Ha! A Post A Year

Now I can say I have posted at least once a year since I birthed my little Retronym (except for 2009). I’m currently sat in the Radisson Blu in Johannesburg watching an almighty thunderstorm raging outside (I would post a picture but the window is too reflecty and nothing on earth can now convince me to venture out of my PJs).

I’ve been here about two weeks now and I can confirm that I love South Africa and for more reasons than just the epic consumption of red meat and red wine. Thinking about it, red is my favourite food group.
My view of the country will be skewed as I’m here on company expenses but I don’t think that takes away from the friendliness of the people or the size of the steaks.

Firstly, I have to point out that this country is not suitable for vegetarians. Meat is the in thing, all the rage and I’m not talking about just pigs, cows, sheep and hens. Already you can discern that the South African is a right thinking person where diet is concerned.

My dining experience last week centred around the Carnivore restaurant. Their website is sparse on details but this gives a little more flavour to the proceedings that awaited me.
On arrival, we made it clearly known that all non-animal based edibles were to be heartily shunned. In fact, they were shunned with such vigour that the waiter had to remind me and my compatriot that this was an all inclusive affair and that we didn’t have to be stingy with the victuals. Nevertheless, we mocked the mention of soup; a baked potato was proffered but resoundingly snubbed and the mere idea of salad was so resolutely despised that I think we crushed a little of the chef’s soul in the process.

Before I continue, I have to describe the process that tasty BBQ flesh is brought to you in this restaurant. There is a flag.

When the flag is up, a never ending procession of meat wielding chefs (stop giggling!) carve off hunks of flesh onto your plate. To lay down your flag is to surrender in shame. Shame at having given up, but mostly degradation brought on by enthusiastically indulging in one or more of the seven deadly sins. 

I’m getting ahead of myself for just as Ezekias begat Manasses, butchery gave birth to gluttony. I’m not proud, that evening I consumed 10 different types of animal. Fuck it. Of course I’m proud. I even named each slab of meat as it hit the plate.

Mr Stripy Pants the zebra was a bit bland, Kenneth the kudu was naturally spicy and Sir Wilbarforth the crocodile was downright unpleasant. My favoured edible guest was Hattie the Hartebeest. She was a sublime mix of tangy game and robust beef flavours.  

You may be thinking that in most countries my menu would be more at home in a zoo than sizzling over a charcoal pit of flames. I disagree. I may be the animal equivalent of Jack the Ripper, but I appreciated every morsel.

All in all, we managed 45 minutes or so before our surrender became a necessity. Some kind of internal rupture was a very real risk and we had a 45 min drive home through the pitch black countryside.

I think I’ve covered meat. Next topic – ensuring the meat doesn’t cause a coronary. On my wanderings I’ve chatted to a whole bunch of people and the one thing that everyone here has in common is the outdoors. People list off three or four sports / activities as if it’s normal. Even taking into account that I am built for comfort rather than speed, I think I am talking sense when I say that humans aren’t meant to get that much fresh air. It percolates the mind in unhealthy ways. In order to fit in I decided to infiltrate one of these groups. I ended up going gliding.

Now if you’re not familiar with the concept, gliding is basically thumbing your nose at the laws of nature. For the more religious, you can describe it as committing an affront to the Lord. I am not quite sure how the darn things stay up in the air, really I’m not, but I have heard rumours that to get a gliding license, Flyers (those that glide) have to attend a semester at Hogworts.
If that’s not enough, flyers stick two fingers up at the deity / forces of nature that keep the damnable contraptions from falling out of the sky by insisting on wearing parachutes while in them.

Me - Why do we need parachutes? Surely they’ve managed to perfect gliding after all these years? There’s not even an engine required.

Flying Man - We know these things aren’t meant to stay in the air, but we still take them up, parachutes and all. Wibble wibble, would you like a woodlouse?

Ok, so that’s not an entirely accurate transcription of the conversation but it’s close to the truth in my mind.

The Flying Man (Chris) that took me up was awesome though. Apart from a few slips of the tongue (“Oh dear that was disastrous… wait, not really, I just missed a thermal”) I felt absolutely safe and had great fun… until he banked sharply to the right. Gliders can turn on a penny and manoeuvre into a position where your looking directly down as you turn, usually accompanied by girlish screams and within sight of a brown trouser moment.

I would post another picture of me with hilarious sunburn on my face from spending the entire day at an air-field but I’ll leave that for another time.

This post has rambled on for longer than I thought and covered far less than I meant to so as I’ll be on an 11 hour flight today, I may use the time to write a little more… or I may drink too much and sing at the flight crew.

Special thanks go to Crazy Raver Amy for helping out with some of the turns of phrase in the post, Wikipedia for providing pictures of beasts and Peroni for inspiration.