I must just warn you that I am writing this after annihilating two joints and half a bottle of Whiskey. (For those who wish to increase their knowledge : whisky from Scotland has no ‘e’, but whiskey from Ireland has an ‘e’. Jamesons, therefore, is spelt WHISKEY). Ja, you know – you learn something new every day. Or so they say. I’ve been drinking in the safe house on my own all day and I can confidently confirm that I have learnt fuckall today. I am watching the Sharks game and, once again, I feel more of a connection to the Sharks as I do with the Stormers.

Back to the lecture at hand….

The P.A. and her BMX gang have been going to “the market” virtually every Saturday morning this year. They gave it rave reviews and I was keen to check it out. The only problem was that I was always too broken on Saturday mornings to attend. They usually went at about 11h00. Too hectic.

I would have to make a plan.

There’s your Loerie, right there

I came one step closer to the market experience when I attended The Dirty Skirts’ (South Africa’s only act that TRULY rock. Seriously) new album launch held in the same venue as the market a couple weeks ago. The layout appealed to me and I looked forward to my first daytime visit.

[This is where you would normally turn the page of a magazine or book. But that’s in real life – it doesn’t apply here, inside this so called “internet” scheme]

After promising myself that I would have a quiet Friday, The Marketer and I agreed to make an appearance at the market the following Saturday. I did, and we did. I felt safe going to the market with someone who makes a living doing “marketing”. I woke up as fresh as a daisy, raped a joint and picked him up.

We went to the market.

[insert music – something playful]

BEHOLD! THE MARKET! Well! NO ONE told me that you can RENT wine glasses and spend two hours cavorting in (and?) amongst a fuckfest of organic food and snacks – including cheeses, sauces, peanut butters, clothing, fresh bread, quiches (a rich unsweetened custard pie, often containing ingredients such as vegetables, cheese or seafood), samoosas, sushi and enough wine merchants to keep those glasses topped up at all times. It is surprising that a man of The Marketer’s girth gets fucked so quickly. (It’s quite evident that he has a drinking problem. But let’s all pretend that everything is fine).
I was already flying when I arrived so we made a good team.

We paused to chat next to a stall selling honey and peanut butter, which included an actual pyramid of peanut butter jars. I had just finished off yet another hilarious Luke Watson joke as I was approached by a Cape Spanish couple who were very focused on the peanut butter (they had probably also had the peanut butter craving we have all had since DSTV starting flighting ‘Meet Joe Black’ again).

“How much are these jars of peanut butter,” the lady asked me (thinking I was part of the peanut butter sales team.)

The prick side of my brain took control of me and I realised that I had been put into a position which was too much fun to ignore.

“Well,” I explained to her, “it’s quite funny that you ask that! We have actually, just this second, started our promotion for today. All peanut butter is free for the next hour. One jar per person!”

“Are you seeeerious?” she pleaded.

“Big time, madam! I know! It’s crazy! That jar is yours! Enjoy it!”

“That is very generous of you,” she declared.

“Well, madam, this is our way of giving back to the consumer! It’s the least we can do.”

“Thank you so much,” she squeeled as she walked away with the jar.

No one noticed a thing.

I don’t know if it gets any more fun than making someone steal something without them realising what they’ve done. I’ll be honest, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Now, there is no way that the incident fucked with her karma, because she was unaware that she was stealing. I, however, might be in a bit of a predicament. That is why I went back the following weekend to buy a ton of peanut butter, in an attempt to equalise my evil deed. Alas, the stall was not present that weekend. But I will be back..

A quiche in need
is a quiche indeed

Our glasses were close on empty as fate issued us with a new stall selling some sort of port. I was genuinely intrigued and instructed my body to walk nearer to the table, without bumping into people. I focused my attention on the bottles standing on the table. “Peter Bayly – Calitzdorp”, was the name and region. “Cape Vintage Port,” it went on to say on the impressive label. I looked up at the salesman. Well, suck me sideways, it was SA Survivor host, Mark Bayly. As a long-time 2oceansvibe friend and Caprice breakfast compatriot, Mark received a full strength high five. Then, following some investigation it seems that his dad, Peter Bayly, is producing his own limited supply of hand bottled port. We had a little taste tester and it was QUITE STUNNING! Mark very kindly gave me a bottle.

I have the bottle right here next to me and am compelled to open it and tell you about it.

[Seth glides to the kitchen and back]

I have just opened the bottle and poured myself an adorable little glass.

[sip]

Good Lord! That is QUITE pleasant!

Whilst this is a port, I must pause and tell you what The UK Showbiz Guy believes is the best way to pretend you know what you’re doing when tasting red wine.

Here it is:

You should take a sip, swirl it in your mouth, swallow it and then close your eyes as you pretend to have some sort of a debate with yourself in your head – always playing with the after taste in your mouth. Your expression should be similar to that of someone trying to listen to something very faint. Then, with a little nod and a smirk to yourself, you slowly open your eyes, seemingly impressed, whilst simultaneously agreeing with yourself on something you were just discussing inside your head.

[The key thing here is to give the impression that you are enjoying a healthy debate with yourself, inside your head. You have no choice but to discuss it with yourself as the surrounding company are SURELY not capable of such deep thought]

Then, with a light laugh, you should mutter (somewhat embarrassed about the long silence and compelled to give an explanation for your private taste-testing amusement), “Yes……very interesting.” (Throw in another short chuckle to yourself.) You pause….thinking of the easiest way to explain your thoughts in simple words that your present company would understand.

Then you say….very slowly…still chuckling to yourself :

“Very clever [pause] It’s PRETENDING to be a ’96 Bordeaux,
[pause and chuckle to yourself]
but it’s too vibrant to get away with it!”

How fucking funny is that!? It’s PRETENDING to be a ’96 Bordeaux, but it’s TOO VIBRANT TO GET AWAY WITH IT! Like the wine was trying to trick you! It’s genius.

Anyway, back to the port….

I’m no wine pro but I can tell you that the Peter Bayly port is QUITE special. It is perfectly sweet and is not shy to come across as a little flirtatious – showing a (very welcomed) little bit more leg than necessary. You need to get some of this juice. I don’t know where else to get it, but I’m sure you will find it at the market on a Saturday morning. Have a gander.

I interacted with other stall owners and told the samoosa guy (white) that he was wasting his mother-fucking-time selling his samoosas for R4 a pop. Pump those little fuckers up to R5 each and enjoy the fruits of your success, my boy. We bought 4 samoosas and swaggered outside.

Moments later, outside the main market area, the samoosa guy ran up to The Marketer and me (no, it is not “The Marketer and “I”” in this case.), asking if we would like to try out the produce he was holding – some sort of pretzel thing made of sesame seeds or something. We took a bite. It was horrific. I told him it was awesome. He left. We threw it away. Let’s focus on the samoosas, my boet – that’s your cash cow right there… samoosas. Let’s pump the fuckers out there. Forget about the sesame seeds – no one gives a fuck. Don’t be a hero. Stick to your game. Find your niche. It’s so obvious. You’re the white samoosa guy – it’s brilliant! The ball is in your hands, run with it, my angel.

We walked out of the actual market, but remained in the “complex”. The Marketer directed my body to a plethora of retail stores selling everything from art to white belts with diamante studded gun-shaped buckles. Naturally I had to have one. It is SO awesome. I wear it at home. I’m wearing it now, over my Woolies short sleeve Pajamas. It’s like Hugh Hefner meets 50 cent, meets Clint Eastwood.

The pajamas make me look quite young. I can pretend to be a naughty little boy and you could pretend to be an angry nanny. You would spank me for swearing…and I would enjoy it. You would warn me (unaware that I was enjoying it) that you would spank me again if I swore.

“FUCK”, I would scream.

You would spank me.

I would enjoy it.

Touch me here…

Is that nice?

[Hi Mum. Listen, obviously the joints mentioned in this story weren’t real – I just say stuff like that so the readers will think I am cool. I know that is pathetic, Mum, but, as an only child, the 2oceansvibe readers are everything to me. I must keep them happy. We must seem to follow the mantra, “Work is a sideline, Live the holiday” at all times. Love you, Seth]