Nyasha and Lolo, who took me for lunch, cos we went down to Strathaven for some sadza on Saturday afternoon. There’s nothing better than that mix of chicken, knuckle and pork bones to make you feel alive. And sleepy. I’m such a lucky bastard.
All those stuffy English gentlemen watching the Wimbledon ladies’ final must love things, cos Venus Williams’s shorts/underpants/batty riders didn’t leave much to the imagination. That’s just wrong. Doesn’t help that she looks like a man.
Everyone at Jigga’s birthday party on Saturday night. I’ve been hiding out at home for a month now, so I was a little out of touch with just how much Zimbos like to party. Nothing gets us down man, when it’s time to shake that ass we’re out there, not a care in the world. Or a bra, apparently.
Random nightclub VIP section dudes. You know, those random wannabe-pimp buggers who just come and stand in front of chicks and give that stupid smiley stare, before giving it their best (and worst ever) shot. Who she with? She’s not with you motherfecker, that’s why she’s sitting here with me. Now feck off.*
All in all, it’s been a pretty good weekend. Poor little French girl, Venus tore that ass up. The party at Karma was the obvious highlight; nothing beats hot chicks, good company, house music, roast meat and beer (some of which somehow managed to pour itself over the birthday boy, as custom dictates).
Too bad my baby wasn’t there. Being sober sucks.
*Seriously, these types piss me off something nasty. Being in the VIP area don’t make you a player, dawg – it just makes you another curious nigga wondering what all these chicks are doing in there. Move along.