The Intergalactic Daily Message (D.M. - Die Emmers, get it, its frigging brilliant) Hosted by the Holiday House constituents in Cape Town. Spreading the good news to YOU, whilst creating the illusion that you never left home and we still love you.

Friday, December 2

"I’m afraid we going to have to operate immediately."
Yes I can definitely see myself as a doctor and had been practising my most concerned look, while standing in front of a bright light wielding a small sharp knife, early one Saturday evening. Unknown to me, this practice was to prove to have been prophetic…

Now everyone knows the sole reason men become doctors (I concede some women doctors have different agendas, not necessarily more noble, but different) is because of female nurses. This is a sorely missed aspect of the engineering world but then also not the least of its worries. So moving along…I had been practising my doctor impersonations (as one does) when I was invited out for the evening by a housemate who was going to meet all her nursing friends for a night on the piss in the great metropolis of Worcester. Well what could a young man do? Except graciously except and at once brush up on my "If you could just step behind the screen ma’am and remove all your clothes and put these on." doctor voice and I was ready to immerse my self in the medical world.

What awaited me can only be described as a revelation reserved for saints and suicide bombers. For there in the club, were 70 beautiful virgins all shakin some ass and the occasional palm leaf. (Umm where this story digresses slightly from the promised virgins of paradise is, a) There were only about 20, b) They weren’t all maybe as beautiful as one could wish and c) This being Worcester most had kids that couldn’t still lay claim to being virgins.) But as I like to say, When life gives you Worcester, make Worcestershire sauce.

So I started breaking it down on the dance floor (And I was breaking it down dorky dance Namastad style on a Friday night to BZN!)(For those of you who don’t what I’m talking about think small town sokkie and not giving a f*ck)(if you still don’t know what I’m talking about, umm… I’m no longer talking to you)(and for those of you who didn’t do BOD maths at school, you are probably struggling with all the brackets now)(And then there are those that have used old Castigliano’s theory to solve 3D stresses and no doubt are now breaking into a small sweat at the mere thought of all these brackets returning to haunt you) (ha ha)(Ok I admit that was probably only funny to one of my readers and then maybe not even for him?)
Anyway as I was saying: I was breaking it down sokkie style when I suddenly had an epiphany that all this couldn’t solely be down to my charming ways, dashing good looks and Oscar like doctor impersonations. There had to be a higher power involved….

And then I saw him. At first just a bright light behind the bar, indistinguishable from the mirror balls and bottles of tequila. But as I quietened my soul and allowed the Night Rider sound track to guide me through the crowd I knew he had been looking down on me all along. Bestowing his blessings as the walls dripped with the cheese that issues forth from his every pore.
I stood mesmerised. After all the rumours, the speculation about his involvement in the July 7 bombings and the painful death of his brief music career in Germany (the career was probably more painful than the death). We thought we were doomed to spend the rest of our lives remembering the good old days when cars could talk and people still believed that a "Soen sonder snoer is soos n eier sonder soet".

But now I’m here to tell the faithful. I have heard His voice and The Hoff says "Who’s your daddy?"


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