So Thursday was a holiday and nothing had been planned for Wednesday night. I was meant to be sick so didn’t want to drink a lot of alcohol (I have a weird recollection of a Doctor, somewhere, telling me that “a little bit of alcohol is actually quite good for you”). I had given G-man a guilt trip recently about neglecting me and we agreed to do some “boys time” at Opium on the beach (Caprice is being renovated and I’d rather go down on Manto than deal with Tuscany Beach). G-man said there was a pool table at the back of Opium and the novelty of playing pool next to the beach appealed to our senses. We drank a bottle of JC le Roux sparkling at The Safe House (sorry Mum, the Pierre Jourdan was finished and someone gave the JC as a gift) and rumbled down the hill for a spot of pool.

Shame

The muffshow began when we ordered two whiskeys and acknowledged to the barman that we would like to start a tab. The barman asked for a credit card to secure the tab, which I handed over as we walked towards the pool table. G-man and I had already started the “you know I’m going to kick your ass” banter, when the barman shouted out something that sounded like “mehvarentou shia bwemer.”

“WHAT?!?!?!” I asked, squinting my eyes as I turned back from what was a very excited walk towards the pool table.

I walked ALL THE WAY BACK to the bar and asked what could possibly be the issue that is holding me back from my first “on-the-snap-Vincent” Color of Money break I was about to give.

“Your name” was all the barman said, as he waved my credit card in the air – referring to the tab that he was starting.

“My name,” I asked?

“Is that a sentence? What about my name? Don’t you like it,” I enquired – confused.

“I need your name for the computer so I can start a tab,” came out of his mouth.

“Well, let’s think about it,” I suggested. “Why don’t you put it under ‘theonlypeoplehere’ or ‘pooltable’ OR, now this is just thinking out the box, YOU COULD LOOK AT THE NAME ON THE CARD YOU’RE HOLDING IN YOUR HAND WHICH FEATURES MY NAME IN CAPITAL LETTERS – RO THER HAM.”

Christ!

I returned to the pool room and took in my surroundings. There was a toilet door at the corner of the room, RIGHT next to the pool table. The door had no handle on it and it turned out that this was THE bathroom for the entire establishment – boys AND girls. It’s quite cool for a chick to take a pee 15 inches away from two men drinking whiskey, playing pool. Nice vibe.

We settled into a number of games of pool as The Kitesurfer arrived, sending the night into a rude spiral. More pals arrived so we ordered some plates of snacks. The average calamari went well with the plastic chicken pieces – some taste was needed in the form of Tabasco sauce. The waiter informed us that there was no Tabasco sauce and after a few minutes, without our insisting, the manager arrived asking if we were the people looking for some form of hot sauce. After educating him that Tabasco fans are looking for a specific taste rather than a burn, and, looking for any sensation besides that given by cardboard, I relented to his offer of a ‘hot-sauce’ made by his very hands.

He returned when we were near the end of the chow and the Thai Green Curry Sauce (Huh!!!???) went quite well with the left over chips.

I would say that the other door next to the loo door, leading to outside, which couldn’t close, was definitely a feature of the evening. There was CONSTANT heavy-duty staff-traffic going in-and-out of the door the whole evening. There was a helluva draft and we were left with no option but to pile two handy bricks (have we not finished building, nearly a year on?) against the door to keep it closed. The humour of staff knocking the bricks over when opening the door provided a distraction from the bitterly cold air breezing in from outside (ex-pats will be pleased to know that we are having the ODD chilly moment in Cape Town).

We also amused ourselves by plugging in a concert-type red spotlight which was lying around next to the cigarette machine. Very odd – but useful when trying to compensate for a negative ambience.

It was good humour and a clear indication as to why Opium on the Beach finds itself consistently empty. I mean REALLY, what is going on?!? There were even builders walking in and out of the door next to the pool table, carrying stuff – THE WHOLE TIME! On a Wednesday night! After 8pm! Carrying all SORTS of shit. Doors, planks, sheets of metal…. What the fuck is going on, man? Are you KIDDING me? We’re trying to have a fucking game of pool here? What are you building? Is there a secret MINE SHAFT underneath here? (Racist?)

Very bizarre vibe. It was quite obvious that the only thing left to do was to ascend upon the party happening at Ignite which was the kind of party I’ve been needing for a while – even though it took Dale QUITE some time to sort us out with the access problem we were having. You came through in the end, my love, and we thank you for that.

To the other Camps Bay commercial entities out there, the market is still WIDE OPEN for a little pool table vibe – let us know if you get one.