Who the fuck are you?

After work I finally get around to seeing Chantal. She has to go to some work do so we decide to go to Nando's for a quick supper.

Nando's is a good choice because it's cheap and cheerful which is especially important if you're a South African in London. Basically all South Africans love to wallow in the fact that they have no money when they come to the UK.

Even Chantal who at 32 is an investment banker with a six-bedroomed house, a swimming pool and Porsche 4x4 in Cape Town, can't stop herself saying things like "ohmagod the praace of things..." etc.

Note-to-self: I must do a blog on (bloody) South Africans in London.

Anyway, so we walk up to the front-desk at Nando's to be greated by Atilla or Magyer or Tomaszch or whatever.

Him: Eeteh
Me: Pardon?
Him: Eeeeteh
Me: I really don't understand, sorry...
Him: Eew eeteh?
Me: Oh! Do I want to "eat here?" Sorry, yes please.

There's then an comfortable silence because Yayoszch / Kamiishz / Jashoischz (?) doesn't really know how to say "so what would you like to eat".

I look at him and he looks at me and Chantal looks at him and then me.

Me: Can we order?
Him: Yes please.

And so it carries on ad nauseum. Though along the way I learn the following phrases:

"Nazorrolee" means "do you want nuts or olives to start?"
"Ewsit-able" means "which table do you want to sit at" and my favourite: "no-hot-yes-you-like" which means "how hot do you want your food?"

Thank god he understood the words "lemon" and "herb" because I can't eat hot food. It's fine going in the one end however it's quite another when [I don't want to labour the point but you get the idea]...

I've taken the day off from gym so I have the chicken pita and fries. Though I only eat half the pita and a few chips.

After I've sucked on all of it I immediately feel like I'm spilling out of my jacket so I send Chantal off to her work gathering, run home and get out the infamous silver ball.

Though having vicious complex carbs swilling around my stomach is not what's important at the moment.

Get this...

The two girls I live with are going away on holiday for two weeks which means that I've got a rather large, three bedroomed house with gorgeous roof terrace all. to. myself.

At the last house party, the dressing up box came out and Adam - who's rather OTT - dived in and spent the evening dressed as Donatella Versace.

There were about 30 of us and the place looked much like what you'd expect to see at University digs party. I.e. a couple snogging in one of the bedrooms, others smoking weed in the bath etc.

Anyway, at about 4am the doorbell goes and it has to be Adam to go and answer it.

He's dressed in fishnets, now a bikini (with a hairy chest), has far too much smudged make-up on and is wearing a very tossed-up blonde wig and sunglasses.

He swings open the front door and bellows "who the fuck are you and what do you want?"

"I'm the landlord and if this party doesn't end within the next minute I'm going to get the police to break it up", comes the reply. Fuck.

That was nearly 18 months ago and the landlord has since forgiven us. So do you think it's time to test his nerve again.

Here's some inspiration from the last house-party skin. Firsty, nefarious goings-on in a bedroom:

And secondly, it's Dona-fucking-tella:

I'm up for round two. I just have to work out who's going to bring the hosepipe, a keg of beer and the bowling ball - to put through the glass table in the lounge.

Bobby's Dodgy Music Collection CD #5
Yes, I have an Ace of Base album. Yes, I have the Charlotte Church album. Yes, I have this album by Ricky Martin. I don't really know what to say otherwise.

I used to think he was hot, okay? Alright... yes, I still think he's quite fit. Happy now?