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Dingle Berry Juice

by Giovanni Spokazi / Illustration by Alastair Laird / 10.09.2012

Following last week’s spectacular Rittle Dlagon gigs, We-Are-Fabulous’s Andrew Dingle has become something of a counter-culture cult hero. Lucky for us, our man Giovanni Spokazi ‘found’ Dingle’s diary lying on the floor of a Cell C container in Mofolo, Soweto last Monday. The entries provide incredible insight into the awesome but stressful life of South Africa’s number one hipster, blogger and the country’s most favourite noob alt gig promoter.



I woke up to find 36 emails from 5 different journalists, they all want in. The whole city wants in. I WANT IN TOO. I went back to sleep, but then I regretted it because I keep on having the same dream. In the dream I am sitting at a café in Woodstock dining on a plate of quiche with Steve Aoki… but as soon as I cut into the first layer of eggs and cheese, the quiche just suddenly opens up its eyes and mouth and says to Steve: “I’m prettier than you”. When I woke up it was wet all over and I had a semi, which I was very confused about.


Lunch at Spur Karen Zoid for ironic purposes. Instagram that shit. Reminder to self, send an email to Spur that their two burger special should also consider the vegetarians, now I have to eat two whole beef burgers by myself. Which I did. Nom nom nom!


I feel like Michael Mol inside Dozi’s body! But I can’t believe some journalist named Muntas Zwelakhe is asking for media accreditation for him and his wife and a taxi full of crippled children from a Langa reformatory. I feel like I have to say yes because I’m very sure if I don’t I will get called a racist, even though Rittle Dlagon is basically black. I just don’t understand this country.


I listened to Wonderboom in the bathroom while I looked in the mirror and contemplated cutting my hair with a pair of scissors made from my index and middle finger. #closecall


An email to Adidas Originals Head office: Dear Sir/Madam

As your South African representative BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY as a fan of Adidas Originals, I really feel that I must voice my concerns that Snoop Dogg or Snoop Lion does not embody the real Adidas spirit. I propose that he be stripped of his sponsorship because of his recent controversial behaviour, and that his sponsorship be given to my favourite coffee shop in Cape Town (Deluxe). Please contact me immediately so we can discuss this because every time I see him smoking drugs with the three stripes on, I cry. I literally cry. I trust you will make a firm and sound decision.

Also is David Beckham on Facebook or Twitter? I’m having a hard time getting hold of him. And did you get my proposal about manufacturing Adidas Jeremy Scott drool catchers for the Special Olympics?


Took 1 Myprodol and 6 caps of MDMA to help me sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Spent the night blocking and reporting Facebook users who refer to me as Dingle Berry.




Woke up to the sound of Steve Aoki having sex with what sounded like an aeroplane or was that his new album? I’m not really sure. Either way, I had another nice semi and I was very happy to wrap up my morning by dipping my testicles into a Styrofoam cup filled with Nik Naks. I love Nik Naks.


Wow, these damn journalists have so much nerve. “Give me this, give me that”. Like I don’t have 20 kilograms of dim sum to order.


Now having a very serious argument with a colleague as to whether Rittle Dlagon is actually the same person as the Chinese kid who was in Indiana Jones 2. All said, my colleague does not agree with me, but at least we both agree that Rittle Dlagon is definitely the same chick from Vanessa Mae, who also produced Lucy Liu’s new mixtape.


Had supper at home today. I tried to make authentic dim sum but just ended up eating another pack of Nik Naks that I found in my car. NOTE TO SELF: Do not confuse Steve Aoki with Jackie Chan ever again. So embarrassing OMG.



I woke up really early this morning because it’s my birthday! Yay! Breakfast: kettle fried Nik Naks. Because it’s my birthday!


Drove to the airport to pick up Rittle Dlagon. I made it just in time to say “herro” to the band (I know it’s not PC, but so fanny… LOL). Alas I had to turn back to town to get a car because 4 people just wouldn’t fit on my Vespa! #liveandlearn


Drop off the band at Eastern Bazaar and fucking turn off my phone and laptop because this Muntas Zwelakhe won’t leave me the fuck alone!


I need a disco nap. Didn’t sleep much last night because some homeless women wouldn’t stop shouting “DINGLEBERRY” outside my window. WTF?!


I overslept again. Now I get to see Muntas Zwelakhe and the other bums begging me for tickets at the door! I REALLY LOVE MY JOB. I AM ANDREW DINGLE, SO FUCK YOU!



Holy shit, got so into this heavy conversation about Ndebele Bauhuas architecture with JP Smith from the DA and totally missed Rittle Dlagon. Then totally woke up behind a Foschini dumpster with a turtle neck sweater coming out my bum. WIN!


I’m fucking out! What do they mean there’s no wi-fi access on this plane? Just saw the most amazing in-grown hair on the inside of my thigh… I cant even instagram it. And all this Yukimi chick wants to know is if I enjoyed her performance last night. I have no idea who the hell she is.

JHB INTERNATIONAL. I’m a bit bummed that Oliver Tambo airport wasn’t curated by Athi Patra! There is a dire lack of severed Xhosa penises hanging off the walls. Also the lack of men with long beards, fitted plaid shirts and tight khaki short pants, and sailor tattoos is very alarming.
NB: don’t forget to buy tattoo sleeves with sparrows and anchors for tonight.

Text msg from JP Smith: Are you really going to South Western Township on Sunday? Pls be careful babe and take those malaria tablets… and wear a floppy hat with tight flowery pants so you blend in. Take care. xoxox JP.

Text msg from Ricky Lee Gordon: Dude, you seriously have to stop confusing Yukimi with Daniel Ting Chong… Also, can I get that R50 I lent you at Eastern Bazaar?

Text msg from Andy Davis: Hey Dingleberry, please don’t forget to put our man Spokazi’s name at the door. I know it’s late notice. Sorry.


Disco nap! Was so good. I dreamt that we were shooting a ‘Spaces’ with Dave and Vicky Beckham (he wasn’t wearing a shirt) and then he got a call saying Snoop Dogg has cancer!


Couldn’t find any sailor tattoo sleeves so I went down to Melville and got some rad streetwear kids to write all over my arms with pieces of coal and shoe polish. For some reason I get a feeling those kids were just street kids because I lost my wallet and they kept asking me for cigarettes.


Ah fuck this man. I can’t handle all these calls and SMSes from desperate ‘journalists’ like those cunts at Mahala. Jesus! So I just turn off my phone, slip on my ipod and go and chill in Jonathan Liebmann’s apartment upstairs, playing that ‘Sebenza’ song on repeat. So stoked Chris Saunders let me rip that. That song is like mainlining the real Jozi. After a while I feel like I was born in Alex and I want to go on a hijacking spree. So I put on some Petite Noir to soothe me back down before the gig.


Oh shit I fell asleep. I can hear the bass from downstairs, but I’m all sleepy and Jonathan put out a bowl of Nik Naks and some Coke Zero for me. That dude is so amazing (for a property developer). Oh look, there’s a new movie starting on DSTV. It’s Notting Hill!



On our way to Soweto! And I can’t get out of this. Right now the only way I can describe how I’m feeling is a mixture between fear and excitement. I imagine this is how Chris Mahlangu felt when he realised he was in love with Eugene. My balls tingled when we drove past Baragwanath hospital. Going deep! After dark! Instagram!!


Wait.. no one said anything about Soweto being the world’s largest sand storm! This place feels like the inside of a vacumm cleaner filled with liquor stores and car washes and that icky braai smoke. And there’s way too much liver in those sausages!


Pre-show nerves! Daniel Ting Chong is no where to be found and we need to soundcheck. That groupie Yukimi however is standing on the stage and is actually trying to sing. Security here is shit… But so what this is the last night of the ‘tour’. Everyone thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am, crazy fucking successful! Only I can get Vanessa Mae to rock the inside of a vacuum cleaner at R400 a ticket!



How do you send a “pls call me” msg? I’m stuck inside one those contaners filled with public phones, chappies and Russian sausages with some guy called Somizi.

*All images © Alastair Laird.

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