To many, it’s the perfect excuse to go out and get absolutely, properly, fall-down shit-faced on way too much hooch.  Judging from my own past, I would guess that this option works mainly for youngsters between the ages of eighteen years and their late twenties, mainly because there are not too many folks over the age of thirty that can manage more than two or three Tequilas in one evening.  The last time I celebrated New Year’s with the famous Cactus Juice, I was twenty-two years old and ended up stark naked at sunrise, teeing golf balls off into nowhere.

To others, the changing of the year is a much more sober affair, possibly depressing, even.  Many have lost loved ones or suffered some form of setback during the course of the past year and, while the best option for these sorry souls would probably be to follow the young folks’ example above and get wasted, they normally spend a quiet evening at home before retiring early, hoping that things will improve in the light of a brand new year – our thoughts go out to them over what has to be a difficult time.

For myself, New Year’s Eve celebrations of late have also been somewhat of a letdown.  Too old to drink Tequila and get naked but too young to go to bed before midnight, I suffer the curse of the middle-aged when it comes to year-end celebrations.  The responsibility of having young children, the abject fear of a massive hangover and the problem with finding people your own age to get bent out of shape with, invariably results in a dead-boring evening of suburban small-talk, pretzels and light beer.  It’s not that I mind acting like an adult or using the change of a year to reflect on goals and aspirations for the future, I just wish I could have a little more fun doing it.

That said, my late father was always good for a bit of fun and I think I need to spice things up a bit this year, maybe dedicate the move into 2012 to his memory.  You are, after all, only as old as you feel, so I’m off to find a bottle of Tequila and some golf clubs.

Happy New Year!

I guess this happens to every person with children but I really thought I’d be different, that those lame, tired, old clichés that my parents used to bandy about would never pass my lips. As my children have grown from toddlers into primary-schoolers, however, so has the approach my wife and I have had to take in getting them to perform basic life skills.

I’m not talking about getting them to do anything which could actually be construed as contributing constructively to the operation of our household like say, cooking meals, doing the grocery shopping or washing the car. I’m specifically dealing with the skills which may one day mean they could be taken off our hands and taken in by another household, valuable habits such as taking a shower, eating properly, flushing the toilet and picking up after themselves.

As any experienced parent will tell you, this is easier said than done. Well, actually it’s easier just to do it all yourself but that would defeat the whole object and I am determined that my children should be able to brush their own teeth before they turn forty. Which is why I find myself spontaneously saying things which immediately make me slap my hand across my mouth and think “My God, did I actually just say that?”

Not only is it just plain creepy to hear myself sounding eerily like the Ghost of Parents Past but none of the damn sayings, expressions, threats (or whatever you want to call them) have any effect at all – they just don’t bloody work.

So, in no particular order and for no specific use other than mild personal amusement, here is my list of the Top Ten Parenting Expressions Which Just Don’t Work:

1. Don’t make me stop this car.

2. Look with your eyes and not with your hands.

3. I brought you into this world, I’ll take you out of it (courtesy of Mr. Bill Cosby via my Old Man)

4. Because I said so.

5. What’s the magic word?

6. My house, my rules.

7. Go to your room.

8. Money doesn’t grow on trees.

9. You’re not as smart as you think you are.

10. Because I said so (I know, it’s on the list twice but we all say it so often, it deserves to be.)

Well, use it or lose it, but that’s my list. Maybe I’m the only one who catches himself sounding like an old fart, but I doubt it. I suppose we all just try our best at being good, solid, responsible parents and sometimes it’s just unavoidable – old school is cool.

Despite the tinsle-tinged nightmare that is a shopping mall in December, the nauseating Boney-M songs or the incessant Christmas-special adverts which constitute the reality of my festive season, I still remember the innocence of a time when I truly and sincerely believed in The Magic of Christmas.  The frosted stars and mirrored balls we hung on our tree, the smell of cinnamon in the cookies we baked and the excitement of trying to go to sleep ahead of the single most exciting morning of the year.  These memories mean far more to me now than any of the gifts which lay wrapped under the tree on Christmas morning.

There is nothing like the innocence of my own children to remind me of the wonderful sense of anticipation which is supposed to start building at this time of the year.  While my wife and I start to make all the necessary adult arrangements – shopping, family, food, gifts – our children cheerfully get stuck into the nuts and bolts of their Christmas planning.

Little Christmas Elves

First and foremost is the ‘Christmas List’ for Santa.  We were taught by our own parents that Christmas is a time for giving, something we make the effort to impress on our own children, but the ‘making of the wish-list’ really gets their juices flowing.  Each list is a carefully-produced piece of art, beautifully detailed and specific, containing a wide range of gifts varying from cheap and cheerful to completely unaffordable.  I am not sure that ‘Hair Clips’ and a ‘Nintendo Wii’ have appeared together on anyone’s Christmas list before but at least it offers us a cheaper option when it comes to presents.

The Hit List

Once the list has been completed and handed in together with detailed instructions on it’s secure delivery to Father Christmas, it is vitally important for the kids to count down the ‘sleeps’ to the Big Day.  The most exciting way to do this by far is with an Advent Calendar, preferably one containing a cheap chocolate behind each little cardboard door.  As parents who try not to sweat the small stuff, we are used to a quick sugar-rush in both our kids around 06hb00 every day for twenty-four days in December – we just don’t have the heart to make them wait until a more appropriate time in the day to pry their calendars open.

As the month progresses, the Christmas Cheer in our house notches up one level at a time with two very busy Christmas Elves hard at work – over-decorating the Tree, baking cookies, draping pets in festive bunting, Christmas stockings hung expectantly on doors and Santa hats plopped on heads.  When the Big Day does finally arrive, it passes in a flurry of laughs, gifts, thanks and love and leaves us all satiated with that warm, fuzzy feeling which can only come from happy children.

An Angel in the Tree

Children just believe in Christmas.  They immerse themselves in the fairytale and enjoy it for what it is – a happy, exciting time filled with family and fun (and at least one or two presents).  As adults, the magic of our Christmas is to appreciate our children – how they cherish this special time, creating lasting memories of their own and we would do well to enjoy this most precious of gifts while they are still innocent enough to offer it to us.

El Camino is Now Available | The Black Keys.

They just don’t make too much music like this anymore these days…

Happy listening!

One of my favourite features in the magazine (apart from ‘Funny Joke From A Beautiful Woman’) is the ‘What I’ve Learned’ series of articles, where rich, famous and stylish men (and women) provide a list of witticisms and personal life-lessons I happen to find particularly engaging.  Following on, then, from the premise that I too could make the cover of Esquire Magazine, I figured it would be really cool to have my own ‘What I’ve Learned’ list.  That way I’ll be prepared when the call comes through from Esquire’s Editor In Chief, David Granger.

So here goes:

1. The single most important decision any person will ever make is their choice of life partner.

2. My cats would eat me if I were small enough.

3. You can have too many acquaintances but never enough friends.

4. My father was wiser than I gave him credit for.

5. As corny as it sounds, in life there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

6. ‘Value for Money’ does not mean ‘Cheap’ and I am not sure I could really connect with anyone who thinks it does.

7. Play a percentage game in life – work hard, play hard, try to stay healthy and make time to spend with your family.

8. Smoking can kill you but no one likes a reformed smoker – we’ll give up under our own steam or die trying.

9. Anyone who treats service staff poorly is not a good person.

10. When the time comes, I really hope that both my children will choose the right person to spend the rest of their lives with.

That’s my Top Ten list of ‘What I’ve Learned’ – Part I, not too bad for an amateur.

Keep one eye out for Part II and the other one on newsstands everywhere for the next issue of Esquire, you never know who may be on the cover.

Movember South Africa – News – The Craft & The Pride Series – Waldorf Shaving.

P.S. I love the Mo’ on this guy in the clip – if I could grow a Mo’ like that, I’d never shave it off!

Happy Movember.

For one thing, the beer-soaked, smoke-filled dens of iniquity I used to frequent in my twenties and (early) thirties are no longer suitable for someone with a receding brow and more than one mortgage payment to make each month.  For another, my body simply can’t cope with more than one Tequila or less than seven hours sleep in a night – any excesses of consumption or lack of sweet, precious slumber results in dry-mouthed, throbbing levels of pain and I have, for the most part, lost the desire to punish myself to that extent.

However, when I do decide to ‘tie one on’, as my Dad used to say, I’d rather do it in a civilized manner, with careful consideration and forethought.  At my age, I can only afford to deal with a first-class hangover and there is no better variety of refined drinking spots than in Cape Town, my favourite city to go out and get shit-faced in style.

Let’s start with Brewers & Union at 110 Bree St. Cape Town.  An ideal spot to kick-off an evening’s proceedings, the highlight has to be the hand-crafted, slow-brewed, traditional beer.  Available in a variety of styles (StephWeiss, Lager, Dark Lager and others) the brews are the complete opposite to the mass-produced, cheap crap beer we drink most of the time.  Add a unique setting in an old church building with a buzzing, social outdoor area complete with ping-pong table, snappy, friendly service and the best Prego Roll in town and you realise why this is the hangout of choice for many locals.  My favourite – a bucket of beautifully-brewed red-label Berne Beer and the famous Charcuterie Board.  Check out www.andunion.com

Bucket of Berne

Next up is The Donkey, better known as El Burro, the most famous, authentic Mexican watering hole in town.  Situated upstairs at 81 Main Rd, Greenpoint, just opposite the Cape Town Stadium, El Burro is actually more of a restaurant than a bar but you can definitely drink there and it’s a favourite of mine because they take Tequila as seriously as I do.  Quirky decor, genuine hospitality and the clatter of customers imbibing without inhibition sets the scene for a long session if you end up getting jammed at El Burro – as many invariably do – but it’s the bar area itself which steals the show.  A grand, mirrored wall showcases the world’s best Tequilas and a special, dedicated section of the menu deals with this most dangerous of distillations.  Whether you choose a classic Margarita or sip on an aged Anejo, the only sure thing is that you’re guaranteed to have more than one.  Best practice here – sit outside on the balcony and alternate your Margaritas with Corona Beer while sampling the best Mexican food in Africa.

Wrapping up this drinking post is a great new place I recently discovered through my addiction to Twitter -  Tjing Tjing Rooftop Bar, which is just off Greenmarket Square at 165 Longmarket St. – www.tjingtjing.co.za.  Tucked under the eaves in the attic of this character-filled building is a bar with it all – great design, classic cocktails, experienced, efficient bar staff, an eclectic yet accessible music playlist and perfect lighting.  This wonderfully sophisticated, urban vibe spills out onto a rooftop deck where you’re surrounded by downtown Cape Town.  Tjing Tjing is one of those rare places which provides the ideal drinking environment, perfect for those nights when you don’t feel like going to bed just yet.  You have to – go late and relax with a single malt on the rocks.

Tjing Tjing has it all

That’s my take on getting out of hand in proper style – you may still have a heavy head the next day but it will easily be the sexiest hangover you’ve ever had.

Cole Clocks a 'Six'

As a parent with two young children in Prep School, I’ve spent my fair share of time on the sidelines of the sports field supporting their various sporting endeavours.

Firstly, for those of you still sensibly weighing up the implications of having your own children, I can assure you that all kids take their sport very seriously indeed.  Whether it’s my ten year-old son bowling a bouncer at a beginner batsman or my daughter doing her best to kneecap opposing seven year-olds with her hockey stick, they have an energetic enthusiasm for team sports which can sometimes approach a bloodlust.

Between us, my wife and I have always made a concerted effort to spectate our children’s matches, often arriving as if we’re attending a World Cup Final rather than a simple school game.  Often braving wind, sub-zero temperatures, rain and possible pneumonia, we diligently pitch camp, armed with camping chairs, coffee flasks and a primeval urge to see our children destroy the opposition (although we would never admit this to them).

Our motivation is really quite simple – we want our kids to win.

Okay, okay, that’s not really it.  We make the effort to support our children to show them that we care, to encourage them and, ultimately, to see them enjoy physical competition and grow as individuals.  But we would also really, really like them to win.

That said, some folks take this level of support, competitiveness and encouragement to a whole new level.  I have witnessed fully-grown men and women, upstanding citizens who hold positions of responsibility and authority in society, behave worse than soccer hooligans when their precious offspring take to the sporting arena.  God knows how an eight year-old is supposed to hit a hockey ball with his mother running up and down the sidelines screaming at him to “just hit it” – you can actually see the poor child gritting his teeth in a combination of determination, frustration and embarrassment.

Heckling the referee, blowing their own whistles (literally) and performing impromptu cheer-leading moves designed to distract – these are just some of the tactics used by parents to increase their children’s competitive edge.  God knows, but I honestly think that many of them believe their children are destined for sporting greatness rather than simply enjoying some sporting fun while at school.  While there is nothing wrong with getting out there and showing support for our young sports starts, as parents we need to be really careful of creating dangerously unrealistic expectations in the minds of our children.

At first, I too thought my kids could achieve way more in their sporting efforts.  It’s only natural for parents to want their children to succeed, but it often comes with a casual disregard for the collateral damage caused to fragile confidence levels by all the pressure to perform.  Too often, we confuse their enthusiasm for the game with our desire for them to win it.

One day, after a particularly thorough, almost professional defeat at the hands of a ruthless team of fourth-graders, my son seemed unperturbed by his team’s loss.  When pressed on his feelings about the massacre, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Dad, I had fun.”

His nonchalance brought me down to ground and taught me a lesson I hope to remember throughout my children’s school careers – the most important part of playing the game is to enjoy taking part.

For those that don’t Mo’, this is a worldwide charity initiative whereby men grow moustaches for the month of November and raise funds in aid of cancer, specifically prostate and testicular cancer – the thinking is that we all walk around looking like idiots (at least I do, anyway) and collect cash from the folks who are stupid enough to laugh at us.

Personally, I’m starting to look more and more like someone recently released from prison (see attached photo).  I actually forget I have hair on my top lip until I notice people giving me shifty glances or, even worse, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror.  I honestly think there is something about a man with a moustache which calls his character into question, unless your name is Chuck Norris or Tom Selleck.

Don't Mess With My Mo', Joe

That said, there is a personal grooming ‘placebo effect’ to growing a Mo’ – the flipside to looking like a criminal is feeling a bit like an outdoorsy, pioneering, tree-felling kinda guy.  My ‘Tache makes me feel like I should be panning for gold or hunting for my supper rather than sitting at my desk typing on my laptop but I guess the feeling will pass as soon as December rolls around.

Growing a Mo’ for a worthy cause has been good for a laugh but it will be nice to leave the house without feeling like I’m breaking parole.

Okay, not the life-threatening ordeal I made it out to be at the time, but an event which gave me pause for thought.  After tooling around in a really cool car for two years and pretending that I still had a full head of hair, the realisation that I had to be sensible was a shock to the system.  There is nothing quite like the thrill of a Dynamic Shift Gearbox or the curves of German-engineered aluminium to make life’s responsibilities fade into obscurity.  Every time I climbed behind the wheel, even just to pick milk up at the supermarket, the petty details of my existence whizzed by in a blur of ‘Vorsprung’ and hand-stitched leather – heady stuff, indeed.

Like many stereotypes, my balding, middle-aged sense of invincibility turned out to be all too accurate – the inevitability of my suburban existence meant that it was really just a question of time before I had to face up to reality.  A reality that included lift clubs for half the school cricket team, guitar lessons with all the associated equipment and weekend trips away that weren’t dirty – not ideal in a car built for two.

Enter the minivan.  At first, the very thought of driving a diesel people-mover with the about the same acceleration as a tractor left me so cold that my ego suffered frostbite.  Where before my wheels actually turned a few heads, I was now the reluctant owner of a car so nondescript and common that even I couldn’t find it in the parking lot at the mall.  After a week or two though, as my pride slowly thawed, a strange thing began to happen – I actually started to enjoy the whole minivan vibe.

For one thing, the height of the driving position provides a lofty vantage point from which to spot distant parking spaces at aforesaid mall.  That, and the ability to admire the legs of ladies driving two-door sports coupes ( not that I pay too much attention to them).  Also, I can now pack my wheels with sports and recreational equipment – bikes, boards, bats, balls and beach stuff – all of which encourages a healthy outdoor lifestyle, as opposed to drag racing in the main street on a Saturday night (okay, that’s a joke).

The van has an amazing sound system, seven seats and enough natural light to grow pot plants in if I so choose.  I can drive my kids to practice, give all their friends a lift and I really don’t mind when they get sand all over the car after a sunny day at the beach.  I’ve started to dress just a bit like a lumberjack and I’ve even started growing a moustache, but that’s another story entirely.

My mid-life minivan switch made me realise just how much of my reality I’d actually been missing – far from being a crisis, the best part about being middle-aged and driving a van is appreciating all you have – and needing that much bigger a car to fit it all into.