Mr Tighty Whities saved my night

It’s been a week of overindulgence. It all started with a shopping basket laden with Woolies marshmallow eggs, speckled eggs, hollow eggs and white bantam eggs on Monday, which I bought with the very good intention of playing Easter bunny to ‘The Hot Fisherman’, the parentals and my siblings on Easter Sunday. Unfortunately when the overwhelming craving for crunchy, candy-covered hollow eggs hit at approximately 8pm on Monday evening, not even hiding the eggs in the hardest-to-reach places of my cupboard could save me. I attacked those eggs with all the feverish excitement and enthusiasm of a three year old and not even throwing the empty box away after the annihilation could hide the evidence since the corners of my mouth bore the residue of sticky white candy. Tuesday and Wednesday were no better. Let’s just say that the stash of eggs I had purchased had diminished to a few dismal dregs. Pizza and jam jars at Primi on Thursday, a boozy rib braai at my folks on Friday evening and several draughts at the St Johns rugby festival on Saturday was a great way to warm up my jaw and digestive system for Sunday. I played a game of hot or cold with ‘The Hot Fisherman’ in order to locate my hidden Lindt Bunny Easter egg and spent the rest of the morning nibbling off one body part at a time (ears, then head, followed by neck and feet). All that’s left of my decapitated bunny are the back paws and a bit of the bum. Later on, lunch was a meal of McDonalds chicken nuggets, chips and a coke. I had a faint urge to do some sort of energy expending exercise after lunch, and hence the blog post. I am going to continue spewing my weekend experiences on this page in the hope that I may burn a few more calories.

So as I said, yesterday ‘The Hot Fisherman’ and I went to the St John’s rugby festival. I don’t want people to think that I have a ‘thing’ for porta-loo’s, but once again, I had an unfortunate experience at the porta-loo’s that I have to share with you. It was approximately 6pm and light was fading fast. I had had several ciders in the beer tent and felt the inopportune urge to pee. I made my way through the rowdy crowds of teenagers with mullet haircuts, tribal tattoo’s and shirt dresses towards the porta-loo’s. The walk there was nearly as unpleasant as the porta-loo’s themselves. Squelching through mud puddles, dodging masses of youths high on hormones and walking through clouds of cannabis smoke, I finally made it to my destination. I expected worse. The queue wasn’t too bad and someone in the line ahead of me even handed me a roll of loo paper. I stepped inside the dark plastic container and did what I had to. I emerged from the loo, well impressed at the survival instincts I had obviously developed for withstanding the extreme conditions within the confines of the porta-loo and made my way to the hand washing facilities. After dispensing a small amount of hand soap into my palm, I rubbed my hands vigorously and then began pumping the foot pedal furiously wash off the soap with water. To my utter disgrace, I found that the water canister was empty and I was by this stage, up to my elbows in foam. While attempting to remain calm, I began shaking my hands violently to get rid of as much of the soap as I could. Seeing my obvious predicament, one of the young guys in the queue came to my rescue and offered to rinse off my hands with his beer. Bless his little cotton undies (which I could see since his pants were hanging half-way down his bum). I obliged politely and rinsed my hands off under the steady stream of his beer. So this post is dedicated to Mr tighty whities. Thanks dude.