By: Ross Farley
Behind the tales of siege and destruction (references to electrically fenced walls, Jewish women armed with Uzis and poodles, and West Rand faux Tuscan villas) is a city that many of us were born in and, despite popular myth, a city we live and thrive in. Johannesburg is a fun place to be, and provided you’re not partial to searching for the next box set to pepper your Friday night with, there’s a lot to get up to in the city.
Recently my house mate and I decided to explore the city’s lesser known nightlife by way of a GPS pub crawl. The rules were simple: punch local entertainment into your GPS, limit your range to within 5km of your house to avoid main roads and those highly ethical, born to service filth known as the Johannesburg Metro Police and ensure you set your sights on pubs / venues that none of the participating parties have ever been to. Its fail safe!
The second pub we found ourselves in was a typical local. A pool table in the corner with minimal space to take your shot, a cocktail list boasting pearlers like a “ball splat” or “knuckle turd” and my third favourite prejudice, karaoke. We plonked ourselves down at the bar and within seconds of our first tequila, a very cordial bar manageress introduced herself and invited (bullied) us into picking a karaoke song. Getting the fear of a man recently arrived in a small town and is too scared to greet anyone in case the next blink will reveal a cock-eyed wife, three grossly overweight children and a first name basis relationship with Irma at the local diner, I coolly declined and returned to my uber-cool vodka cooler. Three frames and two tequilas later and my amigo and I were fighting off competition for the microphone so that we could start sodomising our third song at pitch worthy of every neighborhood dog’s most loving affection.
At an hour somewhere between two and ready to pass-out, we found ourselves at a bar on the West Rand (yes kids, life does continue passed the 14th avenue off ramp) which had, evidently, never been visited by a Caucasian and an Indian chap. As we walked in, the music halted and a couple of hundred black faces turned to evaluate the two “foreigners”. After the scrutiny was completed and we had passed the silent test, my friend and I fell into the groove, bumping and grinding with earnest to the latest Snoop Dog offering. Mid pelvic thrust I felt a lascivious tap on my shoulder. Through my inebriation I translated the garbled club murmur of the cute young lady into her making a request that stems from a unique female ability – them offering you an opportunity buy them a drink. My tequila goggles gave her a 7 so I jumped at the chance. Alas, at that point the bulk of my cash had been invested in the following day’s hangover. I dare anyone to show me how to look cool counting out one’s change in a desperate attempt to cover the cost of the drinks order. Thank God for my friend, who stepped to my aid with the help of his slightly healthier budget. Even in my shameful state, asking the cute number 7 to pay for the drinks surely would have evaporated any semblance of pulling power I had left. Unfortunately she cottoned on to my Dickensian state and chose to spend the rest of the evening curled up with the resident D.J. Thankfully, at some point, my friend pulled my disgracefully un-rhythmic ass off the dance floor and told me it was time to go home.
In Johannesburg we often feel guilty about recognizing its potential due mostly to the reminders of the city’s vast and often disturbing short-comings. We forget that the people are friendly and often curious about new people (an attribute quite distant from our Cape Town counterparts) and the city is at a stage of development where one can see how incredible it will be when all the current projects eventually come to life. With a bit of effort there is a never ending list of fun to be had in Jozi. I do love this city and its endless supply of cultural and entertainment diamonds.
Behind the tales of siege and destruction (references to electrically fenced walls, Jewish women armed with Uzis and poodles, and West Rand faux Tuscan villas) is a city that many of us were born in and, despite popular myth, a city we live and thrive in. Johannesburg is a fun place to be, and provided you’re not partial to searching for the next box set to pepper your Friday night with, there’s a lot to get up to in the city.
Recently my house mate and I decided to explore the city’s lesser known nightlife by way of a GPS pub crawl. The rules were simple: punch local entertainment into your GPS, limit your range to within 5km of your house to avoid main roads and those highly ethical, born to service filth known as the Johannesburg Metro Police and ensure you set your sights on pubs / venues that none of the participating parties have ever been to. Its fail safe!
The second pub we found ourselves in was a typical local. A pool table in the corner with minimal space to take your shot, a cocktail list boasting pearlers like a “ball splat” or “knuckle turd” and my third favourite prejudice, karaoke. We plonked ourselves down at the bar and within seconds of our first tequila, a very cordial bar manageress introduced herself and invited (bullied) us into picking a karaoke song. Getting the fear of a man recently arrived in a small town and is too scared to greet anyone in case the next blink will reveal a cock-eyed wife, three grossly overweight children and a first name basis relationship with Irma at the local diner, I coolly declined and returned to my uber-cool vodka cooler. Three frames and two tequilas later and my amigo and I were fighting off competition for the microphone so that we could start sodomising our third song at pitch worthy of every neighborhood dog’s most loving affection.
At an hour somewhere between two and ready to pass-out, we found ourselves at a bar on the West Rand (yes kids, life does continue passed the 14th avenue off ramp) which had, evidently, never been visited by a Caucasian and an Indian chap. As we walked in, the music halted and a couple of hundred black faces turned to evaluate the two “foreigners”. After the scrutiny was completed and we had passed the silent test, my friend and I fell into the groove, bumping and grinding with earnest to the latest Snoop Dog offering. Mid pelvic thrust I felt a lascivious tap on my shoulder. Through my inebriation I translated the garbled club murmur of the cute young lady into her making a request that stems from a unique female ability – them offering you an opportunity buy them a drink. My tequila goggles gave her a 7 so I jumped at the chance. Alas, at that point the bulk of my cash had been invested in the following day’s hangover. I dare anyone to show me how to look cool counting out one’s change in a desperate attempt to cover the cost of the drinks order. Thank God for my friend, who stepped to my aid with the help of his slightly healthier budget. Even in my shameful state, asking the cute number 7 to pay for the drinks surely would have evaporated any semblance of pulling power I had left. Unfortunately she cottoned on to my Dickensian state and chose to spend the rest of the evening curled up with the resident D.J. Thankfully, at some point, my friend pulled my disgracefully un-rhythmic ass off the dance floor and told me it was time to go home.
In Johannesburg we often feel guilty about recognizing its potential due mostly to the reminders of the city’s vast and often disturbing short-comings. We forget that the people are friendly and often curious about new people (an attribute quite distant from our Cape Town counterparts) and the city is at a stage of development where one can see how incredible it will be when all the current projects eventually come to life. With a bit of effort there is a never ending list of fun to be had in Jozi. I do love this city and its endless supply of cultural and entertainment diamonds.
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