Tag Archives: clubbing

Happy New Year Ya Filthy Animals. 


So I survived 2016…we all survived 2016 (unless you are some weird ghost/corpse/zombie who has somehow obtained my URL, or you are from an alternate universe where silly things like time has no meaning, in which case: Welcome!) 

Welcome to 2017, people. All that has happened is the calendar has reset itself in a supposedly significant way, the 6 is now a 7 and the 12 is now a 1 and we can all continue living the debaucherous and immoral lives we’ve been cultivating this entire time. Go humanity!

I am pleased, however, that I have managed to survive yet another routine trip around the sun, especially since this year I started driving, which has significantly increased my sense of mortality. 

My sense of morality however is still, I admit, a little shoddy. 

I spent the last few seconds of 2016 outside in the cold, walking along the streets of the Spanish town Moraira, listening to the people inside scream “Happy New Year” at each other. It was nice to feel like I was watching everybody else get on with their new year whilst mine stood still for a bit. Then I had to watch a very loud and disorganised fireworks display because NYE is full of cliches.

My first few moments of 2017 were spent in a club I have actively avoided for about a year and a half, because the last excursion ended in me puking my guts out over the side of a Catamaran into the Mediterranean Sea (holiday life is soooo hard). This time I was smart enough not to puke, and therefore I spent the night dancing awkwardly with people who were a lot more inebriated than I was. Happy New Year. 

I got a taxi home before everyone else did (because I’m old and need time for my wrinkles to reset before the sun comes up), snuck back into my dad’s house and sat on his kitchen counter eating ham by myself. We’re off to a good start if my first meal of the year was ham. 

At this point I had enough clarity of mind to consider my resolutions, or “very relaxed guidelines for the year ahead” as I like to call them, because then I feel less ashamed if I don’t achieve them. 

My guidelines for last year were as follows: 

1. Stop getting drunk on my own emotions and sending psycho messages to unsuspecting victims. 

I like to think I achieved this. I no longer send messages, I just write blogposts of subversive intent, and maybe I subtweet a little. In terms of embarrassing texts, 2016 blessed me with a few incoherent voice notes to my friends and one failed attempt at a sort of booty call in July, although I don’t think he got what I was talking about because I just kept sending weird winky faces. (Note to self: try the eggplant emoji next time). 

This success may be due to the fact that I now have a Whatsapp group with 2 other emotional individuals, so all my angst has been channelled into them (sorry gals). 

2. Actually read all my English setworks. 

I am proud to say that I read 70% of the subscribed reading material this year. I no longer skim through study guides, I actually lugged around the tombs prescribed by the English department and became that nerd who did her homework at music festivals. 

3. Write more. 

I need to stop thinking I have the diligence or the time to churn out a blog post every week. It’s just not going to happen. 

4. Actually save my money because I need a car. 

I’m really freaking proud of myself for doing this. To be fair, the fact that I turned 21 and I have a really nice and generous grandmother paid off. But at least 26% of my car came from me carrying hot plates of food to fancy rich people and heavy beer steins to sloppy drunk people. A lot of carrying for a lot of people went into paying for 26% of my car, and his name is Slartibartfast because that’s what he sounds like when he starts up, plus Douggy A is my ultimate home boy. 

5. Get my license so I can drive the car I’m sacrificing so much disposable income for
3 failed tests, 2 driving instructors, 50 hours of lessons, thousands of rands, so many panic attacks and almost a year later, I finally have that stupid piece of paper that confirms that I can, in fact, drive by myself. 

Now I really hate driving. 

6. Focus on nothing but myself because I get a little distracted and forget to look out for number 1.

I’ve done a lot of weird shit this year. I jumped about 50 metres into an old mine that was filled with water, played pool volleyball with my friends in my underpants, declared war on the neighbourhood watch because they’re self-righteous dicks who do nothing, told someone I really cared about to buzz off, hosted some really good parties, passed out in a flower bed, climbed a few campus buildings, high fived a pope, and kissed a lot of people on the forehead. 

And I did all of it, pretty much, for myself. 

Which brings us to this year. The big one-seven. Here are my very relaxed guidelines for 2017:

1. Stay away from Dangerous White Men (DWMs)

Source: Disney


My best friend Su has figured out that pretty much all the angst in my life stems from my weird interest in Dangerous White Men. The ones who are clearly up to no good and will probably tear down your land in search of gold (it’s just a reference to Pocahontas, but take it as a euphemism if you will). 

2. Get better at driving. 

It’s self-explainatory.

3. Learn to walk in heels before my graduation. 

Despite my freakish height, I really want to be one of those girls with nice calves in nice heels in her nice graduation get up. I want to look fancy and tower over everyone when I take my cliched cap and gown photographs in front of a fountain. 

4. Figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. 

Like I said “relaxed guidelines”.

5. Probably go to the gym more. 

At least I can now drive myself 600 metres to gym instead of walking all that way. 

I should probably also do more things like stop procrastinating, eat less junk food and drink less gin and tonic. But I’ll take the year as it comes. 

I hope everyone reading this has a good year. I hope you fill it with mistakes and hugs and the people you love. I hope you dance a little in parking lots and that you learn to love yourselves a little more every time you do something shameful. May you call people out if they’re being ableist, sexist, racist, ageist, bigoted or insensitive. 

Just be decent, flawed, majestic human beings. 

I love you all, 

Stay interesting. 

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Maybe People Will Actually Start Believing It.

I have this incredible talent for choosing appropriate times to screw up, often right before I go on holiday. I leave Pretoria the day after I make the mistake and come back 3 weeks later hoping that I won’t be reminded of my previous miscalculation. It never works. As I trudge down the boulevards, hands clenched in pockets, dorky backpack slung over my back, I am forced to recall every single dumb thing I’ve done leading up to this moment. I’ll take my keys out, unlock the front gate, step over the line between oblivion and recognition and then stew in my own stupidity for a good several moments. I’ll pause a bit in front of a certain patch of wall, feeling the blank space mock me for thinking I could disappear for a while and come back a completely different person. My room will smell like disappointment and look exactly how I left it: in a slight state of disarray, mirroring my tumultuous mind.

This time there is a collection of lost objects shivering on my doorstep. Tokens of an unfortunately unforgettable party that have found their way back to me. Carried by the ebb and flow of people dropping things at my door; lonely socks and house keys, items I forgot in my haste to run away.

I close my door against the cold and slide down it, back pressed against reality. Maybe if I draw my curtains, lock myself away and pretend I don’t exist for a bit then people will actually start believing it. No, that’s stupid. If life was that easy to ignore we’d all be doing it.

I think I’ll simply have to get off the bedroom floor, my companion through lonely nights and deep conversations. I’ll have to stand up, stretch, promise myself autonomy from my mistakes and then pretend I’m not a substitute person until people actually start believing it.

After all, I’m just a lost kid, in a slouchy beanie, trying to figure out how the fuck I’m supposed to behave.

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Spending My Misspent Youth in Places I’d Rather Not Be.

run.

I’ve never lived in a country for longer than 8 years. When I left America I was convinced it wasn’t permanent, that we’d stay here for a couple of years and then go back. I was convinced I’d be there when my friends graduated, I’d grab a date for prom with them and we’d all go to college as a team. My life for a while was in a made up temporary state and my heart was never fully invested in the country I found myself living in.

I’ve never considered myself to be a South African although my passport and ID will tell you otherwise. I think I’ve always just been a child of the universe, an international baby born and raised: born in Singapore, raised in America, matured in South Africa with a few summers in England and Spain thrown into the mix. My childhood was interesting, loud and colourful with different cultures to explore and appreciate and so many new places to experience.

I spent my summers in Baldock, a place a little way away from London that I’ve now learnt is not a heritage to be very proud of, apparently I was 8 years old and visiting thug town, but I loved it none the less. When hanging out at the local Tesco and cycling around the alley behind my Dad’s house got boring, the 7 of us would go to sunny Spain and a house often described as “the cow shed”. Winters were festively spent with my mom ice skating in Central Park and visiting important art galleries I didn’t consider significant at the time.

travel

Looking back, everything was taken for granted. Dad moved out of Thug Town and into a place nicer than the Cow Shed, Mom found South Africa more appealing despite the lack of iconic art and once again Harriet found living in a cool country average.

Yet here she is, almost 9 years after abandoning the proverbial American ship, restless and wild, appreciating the place she now lives but wanting to go somewhere else, everywhere else.

Talking in 3rd person is exhausting. I’ll switch back to 1st person narrative.

The thought of spending more than half my life in the country I thought was a temporary joke startles me, yet I have 4 more years of studying and a soul itching to be let loose.

The people I’m surrounded with are stiff. It’s very rare that I’ll come across a person in South Africa as liberal as me, as open minded. That’s the problem with having a tradition and religion ingrained into the very structures of society, there’s a lot of talk about it, but very little freedom available. We as the youth like to believe we’re living life well; going on a piss-up every Thursday and lying down passed out on the bathroom floor constitutes as “Carpe Diem”, lying to our parents about who we’re with and how many drinks we’ve had is “living on the edge” and dating many different types of the same person counts as being adventurous.

I can’t spend my misspent youth like this, it’s not my idea of a good time, instead it’s my idea of getting stuck in an infinite cycle: Go to school to get into varsity, go to varsity to get a job, work until you die with a few raucous Friday nights thrown into the mix in the name of variety.

I think the world and people are meant to be explored and life exists to be loved. We’re meant to dance across oceans and breathe in the air of different altitudes.

I’ve always been restless, not to go back to the places of my childhood, but perhaps to remain in my childhood.

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All You Need is Love…and a Tazer.

Well Valentine’s Day is around the corner and once again the majority of us find ourselves in a bit of a relationship slump.

So much so that in the past week I’ve had to ward off a handsy nightclub troll and a cyber-gremlin who keeps bombarding me with outlandishly-anatomical messages that leave me with the desire to poke my eyes out.

Isn’t that romantic? Thank God I won’t be alone on Friday, I have Mr Grabby and Slutty Message McGee to keep me company.

But I can’t blame these guys for their conduct. Love, or lack of it, makes you a little crazy and, in the case of Mr Grabby, so does alcohol.

I’ve never understood Valentines Day. I think that’s because Valentines Day is an exclusive club and I was never allowed to start clubs when I was younger, my mom used to say “only start a club if everyone is allowed to join” and that really defeated the purpose.

Now I understand why my Mom said that. Being excluded sucks and being forced to pretend like you don’t care about being excluded from Sergeant Pepper’s Happy Hearts Club Band (a more optimistic division of the Lonely Hearts Club Band) can bring some people to the point of trying to grind up against an innocent on a sweaty dance floor or sending really blunt, inappropriate messages.

So hug a loner this Friday. Because, as I’ve just seen on Twitter:

“In 4 days, some of you bitches are going to find out if you’re a sideline or not.”

Ouch. You’ll be okay, just don’t try to spread the love in any of the aforementioned ways.

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