Good Life Or Death

You know you’ve made it when you start receiving death threats. Not little preschool collages which say ‘I’ll get you, bitch’ cut out from crappy issues of Cosmo and the side of a Butlers’ pizza box. No, the more sinister kind which arrive in your inbox and say if you don’t continue blogging whilst you’re on holiday (you bitch) we’ll hunt you down and wee on your computer. Scary stuff. The thing is, whilst I do value my life, my computer really could do with an upgrade so it does all sound a little tempting to be honest. I really thought I’d hide from the world for two whole weeks especially as I will probably find myself in a position where I am completely chilled and unable to even utter anything slightly offensive and profane. Even as I type this I am sitting on my balcony safe in the lush southern suburbs, gazing lovingly at the mountain as the sun slips softly behind it, an icy glass of Vrede en Lust’s Chenin/Semillon blend next to me and I can hear the Egyptian Geese squawking as they fly over. That’s not the kind of shit that’s interesting now is it? For those of you still in the UK, well, you want to read how shit the weather is, how many times I’ve been mugged and how much I’m missing my daily Starbucks injection, just so you can feel that you’ve got a good deal. It ain’t happening. Frankly, there’s no point in blogging whilst I’m all rustig coz its going to be dreamy and delicious and you’ll think I’ve gone soft and I greatly value my ‘offensive little heinous bitch’ image and couldn’t possibly jeopardize it. So, if in the unlikely event I feel like I’m about to claw somebody’s eyes out, threaten to shove 43 cheeseburgers down some skanky schmodel’s gullet or am overcome by an urge to maim/murder, believe me, you’ll be the first to know. However, if that beer’s been running through your system and you feel you may need to relieve yourself, give me a shout and I’ll arrange my laptop to be poised and waiting…

Friday The 13th: The New Blood(y Mad!)

Holy fok, mother of Jacobus, I am a COMPLETE f*cking tosser.
We all know it takes a special kind of stupid to fly British Airways rather than Virgin or Emirates or hell, even United 93. But how many of you can stand proud and say, you know what, I have stared death in the eye and laughed til i thought my sides would split right open in the middle of the tarmac? How many of you have actually a) opted to fly BA and b) chosen to do it on FRIDAY THE F*CKING 13TH OH MY GOD AM I BLOODY MAD???

Whilst I've been all sunshine-and-ponies about heading home, 2 weeks, rah-rah beach, Wedding Of The Century, raunchy unladylike behaviour and then a safe return to captivate you with antics beyond Granny Wrangling, I feel it is my duty to warn you that given some of my grave mistakes of late regarding choice of carrier and flight dates, maybe its best to not hold out such high hopes. I don't expect vigils and chanting. Just remember me. In your prayers. Tonight, when you snuggle down all alone because you didn't score, between trying to see the 'offensive' in "nice shoes, wanna pomp?", and applying ice to the welt on the side of your now puce little face, pray for me. Your joint prayers and my total inebriation should help see me through the night.

If you're in Cape Town, look for the girl in the red polka-dot knickers, face down in a puddle of champagne and be sure to say hi. If she turns around and starts speaking Japanese you'll know you probably got the wrong chick. But you'll feel good for trying.

Ok-bye.

The Inside Of My Nutshell

In anticipation of my immenent arrival in The Land Of The Rand I received what is possibly the most incredible sms ever typed by human thumb, by someone who apparently knows me better than i know myself. I had to share her genius with the world.

She'll be comin o'er Table Mountain when she comes.
She'll be comin in french knickers when she comes.
She'll be cravin woolie's fudges,
she'll be wearing pink & levis,
she'll be smokin Marlboro ciggies,
she'll be perving wentworth miller,
she'll be sipping low fat lattes,
she'll be skattering old wrinklies,
she'll be blowing princess kisses when she comes.

If you ever needed a summation of me, that would be it.
I honestly, without a doubt, have the coolest friends in the entire universe.

Ouma's Rusks And That's It.

If you cast your little eye upwards you'll have noticed that as of today, I'm as free as a pair of Scottish testicles in a tornado! The Wrangling she is over. And I am making absolutely no effort to contain myself. None whatsoever. The glass of bubbles, the bath of bubbles and the number of friends who have lost hearing in one ear from me screaming like a bloody banshee down their phone lines can all attest to that. Never again shall i suffocate in a hot car when grandma's dropped one and can't smell it. Never again will i have to cook another f*cking omelette and chips. Never EVER again will i look at another purple rinse trying to cross the road and think to myself, "ag, shame". Step out grandma, step riiiight on out there. In fact, quite frankly, if a plague of locusts flew in tomorrow and gobbled up every old person on the planet (except Cher, they may mistake her for a blow up pool toy) I'd be pretty ok with that. N'er again another bottom shall i wipe nor a urine sample shall i decant. I am footloose, most fancy and utterly free!

Now I just need to find a bloody job. Cr*p.

Spring With Dick And Jane.

When you think of spring you think of daffodils. You think of newborn fluffy lambs frolicking in the lush green grass as butterflies flutter on the gentle breeze. Bunnies chew on dandelions, their tails wiggling in delight. Birds twitter and kerfuffle in the trees and bluebells nod in the forest glades. You think of the perfect story book Spring.

But you would be wrong.

There's a different story over here. Picture if you will, England in the spring:

See Dick.
See Jane.
See the sun. The sun is shining. This is rare.
Dick likes spring. Dick likes beer more. See Dick drink in public. Drink Dick(head) drink.
Dick is drunk. It is breakfast. He is a f*cking hero.
Spring is sunny. Sun makes Dick remove his shirt. Dick is not at the beach. Dick is at the shops. Dick does not care. See Dick's pasty nipples. Dick's nipples love spring. Dick loves his pasty nipples. Jane does too. And Jane loves Dick. A lot. See the stretch marks around Jane's mouth. See Jane's three prams. Yes Dick Yes!
Dick is a shirtless, pale, scrawny, drunken, pasty lascivious little motherf*cker who uses Spring as an excuse to expose his nipples to the world at every goddamn opportunity he f*cking well gets and runs around pomping Jane just like the f*cking bunnies in the story you wish you were reading instead.

Run me run.

Red Or Black?

The countdown of sleeps has officially begun.

The ticket is booked, the diet's been had, the running appears to have had a dramatic effect (terrified children weeping and cowering as i thundered past was pretty dramatic ok?) and the dress for The Wedding Of The Century has been bought. And its a size smaller than i would have bought if i'd been shopping for it two months ago. Remind me to take back all those nasty mutterings I have spat into my bowl of fibrous sh*t-a-bix every morning. Granted it looks like i've been painted into it. Not like a Picasso with a nipple on my forehead and another three on my elbow. Painted into it in a good way.All that remains is a Clifton tan (read 'quick Carribbean spray paint behind Cavendish followed by a wink and a nudge'), a french pedi and a decision on red wedges or black ones, and i'm good to go. Would somebody grab an airbrush and zip me up please, this Wrangler's going home. Almost.

A Century Of Crap.

Well loyal blogger-buddies, we've done it. I've managed skryf 100 posts and you've managed to read them. Ok, not all of them but I reckon Kyk has cast an eye over 95% which makes him twinkle like a little star, whilst maintaining a certain degree of manliness of course.
For those who fell along the away, sies on them. For all you who joined along the way, how bored were you?

Anyway, should you feel so inclined, herewith a little collection of what i think were some of the noteworthy moments in this wild adventure that has been Granny Wrangling. Some to tickle, some to shock, some to emphasize the CRAP i've been through, and some just coz i loved writing them.

•• Mavis The Marvellous (no relation to Seth's chick)

•• I'm Blind!!!

•• who-what-where-how-when-why-me?

•• Keep Your City Beautiful

•• The Goddamn Fucking Chicken Wrangler Trilogy: Rustic Hell 101 closely followed by Coming and Going and of course the video The Chicken Wrangler.

•• Ode To A Skidmark

•• A Pint At The Typhoid Arms

•• F Is For Funny

•• Same Day, Different Shit

•• The End Is Naai

It troubles me to realise how many cleaning products are contained in the above content. Thanks y'all, i loves ya. I really loves ya. (If you didn't nominate me for the blog awards then i don't but i'm just pretending to).

**SMOOCH**