Picture Bobby 3

When I was young, the cover of the ABBA album used to fascinate me.

I would look at Annifred and Agnetha sipping bubbly from silver coupe champagne goblets and wish that I was that beautiful.

The woman with the blonde hair staring in the window on the left used to mesmerise me too. Was she jealous or in awe or both or neither?

Tonight is the first night that I feel that I am finally on holiday. So I've decided to find comfort in that ABBA album.

I went downstairs and stole a bottle from my parents' cellar...

Apparently the glasses are sculpted from the tits of Marie Antoinette.

Well, not really because that theory as been so totally and utterly disproved but...

...cheers, bitches.

D'ya like the African-woven Mexican I bought?

Anyway, last night I went to dinner at Ian and Andrew but things got a little out-of-hand so at around 5am, I packed it in and left.

There were about 20 others when I quit, fuck-knows where they came but most importantly I did not break a single Commandment.

Okay, okay... I slightly indulged in a line related to Commandment 4, but according to the rules, I was safe.

Anyway.

We were all supposed to meet for a fry-up breakfast but those bitches have no stamina so I decided to do what I have been looking forward to, since I landed in Cape Town.

Today at just before 1pm, I stepped foot on Clifton 3rd, here moments before treading onto the crystal sand....

Surprisingly for a Sunday the beach was pretty empty but still as beautiful as I left it.

I waded into the Atlantic ocean a little where the yachts were moored off the horizon.

I cannot describe to you how beautiful Clifton is - I think that maybe - in the end, this is where I want my ashes scattered.

There were a few gays at the end of my toes (under the umbrellas in front) but more than that - I wore the pair of gold trunks in public.

So I don't wanna report back on what people thought, because I don't know but all I will say is that some guy offered to rub sun cream in my back.

That has never happened before.

I said "thanks", he did it and that was the end of it. Well, only until I told him that that was the end of it.

Moving on...

On the way back from the beach, disaster struck.

I drove over some bit of metal that punctured the tyre on the car.

Now at this point I have to introduce you to my wheels. Basically I am forced to use my parents' summer 4x4; the car they use for the beach house.

Have you ever fucken changed the tyre on a 4X4?

To paint this picture, I am dressed in leather sandals from Santorini, a Diesel T-shirt and a pair of Maharishi cargo pants.

The temperature outside is about 36C.

Can we all please feel so sorry for the trousers which became covered in axel grease from the wheel I was trying to change.

I got so angry, having made the trousers filthy, that I took them off. Still boiling I then took off the Diesel T-shirt which you can see draped on the wing mirror...

I ended up changing a fucking tyre in those gold aussieBum trunks.

What a goddam show for the poor fuckers who drove past. No-one stopped to bloody help though.

So I finally get home and my parents have to go to some charity event which I am invited to.

This event is the ultimate WASP function you could ever imagine. There are chinos and a prep school education as far as the eye can see.

I refuse to wear chinos so, having been in junior prep, I am qualified to mingle...

Basically a whole bunch of rich white people stand on the lawns of this hotel (The Grand Roche in Paarl, as snapped in my rather good camera-phone picture above) and yaa about how much money they have.

To get through this event I pretended that I was Carla Bruni meeting the French electorate, i.e. cold, sincere but disinterested.

The event goes well, everyone gives more than they can afford as the charity announces they've doubled the takings on last year.

At that moment a squadron of Jaguar drivers wince...(their joke, not mine...)

Wa, wa... I am now at home, drinking champagne and feeling utterly fucken relaxed (tanked / pissed / soaked).

This is what you call a holiday...