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Bondage at the Winston

by Creepy Steve, image by Alastair Laird / 28.05.2010

“Hey all you pub scum. I’m having a small braai at my place in Yellowwood park today 2:30. Pool vibes, bring your own meat, beer and boobs, love Lu x”

I like Sweet Lou AKA The Fresh Prince Of Montclair, he’s an honest guy. The golden hours ten year reunion party was well under way when I received word of this assignment from Roger (a fat man I’m very wary of) but being the young professional I am; what could I do, but leap at the opportunity of working with Mahala? It’s an organization whose staff contributor list reads like the open air school post matric class of ‘98. You have the fat guy, (anonymous hates this ou); the wetback and Sweatface. The veritable who’s who of Boystown alumni. Money back guarantee one of these three is taking the Standard Bank Achiever 2010. Lured by this prestige and free entry, why not try inject some journalistic integrity into this whole jol, man? Fat guy said it was some kind of kinky goth bondage show in a familiar Umbilo bar filled with hazy memories.
He wasn’t covering it “cause he’d infiltrated some kind of Christian band camp”. I guess that pedo register doesn’t work in SA yet. I tried to invite my big, hot date from Maritzburg but you know how women are on short notice, she’d left her PVC panties in her friend’s car the weekend before.

Now I don’t know about goths, I’ve always believed, like a snow cone to a ten year old, there’s nothing in life a good cry and a wank can’t fix. But it was dark and the woman was gone. It was time to leave Yellowwood Park before the tik zombies started wandering the streets. To the pub!

In between bouts of heaving out the passenger window of the car while still brandishing swigs of his whiskey bottle, Mudbox Mike was shouting over his shoulder “LETS GET DRUGS!”. Too much masala on the chips again, and he hadn’t even eaten chips. But what do you expect from a toothless war veteran? Only the finest in drunken gibberish, young skyf and warm quarts; the oke is a river unto his people; in this case, a torrent of stomach lining. He’ll tell you himself. “No, don’t laugh, I’m no cheap date”, while cracking chunks of wing mirror off on his way out.

I was ready to journalize hard. The door lady (who Billy swears will be waiting at the gates of Hell when he arrives) is sitting at the door reading, probably Crime and Punishment. It took some rather heated verbal exchanges to persuade her that I was Mahala’s esteemed guest. How does Roger land all these hot projects? He’s probably up there at Christian Fest dressed in a nun’s habit trying to condemn the heterosexuality out of altar boys, staging mass wanks for redemption. Just-don’t-tell-your-parents situations. Lucky prick.

Inside The Winston was a strong contingent from the braai (that’s why I like Lu, he doesn’t phone you from the jol tuning ”no pull in there’s free beer and lose women” and like the poephol you are, you go, and every time it’s a sausage fest). There was a band, I’m sure, but being the seasoned pro-journo I am, I didn’t bother getting a name, that’s for beginners. I wanted more to know what the fuck was I doing here in the midst of men, people I consider my friends, who were in corsets and intricate eye make up. Tanya and Clint from Skin Trade seemed to be behind this whole public mutilation performance thing. Tanya issuing out piercings in backs and limbs, then tying red strand through the rings and connecting them to the stage and surrounds, immobilizing them during the course of the show and creating a static sculpture of bodies. Current pub manager Russell sat through about 40 piercings with a grin as devilish as a fat kid at a buffet. It made me think this ou doesn’t need a cry and a wank, he probably lubes with Deep Heat. Once the crowd overcame the initial sensation the whole process had a kinda calming ritual like vibe. It’s always good to see people doing different shit experimenting with how people perceive entertainment.

One concern that has to be raised is the question of hygiene; not to say that the Winston isn’t a 5 star venue, but I’ve walked in on the wrong toilet stall to find a man sized rat and a roach banging lines. It’s just not the type of place I’d take my 4 year old niece to get pierced. I think it bears testimony to the braveness/stupidity of the staff and patrons who were part of the jol. All ‘n all it gets Creepy’s both thumbs up. Hey check ya’ later.

Illustration © and courtesy Alastair Laird.

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