the Nutek website www.nutek.org But mainly its our artists who makes the killer tracks and give it to our DJ’s, So you definitely have to watch out for PunchLine, Audio Hijack, BioGenesis as for younger projects, you probably already know the working tools, Cpu, Mekkanikka, A-Team and more… 

MCBN: We have all seen you playing a live and a DJ set down here in the Cape, which do you prefer and do you approach them differently? 

Painkiller: I prefer to enjoy, one or the other, all is good ! In my Live set I play my newest tracks  & some collaborations and in my DJ set, I play also my tracks, collaborations, and some fresh tunes from other artists that I have to check if they are working well or not.. hehehe

On the stage you have to give the maximum to your dancing crowd, so its basically the same approach, just slightly different method… 

MCBN: We know you work together with Bliss and make up the A Team, what an awesome combination. Are there any other side projects you are working on and are you venturing off into any other genres of electronica? And do you see yourself as more of a Murdock or a Mr T type character? 

Painkiller: Actually, there are 5 questions in this question… So to make it easier on you, Yonatan (Bliss) is supposedly “Murdock” and I’m supposedly “Face”, Mr T and Hannibal are still missing, maybe we will find them one day… hehehe

A-Team is the main collaboration project together with Yonatan (Bliss) but at the same time I have more collaborations, with good friends, such as Lost & Found, Azax Syndrom, Slug, CPU, Mekkanikka, Madmax, Absolum, Toxic, Punchline, BioGenesis, Insomnia and more… 

MCBN: Heres a scenario: Tomorrow you’re in a tragic hotdog eating accident and you lose the ability to hear. What would you do with your life? Any other occupations caught your fancy? 

Painkiller: Don’t be so cruel man.. ask me anything but not this… hehehe 

MCBN: One question I think all of our readers would like to know, would we be seeing you back in Cape Town anytime soon? I sure would love that… 

Painkiller: I would Love that!!!! actually…I have played a few other parties since that Rezonance New Years Festival, and man…nothing compares to it yet this year,

I think it was one of the greatest parties indeed !!!!! 

MCBN: And finally, would you rather… Move to Uzbekistan and become a native goat herder in freezing temperatures for the rest of your life, or have a child with Whoopi Goldberg after trying and failing for six months without being able to listen to trance? 

Painkiller: I would rather stay in my Studio with the view of Gaudi Curch, in Barcelona, and make another album of psy trance, which is almost ready by the way, and than finish few electro tracks I started a while ago, and on and on.., u must be more tempting with your options, freezing goat and Whoopi Goldberg…Hehehe 

Thanks for you interview,

Best wishes for 2010,

Stay Tuned…

Roy. 

MCBN: Thank you for taking the timeout to chat to us and I really do hope we catch you down in Cape Town again soon. Keep doing what you doing and producing the best the psychedelic trance out there.