Them's Fightin' Words

Hey party people, how the hell are ya!

It’s been way, way too long since I last did this. Work has literally been killing me the past two weeks, but things are finally stabilising which means I’m back in the saddle, riding this, the Anti-Christ of South African blogs once again, all flashing eyes and floating hair, towards the event horizon.

So what’s your Tiger pal been up to the past two weeks? Curazy pops that’s for sure, ricocheting all around the country like a piece of loose shrapnel.

Transport, motorways and tramlines, starting and then stopping, taking off and landing, the emptiest of feelings…

One minute I’m dressed in full black tie, sipping Johnnie Walker Blue Label and listening to Lewis Pugh speak about how his old man was part of the team of physicists that first started detonating nuclear bombs.

His old man was standing hundreds of miles away in full protective gear when the first one went off, but even that far away, the light was so bright he held his hand up to shield his eyes and saw the bones of his hands like he was looking at an x-ray of himself.

The next minute I’m dressed in a full kilt, sporran and ghillie shirt at the Cape Town leg of the Whisky Live Festival, regaling people with stories of Bell’s Special Reserve whilst pouring my way through 23 bottles of it, one shot at a time.

I’m in a plane flying over the mountain ranges of the Western Cape, I’m looking down and wondering what life would be like down there if I just build a house right there in those mountains, away from it all, J-Rab and I could start a family there, farm vegetables.

I wanna live in a wooden house. Making new friends would be easy…

I’m meeting with Diageo’s Global Whisky Ambassador, we’re doing one media interview after the next, he’s talking about how they drink whisky in Suriname with coconut water and in China with green tea. I’m nodding and smiling and thinking “Suriname… where the fuck is that?!”

I’m driving through the streets of Jozi, the ones I grew up on, and the sun is pouring out of the sky in waves so hot they’re turning the tar soft and leaving a shimmering heat haze over the horizon. It’s glorious how hot it is, how many memories this brings back.

I’m seeing my mom again after too long. I’m feeling that deep down sadness that echoes in the well of your soul when you can’t ignore how old your parents are getting. I wish I was a better son.

I’m flying into Shaka International, my stomach twisted up in knots because later that same day I’m going to co-ordinate a putting coaching session with the media and Gary Player. At seventy-six, when the man gives you an hour of his time, you make that hour count.

Everything comes together at the last second, and moments after I arrive at the putting green with the media, Mr Player’s golf cart pulls up, he steps out and like a true veteran, takes centre stage like a pro. It’s awesome watching him operate. Seventy-six years old and still able to keep his audience utterly captivated with every word.

I’m drinking Johnnie Black and watching Johnny Clegg rock out onstage. I’m thinking how much this man has seen and done, how he made it his life’s mission to write and perform music that brings us together. South African music, played with a lot of heart. Stories of love and bravery and triumph. I’ll play this music to my kids one day, whether we live in this country or not.

I’m standing side by side in the DJ booth with Gareth Cliff and we’re shooting the breeze. He’s surprising me with how utterly unaffected he is, I’m throwing curveballs at him and he’s smacking them out the park.

Other people come up to him every 5 minutes to say hi, or request a song or just tell him he’s rad and he takes the time to talk to them all. He’s a stand-up guy – don’t believe the bullshit people say about him, it’s based on jealousy, not fact.

And finally, I’m on a flight back home, so hungover it hurts to breathe. When I finally land what feels like eons later, J-Rab greets me at the airport with that beautiful smile of hers and I take her in my arms and breathe her in until my lungs feel like they’re going to burst.

We go home and I wash the hangover and grime from travelling off me. We curl up for an afternoon nap and in that moment I couldn’t be happier.

It’s been a rough two weeks, what you’re reading here are only the very best parts. The bad parts aren’t worth repeating or remembering and most of them I’ve already cut loose anyway.

I completely missed it in the midst of the chaos of the last two weeks, but it was my birthday on the 3rd of November.

I’m 28 years old now.

Ain’t that wonder

-ST