Go Team PE Poen Tech!

Okay, so I’m writing about pretty much the same thing Peas will be here, so apologies if this feels like dejavu…

Friday night: a dinner party to celebrate C’s 30th (my C, not Peas’ C), during which too much Stella might have been drunk and may or may not have been responsible for me reversing out of the tight parking spot and getting Max mighty acquainted with the streetlight pole. For 2.5 metres of driving at around 10 km/h, a frightful amount of damage was inflicted on poor Max, and it aint gonna be fixed soon, given that September’s going to be one hell of a cash-strapped month (no doubt, the subject of a future post).

Saturday: some Matie chap throws a really great birthday party, revolving around a race to solve clues and careen through the streets of Jozi taking photos as evidence. Makes for an extremely good afternoon out, I say. Coupled with the fact that our team pulled in at a very respectable fourth place, aiding the repute of that illustrious tertiary institution, PE Tech. In fact, I think we may have been the most patriotic team there, periodically screaming out “Go PE Poen Tech!” to the bewilderment of all those who couldn’t understand why our shirts said things like “FUCT”, “Once an Ikey always a tiger!” and our arms said things like “Niknak poen”, “Siff chick” and “Poen Pimp”. The dear Gilb, usually preferring to sit on the sidelines while I do my crazy stuff, fully partook of the silliness, even if he did insist those in the back seat wear their seatbelts at all times and the empty alcohol bottles be thrown out in case we got stopped by police for looking suspicious (given that Peas’ Beetle was covered in delightful phrases written in shaving foam, and that our second car – after the swap due to the window incident Peas has no doubt told you about – was hurtling down the N1 and Bryanston suburbian roads alike, in the former’s case with hazard lights flashing in the fast lane). If I do say so myself, our team was an impressive example of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts, with general knowledge, driving ability, humour and intricate knowledge of Jozi hangouts combining in a bloody successful way. The Gilb solved a bloody difficult anagram and was confined to the corner seat until he got enough of the Sudoko complete to find the next destination (“what are you doing looking out of the window? We need to know the address in Parktown North!!!” “Stop spitting on me!” “Just finish the bloody Sudoko! Wait, C, aren’t you much better at Sudoko than the Gilb is?”) and M seems to know where every dodgy pool venue in the northern suburbs is and how to put a Ferrari to shame on an open road.

Our prize for such efforts? A lovely steak knife set (not that we’ve ever made steak in the flat before) that us undiscerning types will use to cut all manner of other foodstuffs, and two trays of Castle beer. I kid you not.

Sunday: the biggest thing I accomplished was drawing money (you know, the green stuff that vanishes from your wallet the moment you bury it there) and, in the heat of a mild argument with my sister, getting my toes driven over. I can forgive the fact she was rude enough not to open her car window and speak to me when I was asking her where she was going, I can even forgive the fact that she rode over my toes (I might have done the same thing, assuming someone blocking a car’s path would jump out of the way when said vehicle advanced towards one). But I’m flabbergasted that after driving over all ten of my toes (and yes, she most definitely noticed), she did not stop to check she had not broken any of her sister’s appendages (I have a strong suspicion that she has, actually – the middle one of my right foot is extremely sore at the tip). She just drove on out the driveway, and I’ve yet to receive an apology or enquiry as to the state of my health. Ah well, one less beneficiary on the will.