As wondrous as Stanford is, stealing lemons from the neighbours and flogging them down the Saturday Morning Market doth not many boxes of Ouma’s Breakfast Rusks buy. So I went to Cape Town to reintroduce my being to work. W.O.R.K. Heavens to Betsy! My village mellow was well and truly destroyed. But it did give me the chance, inbetween nocturnal enslavement at The Argus and shards of sleep, to photograph things other than sheep, rivers, mountains, birds, butterflies, children running barefoot and freely in paradise and the most beautiful woman in the village. You might want to check these out…
I hear Seth Rotherham has a pair on order. But Aubrey got there first.
Love the dresses, love the hairbunches, love the little girl...
There was this incredible woman on the train. She looked like a prima ballerina who had fallen on hard times. I thought her shoe and rose worked well together...
There was music in the air...
Sometimes you only have to look up...
My friend Helen has this bunny in the window...
Back to the train... and the best of British.
I wonder where they took their kitten for the day?
Sleep Purple
Another railway sleeper...
I followed Cape Town's yellow tile road to the Open Book Festival...
... and, on the way, I thought this late-afternoon sliver of light quite poetic...
... until my ears were caressed by the exquisite prose of the mercurially wordful Isobel Dixon.
After all that, light relief...
So it is. So it is. Pics: Hatman Photography
I’m so looking forward to delivery of the redesigned “SA-positive blog”. Then I can do this picture thing much more effectively for you. Until then…
The Swinging Sixties might have swung like an army of chimps on speed elsewhere in the world but, here in South Africa, life under apartheid was about as titillating as being stuck in a lift (elevator) with Margaret Thatcher.
“In the 1960s it was ILLEGAL for sunbathers of the opposite sex at municipal swimming baths to be closer than a specified distance from each other. To ensure that this legislation was enforced, an official on duty carried a ruler to assist him with his inspection. Any two persons not adhering to the specified distance were charged accordingly.”
I defy any of the boys down at the pool to keep 11 feet 6 inches away from Genevieve Morton on a hot day
I always wondered why, after asking my Dad if I could get a Schweppes Creme Soda from the pool tuckshop, I then had to walk 11 feet 6 inches over to my Mom to grab the money from her.
Now it all makes perfect sense. Doesn’t it?
* A red hat tip to the boys over at the Socialyz blog for lending me that lekker pic of Gen. Which I think they nicked from Seth.
* Dear Hatpeople, if you look up to your right on this page, you’ll see a great big fat badge saying something about the 2010 South African Blog Awards. I’ve only been around for a year so it may be a tad cheeky of me but I’ve entered your “diagnosed SA-positive” blog into three categories: Best New Blog, Best Personal Blog and The Kulula Best Travel Blog (well, I think I’ve been parping the vuvuzela big-time for people to travel to our Beloved Country!). I wouldn’t be at all offended if those of you who quite dig reading my stuff clicked on that there badge and nominated http://www.fredhatman.co.za in any one of those three categories. In fact, were I to amaze all of us by winning something, the Birkenhead is on me down the Stanford Arms! Cheers!
What do Hollywood, USA, and Stanford, SA, have in common? No, hills is not the right answer. Stanford has mountains. And, no, not good-looking people and money, either. We’re far better-looking.
The correct answer is, cue much-missed paaarps of a small orchestra of vuvuzelas, celebrities.
Yes, celebs. Don’t act surprised. You knew this. But, should further proof be needed, here it is. I have two huge celebrities for you, snapped on a sunny winter’s day in Stanford yesterday. Seth Rotherham of 2oceansvibe blogging fame and Mariana Esterhuyzen of Marianas cooking legend. And me.
This how I roll in Stanford... hanging out with celebs such as Seth and Mariana Pic: Perez Hilton
That is all. Oh, apart from wishing Mariana and Pieter Esterhuyzen a very restful annual holiday. Don’t even try to book a table until mid-September. Mariana will be teaching and passing on her unmatched culinary expertise. Pieter will be refining his vast repertoire of jokes, no doubt.
Lucky fish. Bloggers aren’t allowed to do holidays!
PS: During my previous life in London, I was lucky enough to eat at places such as The River Cafe and The Ivy. Top-notch restaurants. Marianas is in the same league. Only with a far superior view. And vibe. If you would like to enjoy a food experience second to none, write down this number and keep it safe: 028-341 0272. Or e-mail marianas@stanfordvillage.co.za. Remember, only after mid-September.
As avid readers of this “SA-positive” blog will freely tell you, I seldom post about glamour. I like to keep it real. OK, so I might make a rare exception when my close friend Genevieve Morton, when she’s not palpitating the hearts of the world’s photographers, pops around. But more of Gen later.
Yes, unlike another good friend Seth Rotherham of 2oceansvibe infamy, I’m not very into glamour. Let’s immediately get down to changing that.
Have you noticed how South Africa’s media are getting just a tad excited about the so-called WAGs (wives and girlfriends for those of you living in Kakamas) of the footballers about to arrive here for THE World Cup of all World Cups? “Football fans will struggle to keep their eyes on the boys,” pants TimesLive, usually a rather sober commentator on all matters South African.
I think not. In fact, sod that, I strongly disagree.
Take two footballers widely exhorted to be the best in the world. Lionel “The Flea” Messi (Barcelona and Argentina) and Wayne “Garden Gnome” Rooney (Manchester United and England). Now neither of them are themselves oil paintings, or even vaguely appealing watercolours you might expect to pick up in the bargain bin at your local arts society fundraiser.
I mean, have a butchers at this…
Lionel Messi: so ugly that I had to publish a flattering cartoon image
I’m sorry. Being unkind is not at all my vibe but… Gerard Depardieu’s ugly little boet or what?
And it’s not about to get much better. Here’s Rooney…
Wayne Rooney: About to attempt a self-makeover by gouging his own eyes out
Look. That was a bit harsh but you are getting my point, right? Right. But, actually, the fact that both Messi and Rooney look like the back of a vintage Putco bus is not the point at all. The point is, well, their partners.
As a true football fan, the looks of footballers is not at all important. It’s all about the skills, isn’t it? The way Messi can dawdle around the pitch for an hour, lulling the opposing defence into an all-encompassing sense of false security, then latch on to the ball, effortlessly sidle past several players and dink the ball over the goalkeeper for the most sublime of goals. The way Rooney can pinball his gnomish frame around a pitch for every one of 90 minutes, bouncing off any opponent who dares to get in his way, roundly abuse the ref every time the whistle blows and still find time to arse a winner by getting his big bum in the way of a cross. Sorry. I’m a Liverpool supporter.
But you do get my drift. What I don’t get is how, given that these okes earn a few million rand a week and thereby have supermodels salivating over their wallets like flies over a boerie roll, they dare bring fifth-string WAGs to our country.
Our girls at Caprice aren’t exactly going to engage reverse to let this lot through to the loo, are they?
Colleen Rooney: No flies on her... despite eating all the boerie rolls
I’m ashamed of myself. That was just cruel. Let’s see if we can show off Mr and Mrs Rooney in a kinder light…
Wayleen: all dolled up for a braai in Bellville
Aah, that’s better. I’ll stop apologising now. And I make no apologies for introducing you to Antonella Roccuzzo, Messi’s girlfriend…
Leo's choice of chica with childbearing hips is unlikely to have South Africa's top-tier angels staring miserably into their Pinacoladas
Safe to say that, blessed as we are in South Africa with the world’s most outrageously gorgeous women, our men will be totally focused on what’s happening on the pitch. And I suspect the much-trumpeted WAGs will take refuge in their hotel rooms, furiously texting friends back home about how terrified they are to venture out to the bars and clubs. And we, dear Hatpeople, will – nudge, nudge – know the real reason for that…
All South African Gen Morton: just one of the real reasons for that.
Everybody knows that I hosted the party of the year in 2009.
I just love celebrating my birthday properly. So I invited Frikkie, Lofty, Tich and old Farquaharson round to the Bush Tavern in Umdloti and we had a right skinful while watching the rugger.
Never mind that the Boks lost. Never mind that Lofty got bounced out for trying to snog the barmaid. Never mind that Frikkie fell down the steps on the way out, ricocheted off a really big oke’s girlfriend and took a mighty right to the ear for his trouble. Never mind that Farquaharson, as is his custom, deposited his zooosh kebab on Mrs Hindmarch’s Morris Minor. And never mind that I had to be reminded of all this the next day after being rudely woken up at 2pm in a zinc bath full of what had been ice at the bottom of Tich’s mother-in-law’s garden. Great night out.
But it appears that my party-hosting skills have been usurped.
And, once again, it is that young bounder who goes by the name of Seth Rotherham who has dared to upstage me in the partytjie stakes.
How, you ask, has Camps Bay’s premier blogger and unparalleled sex symbol managed this? Good question.
Well, the little blighter has only gone and hired some posh club in Camps Bay, secured the services of, in Seth’s breathless words, “South Africa’s Most Exciting Party-Pumping Entertainment Act – The Wedding DJs” and then reeled in every one of his infamous Weather Girls (read excruciatingly gorgeous swimwear models), hasn’t he?
It'll be a nice change to sip a cocktail with Gen instead of getting rat-arsed with old Frikkie
The slick-on-the-draw mind behind 2oceansvibe.com has left no stone unturned in his quest to trump me and for this I am, like, totally stoked. Because he’s invited me along to witness it all.
Something you will not be privy to if you haven’t yet snapped up a ticket. There weren’t that many left at 10.30pm last night (Thursday) so if you want to be rubbing snakeskin boobtubes – or whatever the fantabulous wear these days – with the fantabulous and the even more fantabulous and watch me totally chopping up the floor with my terrifyingly suave Umdloti Wardance, then you had better get on to Webticket like quicksticks. Eighty ront a shot gets you in. There will be zero tickets at the door so don’t even entertain the idea that you can sommer rock up and swan in.
No, really. Seth has taken The Party of the Year standard up a few notches with this little soiree and, with the help of Marina Nestel, uberbabe behind The Little Black Book, tonight’s fandango should cook like Jamie Oliver on, well, whatever, Jamie Oliver is on.
I’m so looking forward to hooking up with my close friend Gen Morton (don’t listen to what people are saying, we are only very good friends and that’s the end of it, right?) and hearing how her very hectique modelling career has been going and, y’know, just chilling in the VIP suites with all of my other model, photographer, film and general celeb connections. I’m not dropping names because, as you know by now, I like to keep it all below the radar. Makes a refreshing change from getting slaughtered with Frikkie and the boys though.
I’ve got it. Why don’t you read what Rothers himself is saying about his own party by sliding effortlessly over to his very entertaining, if a little cheeky, 2oceansvibe blog and reading all about it. Hang on, you’ll need to scroll down a bit, past the pics of Candice Swanepoel “jumping around in her underwear” – Seth rolls like that, to the bit about The Vibe and what will be going down at St Yves in Camps Bay from 6.30pm tonight.
How did you get on with that? He’s got a hilarious turn-of-phrase has our boy, hey? Yes. OK. So let us look forward to a lethal cocktail of glamour, terribly subtle body language, immaculate grooming and terribly good-looking people in very tasteful clobber. I’ll do my best to fit right in. But I can’t promise anything.
So what are you waiting for? Shimmy on over to here and grab your tickets now. Check you later.
For one month only, this month of Movember, the whingeing of female partners are given the hairy sneer as we men do what we have to do. Grow our mo’s in support of Cansa, the organisation highlighting the perils to we men of the cancers that dare nibble at our prostate glands and testes. Not at all nice.
So we’re doing our bit, aren’t we mo bro’s? Yes, we are. And if you’ve been giving into threats of no sexualness if you grow Mo, then no mo respect from us mo bro’s, oh kay. OK. I’m stopping this right now.
Seriously, dudes, it is incumbent upon you as a male with mo growth potential to adjust the flightpath of the old Gillette V8 Turbo-charged RX Twin-Engine to make way for top-lip sprouting. So get to it. I published on here last week a pictorial guide to the ‘taches one can cultivate – refresh your memory right here - so you have no no-mo sexcuse. Mmmm.
Celebrities no less luminary than 2oceansvibe blogger and supermodel-endorsed Camps Bay sex symbol Seth Rotherham, Hilton First XV (and Springbok) rugger-playing legend Bob Skinstad and Umdloti tree-feller (and the Heart & Sole’s Durban to Cape Town unicycling nutter ) Geoff “Heartman” Brink are resisting unreasonable demands from their women for smooth-lipped snogging to sport their mo’s for a good cause. So you, highly unlikely to cross lips with the level of stunners they get sexually harangued by on an almost hourly basis, can do same. Right?
Right. I feel like we’re all beginning to wobble our moustaches to the same hymnsheet here. Good. We’ll move on.
Taking this to the next level, Seth, the aforementioned blogger and sex symbol extraordinaire etc, has cheekily challenged – Camps Bay’s finest rolls like that – my boy The Heartman to a “mo-off” to see who will be wearing the hairiest beast come the end of Movember. Are we up for that? Look, if we (I mean he) can ride a unicycle 1,700km only to land up in a spot like Cape Town, we’re not likely to shy away from a moustache-cultivation contest, are we? No. Well done. You weren’t wrong there.
So here’s how our two stellar Mo Bro’s square up at Phase One of “The Great Umdloti vs Camps Bay Mo-Off”. In the windy Camps Bay corner, I give you… the Caprice Supermodels’ favourite, Sethhhh Ro-the-the-therham!
Fine. Nothing wrong with that. Nice scarf. And Seth's "Porn Star" mo, set off by his ubiquitous RayBans, reminds me of a movie I once wrote as a vehicle for Sean Penn. I'm more deeply troubled by the amount of washing-up to be clearly seen in the background of this shot taken at the legendary Safe House. I strongly suspect that Mavis, Seth's domestic executive and compulsive gambler, might have been wedged in at GrandWest Casino since her last payday. But that's none of my business, is it?
No, it isn’t. So let’s swing around to my boy, waiting patiently in the sunkissed Umdloti corner… laydeez and, er, laydeez, I present to you Geoff “Heartman” Briiiiink!
Oh my hatness! That's a quite different vibe our boy is putting out there, don't you think? More Hulk Hogan in the ring than Sean Penn in whatever that movie was, methinks. Yes, our treefelling unicyclist has opted, quite appropriately, for the "Trucker" look and he looks to be fine with that, doesn't he?
Yes, he certainly does. Only nine days into Movember and Heartman is enjoying quite a healthy turnout around his laughing gear. Except he ain’t laughing, is he? I think old Heartie’s taking this all rather sneeringly. Even as his friend, personal blogger and publicist for his 1,700km unicycling nuttiness, I’m a tad unnerved by that lazy eye manoeuvre he’s throwing out!
“They came, they saw, they conquered” is a saying I dreamt up a few years ago while doing the morning crossword on the bog at Hatman Mansions. Yowzerness, you might exclaim in surprise. You didn’t know I do the crossword. Well, what can I say… I’m a man of letters. And you didn’t know that the origins of that popular phrase lay in the head of Fred, did you? There you go. It’s just the way I roll.
So I don’t have to apologise to anyone for corrupting my saying to “They came, they schmoozed, they, like, TOTALLY ROCKED the Smother City!”
Which pretty much nails the vibe that Heart & Sole unicyclist Geoff “Heartman” Brink and moi created in Cape Town as we swept all before us and “AmaOneTyre” (the unicycle)… at the SiliconCape launch (where Helen Zille and I fell in love, serenaded by the delectable Lucy Kenny and aided and abetted by head honchos Vinny Lingham and Justin Stanford) to morning coffee with Seth (yes, Rotherham) at Camps Bay Vida to arvie beers with internet marketing supremo Fred Roed of worldwidecreative.co.za and ideate.co.za fame to dinner with Gen and Lyndall (yes, Morton and Jarvis) at Caprice to a public appearance at Caveau to… hang on, this is turning into a very long sentence… so time for a pic (waffle to be contd.)
Seth (the "sex symbolic blogger" of 2oceansvibe fame) and I strengthen the ties between Camps Bay and Umdloti at the SiliconCape launch. Lest you be confuzzed, SA's sex symbol blogger is the one on the right. Just so you know
OK. Where was I? Oh, yes. (continuing)… to an autograph signing session at the Sky Bar at the Cape Royale (big doff of red hat to Goldfish for providing the tunes) to breakfast at La Bruixa where we shared Barca scrambled eggs with social media oligarch Dave Duarte to a pizza and glass of wine with Channel24 editor Jean Barker to a highly convivial and fruitful meeting with Argus editor-in-chief (and obsessive mountain biker) Chris Whitfield to double espressos and almond croissants with Springbok rugby legend turned commentator and philanthropist Bob Skinstad to.. oh, chuff it, that’s enough name-dropping for now.
I rather enjoyed writing that headline. I don’t know why. I just think it has a nice ring to it. Especially for my South African readers. Go on, read it aloud. To your man who’s probably slaving over a hot hob or, if you have followed my vibe and lead an eminently more sensible lifestyle, to one of your cats. Go on. “… Welcome to my Poesy bed”, as loud as you like.
Sounds good, hey? I could put one of those winky faces here – you know, like – but I won’t. Most unbecoming of a high-end blog such as this.
Which leads me on to my new bed. Now those who have intimate knowledge of The Hatman know that I’m not a flash guy, I mean in the way Seth Rotherham of 2oceansvibe fame is. I mean, did you read the latest YOU mag? I’m not at all happy about this. Our fave gossip glossy devoted two pages to the golden boy of South African blogging… and placed it AFTER the crosswords page. Pages 130 and 131. That’s even after the Photo Blockbuster feature. It’s disrespect, pure and simple. Here we have the dashing doyen of the local blogosphere, a young blade making an absolute fortune out of our humble trade, a veritable “sex symbol” with his own suite at the Cape Royale Hotel, and he gets treated like that. It’s not right.
Right. Back to bed. My new bed. Without any further fanfare, here it is…
Freshly installed centre-stage in the main suite at Hatman Mansions, almost as exclusively appointed as the Cape Royale , my new LED-lit Poesy bed
How much of divineness is that, might I ask? I love the way photographer Gerda Genis has portrayed close friend Genevieve Morton (we’re very close, I’m sorry, just deal with it) and I in such a sensitive, subtle way. I’m a tad disappointed Gerda insisted I remove my red hat for the shoot but I’m nothing if not easy to work with. Ask Yanick. Ask James. Ask Genevieve.
Anyway, now that I’ve answered the most FAQ I receive in mail and revealed to breathless readers the Hatman sleeping arrangements, allow me to link you to the critical data, with a tip of the hat to Luxuo, of my Poesy bed.
A “poem to modern living”. I like that. It suits my Umdloti vibe. Needless to say, I have the remote control for lighting colour set on “Red”. It suits my mood when Gen and I retire for the night. Just so you know.
My dear Hatpeople, please sit back and take a butchers at this (you might want to make a cuppa first, or get your man to shake you up a nice pink drink and drop some of those yummy Caribbean seasalt and balsamic vinegar chips into a bowl?).
Right, on with the show…
OMG! You almost choked on that chip, didn't you?
So much of beautifulness, hey? My Durban Hatpeople require no introduction to the magnificence of the Moses Mabhida Stadium and it’s landmark arch, which can be viewed from virtually every point in the city and inner suburbs, usually after Durbanites have picked themselves up off the floor and, trying hard not to faint again, simply immerse themselves in its architectural splendour.
For the sake of by now emerald-green-eyed Cape Town readers, I could stop there. But I won’t. For reasons which will soon become obvious. Fine with that? OK, so I have seen entire families stop their cars on NMR Avenue (now renamed something like Saddam Suttclivich Lenin Boulevard) and kneel on the grassy kerbside, minds clearly boggling at the stunning sight before them. Any theories that they may have been looking for car keys lost after a Sharks game will be summarily dismissed. And executed at dawn.
Now clap your eyes on this…
This will get UFO-spotters twitching
What the chuff is that? You might well ask. Well it’s not a UFO. And, believe it or not, some higher being has not dropped a humungous and already well-sucked Polo Mint into the middle of Cape Town’s Green Point. It is, in fact, the Smother City’s best effort at providing a World Cup Stadium. I pork you not. You can trust Fred.
And, it pains me to tell you, what you just witnessed is an artist’s impression. Of what it will look like when the infernal thing is completed. Poor artist. Even Turner would have had a job dressing it up to look better. You can only do so much with a Polo mint. It never strays from being white and round with a hole in the middle. Nor, it seems, will Green Point Stadium. And they both suck.
I bet that overpaid ponce Cristiano Ronaldo is praying that Portugal are drawn to play in Durban or even Rustenburg. He wouldn’t want to be seen in that, would he?
Gather around, dear Hatpeople, while we peruse an airshow snap that has come the way of Fredpix. Red Hat off to my dedicated Virginia Airshow (Durban, South Africa) correspondent, Cole Ishun, for procuring this piece of pictorial canniness from aeroplane snapper, Emil Watson.
Put out your ciggies, fasten your seatbelts and prepare for a little turbulence…
– but I won’t. Most unbecoming of a high-end blog such as this.
