On Edge

“You don’t know what you’ve got ’til you lose it”, said Phil Collins.
To be fair, I’d never paid much attention to Phil, but suddenly, I’ve realised that he was right all along. Because being without decent internet having had decent internet is driving us slowly mad.
True, we’re here to chill out, kick back and relax, but the internet can be used as a leisure thing too. It’s not all work, work, work, you know? Except that it becomes hard work when it doesn’t go very quickly.

Thus, popping into the metropolis of L’Agulhas, with its HSDPA connection, and pizza, and beer on tap seems like one of the best decisions we’ve made recently.

Later, back to pre-history and something-only-ever-so-slightly-better-than-dial-up.
But first, beer and pizza, obviously.


Taking the advice of a colleague, we dined at Panarottis this evening.

Apparently, the chain does great pizza and it is brilliant for kids.


The Claremont restaurant that we attended was the dirtiest place I have ever eaten. If I survive this week alive, it probably means that I’m actually immortal. There was dirt. A lot of dirt. And there was a smell too. It wasn’t nice.

The food was cheap and less than average. The service, poor. The kids stuff was frankly rubbish. Mrs 6000’s wine was crap.
The best bits for me were the Black Label and the exit.

We won’t be going there again and neither should you.

A Real Man

This is a difficult post, because a lot hinges upon it. After the 2009 Kids in Tow Tour and the disastrous 2010 Last Hurrah Tour, we have another trip to the UK coming up and we need a name for it. I have plenty of time to decide on suitable nomenclature ahead of our departure, but I want to post about it today. And I don’t have a name.

But I can’t let minor details distract me from this! We’ll sort something out posthumously.
Or whatever the word is.

Because while in London, I will be eating some pizza! Here.

Seriously? A Manx-themed pizza restaurant in the heart of London? I cannot wait.

The Snaefell Diabola “The Hottest Pizza in the British Isles” looks particularly attractive to me, as do the Manannan Vodka cocktails.
Mrs 6k will enjoy the Manx chocolate pizza. And the kids will eat most anything.

And they do queenies. And if you pay with Manx currency, you get a discount.

Colour me hungry.

Pizza Confusion

I’m confused. It does happen from time to time, usually over unimportant things like political history and tax regulations.
And that happens to the best of us, doesn’t it, Julius? 

But this time, it’s altogether more serious. I am confused about pizza.

There are several different sorts of pizza eaters and several different types of pizza to go with them.
The pizza snobs will insist on an olive wood-fired, traditional Umbrian-style oven, built from terracotta tiles recycled from Julius Caesar’s bathroom and a pizza base rolled on the inner thigh of one of Silvio Berlusconi’s hand-maidens.
These are the sort of people that like rocket on their pizza.  Because there’s nothing better than making posh cheese on toast and then chucking some raw dandelion leaves on top before you eat it.

Then there are the pizza slobs. These are the people that will even accept pizza from Scooters, despite that company’s preference for speed rather than classiness, their lack of accuracy in putting the correct ingredients on the round dough bit, the fact that they (possibly) cook their wares in a 650W Pick ‘n’ Pay microwave recycled from Julius Malema’s kitchen and roll their pizza bases on the inner thigh of Jessie Duarte.
Still – you know what you’re getting when you order. And you’ll be tucking into your food while the snobs are still checking a lengthy paper trail concerning the authenticity of the flour, picking weeds in the back garden and fainting from hunger.

In the middle is the happy medium: Butler’s Pizza. Look, it’s not larney, but it’s far from the doughy trash of other delivery services. “Just nice”, some would say. Seth Rotherham, he of 2oceansvibe and snarly jail face fame, has long been a fan of Butler’s and thus, they have recently introduced a new pizza to their range: The Rotherham.

The Rotherham: Bacon, Feta, Salami, Half Mozzarella, Thin Base

Am I the only one bewildered by this bizarre pizza design?
If, as has been previously described, pizza is actually just posh cheese on toast, then why remove half the cheese and half the toast?

“Hmm – I’ll take one ‘The Rotherham’, please.
And I’d like some watered down beer and half a tub of ice cream to go with it.
Actually – while I’m waiting – do you have any Ricoffy?”

A hypothetical situation, obviously, as Butler’s are delivery only. But you (might) get my point.

On the plus side, Butler’s have introduced a real pizza at the same time: The Meaty Foursome, which actually has nothing to do with Jacob Zuma’s polygamous relationships, but is what carnivores such as myself have been crying out for for quite some time now.
It’s almost perfection. If they’d just added Bombay chillies they could have just called it The 6000.

But they didn’t.  So they can’t.

Beer shortage hits home

I have decided to give up drinking beer.
Apparently, anyway.

Yes, in some moment of weakness, probably after a bang on the head or something, any ongoing prevarication on the beer imbibage issue was ended and the big decision made.

I can’t recall exactly when that moment was. Neither, perhaps more importantly, can I remember what exactly prompted me to make sure a foolish decision, although I’m tempted to blame Eskom. Right now, everything in South Africa can be blamed on Eskom. Eskom then blame Thabo Mbeki, Mbeki blames Jacob Zuma and then everyone’s happy. Apart from the ANC Youth League. But no-one listens to them anymore anyway.

The only thing which served as reminder to this heinous decision were the barren, empty shelves of my beer fridge when I popped in to pick up a cold one on Saturday afternoon. There was barely even a trace of Castle Milk Stout. It was a crippling blow. Heartbreaking, even. I can safely say this as I found myself both crippled and heartbroken.

I would never normally have allowed such a situation to arise and was instantly suspicious of the wife. She’s long been of the opinion that if I drank less, I’d be fitter, happier, more productive. And she’s probably right.
With the exception of the happier bit, obviously.

Alternatively, it could be the “if I can’t drink then neither should he” approach. An approach with which I would wholeheartedly agree were it not for the fact that it would prevent me drinking. Marriage and pregnancy are all about sharing, you see: while she is eating for two, I’m doing the decent thing and drinking for two. Or at least I would be if the damn fridge wasn’t looking so bare.

Given that it’s now Thursday and I have endured successfully completed 5 beer free days, I feel that I should be noticing the benefits of my new healthier lifestyle.
Well, it’s not happening.

And so, this lunchtime, I will be heading to Ultra Liquors on Somerset Road to replenish my supplies of Milk Stout. And this evening, with the missus up in Jo’burg, I will be revisiting the combination of Milk Stout and Debonairs Pizza while she’s not looking.

Upon her return, I will feign complete and utter surprise at the newly stocked fridge and claim that the beer fairies must have visited while I was drunk asleep. 

I will then duck and roll and head for the tent I have already erected in the back garden for such emergencies. It is ready prepared with everything I need to spent the night outside: a sleeping bag, mosquito repellent, a good book, a torch and – most importantly – a cool box full of beer.