Shut The Doors

Jim Christ

The death of Jim Morrison really was a double-edged sword. On the absolute upside it saw the demise of quite possibly the most famous art fag who ever lived but on the downside it secured the little pissant a life of immortality survived by teengagers discovering gateway drugs for the first time and fueled the diddle-fantasies of "misunderstood" pubescent sluts the world over. However had this man lived to see middle age he would have been exposed for the doped up sham he really was. Much like Axl Rose who is at present a fat, bloated, prat version of his former dangerous rocker self I have no doubt that Mr Morrison too would have settled into a life of mainstream obscurity as the the marijuana soaked haze of the sixties dissipated, the hippies all got jobs and his few short years of hyper-concentrated chemical substance abuse gave way to the joys of early onset senility. Were he alive today he'd be sporting adult nappies and drooling on himself.

Be sure to consider the dangerously vast quantities of Acid and various other hallucinogens this dirty hippie had coursing through his veins at any given hour of the day when considering the piss poor excuse for the so-called poetry that is widely considered to be some of his most profound lyrics.

People are strange when you're a stranger,
Faces look ugly when you're alone.
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted,
Streets are uneven when you're down.

Wooah man! That's like so deeep! Not quite 2 drawers full of acid deep but most definitely "how much wood would a woodchuck chuck" kind of deep at the very least.

In the music industry you're only as good as your last single and in the case of old Jimbob here he's been riding that wave for oh, I dunno, a good 27 years now. His entire legacy nothing more than a snapshot in time. The only reason being that he never had time to fade away, just as warmonger eccentric Afolf Hitler never had the chance to right the wrongs of his picadilos. Given the chance could the man who gave us the Volkswagen and mass Jewish genocide have gone on to win the Nobel Peace Prize? Maybe so, but that is something we will never know. Anyone can remain a legend (or a monster) when they're just way too dead to prove it wrong. So I challenge the rotted corpse of this sixties rocker fossil to get his fat lazy hasbeen ass out of that grave and write us another string of #1 hits, if he can.

10 things I hate about The Dirty Skirts

The Dirty Skirts are hands down unequivocally the worst thing to ever emerge from the SA music scene so far besides possibly Freshly Ground. Just take one look at ol' big nose in the pink pinstripe and funny glasses and tell me you don't wanna slap that face till your hand falls off.

The brainchild of pretentious designer turned pretentious muso Jeremy "the tollie" de Tolly they form the perfect soundtrack to a day in the life of your Vida e-loitering, Kloof Street-lurking, Fiction-frequenting, Mac-loving trendoid fuckface and it just so happens they opitomise everything I despise about Cape Town life.

1) It's wrong to hit a guy with glasses. Unless the glasses are whacky, then it's practically prerequisite.

2) This guy's entire look, right down to the room temperature IQ facial expression, is lifted directly from that un-funny doos Corne. He must be preparing for a future career as Corne's stunt double just in case the band doesn't make the big time. Smart move.

3) Why is this guy covering up his right eye? Was he doing a visual acuity test when the photo was taken?

4) Oh right, he's doing it because he suffers from the same droopy eye syndrome that plagues hooker fucker Hugh Grant. Perhaps a pair of whacky shades are the order of the day?

5) Contrary to this guy's belief sporting a red leather jacket as made famous by washed-up celebrity paedophile Michael Jackson doesn't make you look thrilling, it does however make you look like a washed-up celebrity paedophile.

6) Jeremy wears these beauts because they make him look ironically cool. In a twist of double irony he really just looks like a sad douche trying to look ironically cool.

7) Only one thing could possibly make your cookie-cutter indie rock clone of a band even less original - a tie. Well what do you know, there it is. Way to go idiot.

8) According to an interview in blunt magazine this clever looking fella's band duties include not only drums but fashion as well. It must be in the same FHM magazines that he reads to stay abreast with the world of fashion that he learnt about the manscaping technique of waxing his monobrow.

9) Sucking on fags is all part and parcel of playing in a rock band.

10) I don't know what this is but I'm pretty sure it's the button from his skinny fit jeans that popped off from the strain of being a whole 15 sizes too small.

Wake Up and Smell the Break-up

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 6

Breaking up is hard to do. In fact sometimes it's damn near impossible. I'm talking of course about those persistent pieces of relationship deadweight that just refuse to go away. Hanging around like a fart in an elevator they continue to stink up the ride for everyone else onboard, and that is why when it comes to delivering the death blow to a soon to be insignificant other one needs to be about as subtle as a Jack Hammer to the face. Amputation of an expired romantic interest, much like that of a gangrenous limb, is the best option for everyone involved.

That means no greetings cards to you or members of your immediate family on birthdays and religious holidays, that means no "accidental" run-ins at the nightclub across town that they only know you frequent because they've studied your nightly movements for the past month and that certainly means no checking in with a friendly sms at the ungodly hours. Friends send smses, that's true, but only stalkers, booty callers and sad, lonely rejects looking to put the "ex" into sex send smses at 3 in the morning.

But try as you might to drive that final rusty nail into this relationship coffin like a moth to a blowtorch they will be back for more. Doped up on dangerous amounts of Rescue Remedy just to keep the volatile emotional breakdowns and sporadic weepings at bay they will boast how much better they're doing and may even dupe you into believing them when they say they're finally ready to be friends. However the idea that that once pathetic sniffling mess trying to beg their way back into their shattered relationship could transform into a pillar of maturity looking to engage in a purely platonic friendship with the very person who served them up a nice fat slice of rejection pie is something best reserved for movies starring Jennifer Aniston.

It's really nice to see you've found a medication that works and have made an attempt to rejoin the land of the emotionally stable but you're old news. Yesterday's headlines. The hideously obsese lady has sung. You are the weakest link. Goodbye.

Splitting Hairs

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 5



What self-respecting heterosexual male spends longer than a few seconds "doing" their hair in the morning? None, that's what kind. To faff with matters of the mane is a pastime best left to the fairer sex and if you beg to differ then I'm here to tell you that you're gay. I hate guys who style their hair almost as much as I hate premature balders who insist on gelling the shit out of their rapidly thinning mop leaving a wispy mess on their head that resembles a mange ridden dog caught in a rainstorm. Sorry to break it to you Fabio but in case you hadn't noticed when you looked in the mirror, the patchy wet look is not sexy. I could make a better hairstyle just by gelling the hairs on my ass.

Buddhists shave their heads in the belief that hair breeds vanity. One only has to look at the hair harvesting habits of a certain SA rock band to know they're right... damn right in fact. If you keep your finger on the pulse of the Cape Town music scene then you'll know who I'm talking about. They're the androgynous clowns in the spray on jeans looking like they raided their mothers' wardrobes during a powercut. Never before has this country seen such crimes against hair since a young grot named PJ Powers hit the scene. These wannabe bad boys care just enough to make it look like they don't really care at all but one can't help but wonder if maybe they have a little sugar in their gas tanks if you know what I mean.

Fags night out

Gel, mousse, straightener, hairspray, relaxant, style wax, polishing milk - the only "product" that touches this hair of mine is tap water. Even as a hairdresser frequenting youth I dreaded the inevitable question, "how do you wear your hair?". A question to which surely the only logical response could be, "on my head". If you're a male "wearing" your hair in any other fashion than that then you probably need to get a life a little more than you need to get a haircut. Hair: it's on your head, now get over it.

Second Hand Love

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 4

If there is but one thing I can say that I've seen destroy more friendships than anything else it is the scandalous behaviour of hooking up with friends exes - the act of snaking your way into the pants of a friend's new lost love faster than you can say "on the rebound". It is a fundamental and unspoken rule of friendship that exes are banished to the dating blacklist where they shall remain until such time as the "no bang" policy has been lifted. A very noble and fair enough cause indeed, at least until you factor a little thing called "real life" into the equation.

We've all seen it happen - one guy, one girl, one "baby you're my world", one messy break up end and she's dating his best friend. People hook up every day and in this incestuously small town cesspit affectionately known as Cape Town the chances of the next in line to put their greasy mitts all over your ex not being a "friend" are about as slim as Noeleen's waistline. It would be nice to believe in knights of the round table type friendships, ones bound by a strict code of impenetrable adamantium-like honour and the sexual appetite of an impotent eunuch but let's face it, if the want for something is strong enough you're gonna take it, loyalty or no loyalty.

I've been witness to some pretty controversial break-up triangles in my time and while it goes without saying that the friendships involved were destroyed beyond any semblance of reconciliation one can't help but wonder just what a sorry, crippled state these acquaintance-ships were in to begin with.

Moral ramfications aside, one thing's for certain, making a habit of such underhanded dealings is guaranteed to make you more unpopular than a knife juggling HIV+ haemophiliac. No one likes a relationship hyena, forever lurking in the shadows just waiting for an oppurtunity to feast on the still warm carcass of yet another failed relationship, because a friend in need might be a friend indeed but a friend in your ex... well I guess that's not really a friend at all.

The not-so-Jolly Green Giant

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 3



They say that love conquers all but in reality it is actually the steroid-popping, alcoholic, bastard brother of love more commonly known as jealousy that truly does the job. Like love suffering a serious Tik addiction this emotional yin to the yang of it's better half knows no boundaries. Cupid might be packing arrows but jealousy answers back with an almighty kick to the face with a steel toed boot. For you see, envious rage rushes in where that fat baby angel archer fears to tread. There is no cheapshot too low or act too pathetically sad for a man who sees green, but what can you really expect from an emotion marinaded in insecurity? The emotional incarnation of an iron-pumping steroid freak pussy who willfully endures the dangers of a facial hernia in the desperate attempt to distract from his freakishly tiny pecker.

However in a time when divorce is just about as rampant as the crime in this country, the sacred vows of marriage holding less weight than the Olshon twins combined and the average marriage being about as successful as Paris Hilton's music career, if there is one relationship glue that holds couples together it is this very same green eyed beast of jealousy. 'Cos let's face it, once that last butterfly has flown the intestinal coop and the warm fuzzies have turned to a tepid indifference there really is precious little left besides nauseating familiarity and the deep, dark walls of the rut you're in. To believe in everlasting love is about as childish as believing in Father Christmas or that crossdressing winged pervert gay dentist, the Tooth Fairy.

Jealousy makes you nasty.

Christ, I for one would be hardpressed to think of a gesture quite so flattering or god damn sexy as having 2 crazy hair-pulling bitches fight over the love and affection of yours truly! They don't even have to be hot! It's when the jealousy stops that one needs to become concerned with the state of their spousal affairs... or rather with the affair that their spouse is probably having! I for one can only dream of the day I catch my lady friend poring frantically over my inbox or phonebook in the hope of discovering that one forgotten breadcrumb of infidelity, because believe me when I tell you that nothing says "I love you" quite like your significant other stalking your every move.

Sexpo 2008

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 2



When I received an invitation to represent blunt at the Sexpo 2008 I really had no idea of just quite what to expect but I certainly had a couple of fantasies of my own. In my mind a sexpo should be like a sex-themed adult amusement park, one in the vein of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. A place so riddled with all things sex that it penetrates your every orifice, enough to give your eyes an erection, your brain an orgasm and make your nose ejaculate. but sadly much to my dismay and much to the dismay of the hordes of dirty old men who had somehow all taken "wrong turns" on the way to that all-important "business lunch" their wives were under the impression they were attending, Amsterdam red light district this was not! First off let me start by saying that in the 3 days that I was there I saw a grand total of 3 sets of jugs, 3 muffs and 1 penis, and that penis didn't even have the decency to be erect. Frankly I'm appalled. What is this country coming to when a so called "sexpo" barely boasts enough poon to shake a dick at?

For those of you who didn't get a chance to poke your head inside, esentially the whole affair was designed as a platform for various sex pushers from around the country to peddle their wares, some of which were cleverly disguised in the form of educational workshops on such essential topics as the ins and outs of sex toys and the joys of anal sex - fun for the whole family! The bigwigs of the porn industry all represented including Hustler, Adult World and Los Lyf to name but a few. The latter of whom called for a last minute cancellation of their scheduled striptease act when upon catching a glimpse of the intended female entertainment realised that they were in fact "grot ugly". Quite clearly sobriety is a motherfucking bitch.

Ooh that's gotta hurt!

One of the Hilights came in the form of the oh so tight, oh so snackable Sexpo M.C., Miss Nude Australia, Arianna Starr who ironically enough was actually clothed more often than not. At just over 5ft this tightly compact little cock puppet really is the kind of thing wet dreams are made of, it's just a pity about that Australian accent. However, with a character larger than life and bossoms to match she did a great job of attempting to work the crowd into a sexually deprived frenzy. A job verging on the impossible as most were far more interested in commiting their sexperience to digital history on the various voyeur-sized devices that littered the crowd rather than participating in any kind of team spirited enthusiasm.

The second hilight and clearly a crowd favourite was a penis. A penis attached to none other than self-proclaimed "world's greatest penile artist" Pricasso. Certainly a clever dick in the very highest sense of the term Mr Pricasso has cornered the rather niche market of painting portraits with his pecker. Those quick to laugh him off as an attention seeking senile old git should know that he quite possibly possesses more artistic talent in his cock alone than most people have in their entire body. This somewhat novel ability affords Mr P the luxury of being able to spend his twilight years touring the world, doodling with his dick and making a whackload doing it. Surely a far sweeter option over even the finest of retirement villages or granny flats known to man. Let this hard working cocksmith be an inspiration to us all.

Pricasso hard at work.

All in all the Sexpo 2008 experience was a great if slightly tamer than expected one. While I would hardly consider myself a connoisseur of the porn world, I do have a penis and I know what it likes. And what this little event really needs is a lot more rude and far less prude!