It was one of those summer’s evenings that only Capetonians truly understand. You know, when the still air is warm and thick like the Woolworths butternut soup that consoles pudgy, unfulfilled housewives all through the winter? When the moon is full and the night is dense with the sounds, smells and excitement of summer in the Mother City?
It was one of those nights, and I only spent a few seconds unpacking my new apartment before giving up and cracking open a Craft beer. Another couple of beers down the hatch and I found myself stumbling toward Long Street in my exceedingly uncomfortable skinny-jeans – a gift from my trendy new landlord when I paid my first lease. I’ve never referred to myself as a “hipster” before, but now that I live in Kloof Street, drink craft beer and wear skinnies, I suppose I might as well bite the bullet….
The door-lady at Fiction stared at me with a raised eyebrow while I slurred the names of club-owners and Cape-celebrities in the hopes of getting a free stamp. Luckily, the hostility of her gaze failed to penetrate my conscience, which by this stage was fully kitted-out in a metaphorical beer-suit. Such suits are highly recommend when frequenting joints like Fiction, where condescending glances emanate openly from the patrons, shattering the sober ego in a matter of minutes.
I was served an icy tequila by the barman that typically mistakes himself for a pterodactyl at outdoor trance parties. Pumped up on the Agave cactus, I took a deep breath before hustling my way through the packed-out dancefloor. However, I’d forgotten that during the summer Johannesburg colonizes the Cape Town clubs: the place looked like a scene out of Jersey Shore, heaving with fist-pumping roid-pushers who sported miniscule vests, spiky haircuts and anorexic girlfriends.
I made it into the centre of the dance-floor, and before long somebody had bumped into somebody who bumped into me, sending my vodka-redbull sprawling into the abnormally large guy in front of me. It turns out that he was one of those Neanderthal gym trainers, with biceps the size of my torso, and a vocabulary the size of my left testicle after a dip in Llandudno. He also seemed not to appreciate having a drink poured onto his exposed back, probably as he feared it may contaminate his self-tan. Subsequently, he did what any rational human might: he loaded up and took a massive swing at my head.
Luckily, I was able to duck effortlessly as his boulder of a fist hurtled a few inches above my head. I realize, at this stage, that it might be appropriate to reveal a little more about myself. Firstly, I resemble Tom Cruise…. Ok, maybe I’m stretching my poetic license a little – I actually look a lot more like Andy Dick. Nonetheless, and this is the truth, I’m a martial arts expert; though one certainly wouldn’t expect it from looking at me.
You see, most adolescent males are passionate about one thing alone: masturbation. Growing up, however, I shared a wooden house with a family of five females; sound travelled like you wouldn’t believe, and regular masturbation simply wasn’t an option. Thus, my tensions and frustrations were assuaged in the local gyms and dojos. For eighteen years, I have trained diligently in the arts of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, Shaolin Wing Chun, Western Boxing and Kyokushin-Kai Karate. I saved my parents a small-fortune’s worth of toilet-roll and lotion, and also learnt to fight like a motherfucker in the process.
However, I’m a pacifist rather than a fighter; nonetheless, when push comes to shove, my technique of choice is the semi-lethal Ushiro Mawashi (youtube is your friend). I can no longer keep count of the times that I’ve knocked-out competitors using this technique, and I’ve developed a level of precision which would enable me to kick an apple off of Anna Korunikova’s head, even when I’m drunk, and even when she is posing naked.
Anyway, back to my story: the Neanderthal had just taken a potentially lethal swing at me, and I felt that it would only be appropriate to schedule a meeting between my foot and his face. In the process of executing a snappy Ushiro Mawashi, I felt something going horribly wrong; I had forgotten the ultimate price that all hipsters must pay: constricted lower-body movement in exchange for a visible bumcheek-contour. I had forgotten about the fucking skinny-jeans!
My kick ordinarily would have knocked this drunken douche half-way back to Benoni, but my jeans constricted my leg’s trajectory, which subsequently smashed a bystander’s beer into a wall, narrowly missing a girl who was tripping on ecstasy, thereby sending her into a state of hysterics. I regained my balance just in time to see a clenched fist about to connect with my temple, and the next thing I knew I was sitting outside the club, nursing a massive concussion. Just to add insult to injury, my inner-thigh was subject to a refreshing breeze, invited by the massive rip that had manifested in my jeans from the kick.
This seemed like the right time to call it a night, so I dragged my bruised body and battered ego all the way up Long Street. However, just before reaching my flat, I heard something that would make any town-dweller’s blood run cold: hurried footsteps approaching from behind. I swung around to meet a wiry frame – I could make out a myriad of blue tattoos spider-webbing across his face. “Wallet and keys, now” he said sternly, and I noticed fearfully as the moonlight glinted off a makeshift blade nestled in his left hand.
It was as if time stood still, and a million thoughts rushed through my mind. Ordinarily I might have tried to fight, but I was dizzy and still wearing the offensive jeans; a repeat of my earlier incident might just cost me my life. But then I felt it: a cool breeze caressing my naked arse. Two realizations hit me simultaneously: first, a cold front must have been on the way, and there would be waves tomorrow. Second, my jeans were ripped! Thus, I had my lower-body flexibility back, and my legs had their lethal trajectory once again!
It happened in a matter of seconds. A bystander simply would have heard the dull thud of my hi-top connecting with his skull, followed by a metallic klink as his blade hit the road. I left his unconscious heap lying on Kloof Street as I made my way into my flat and collapsed on my bed. That’s the last time I go out wearing skinny-jeans; I guess I never was a true hipster…