It lurked in the corner. In plain sight, arrogantly waiting, huge and menacing. It lives to kill. To mutilate. To scare. A source of nightmares since the dawn of man. There is a flickering reflection of malice in all four of its eyes. Watching. Eight striped legs, each at least seven feet long, tense with anticipation. Every muscle on it’s hairy body on high alert to attack and devour the next victim.


There are two things Man does not like. Mornings. And people who like mornings. Man opens his eyes at 06h00 because he married for love and not for money. He has to work. It might be true that money can’t buy happiness but it helps with the mortgage payment and keeping a constant flow of wine in the house. Once he finds enough courage and stops crying, he gets up and slowly but surely develops a personality. It normally kicks in around 09h34 AM.

On Thursday morning Man went through the same monotonous tasks of changing from his wake-up face to something that would not scare children as much. In the process of getting into the shower, he saw it. The monster. Lurking in the corner, right next to the shower door. Without a flinch he dropped his pants and got in, knowing it is lurking within two feet from him. How does he do it? How can one man be so brave? Th real secret lies in his state of mind at the time. He was not fully awake, evident by the fact that he didn’t screech like a girl at a Justin Bieber concert. As soon as the first drops of water splashed over him he realized what was waiting for him outside the safety of the shower. It dawned on him, what if the monster decide to attack him during the process of washing his hair? I am not sure how other people do it but Man closes his eyes when he is lathering shampoo into his full head of greyish hair.

There is a substantial risk of not seeing the monster when your eyes are closed. The alternative is that if you decide to leave your eyes open, you might end up with soap that will burn like a motherfucker and blind you for three days. Blindness also prevents you from seeing an attacker. Man was in a soapy situation. He opted out of washing his hair. He washed the rest of his body without taking his eyes from the bottom corner. It took him a full seventeen seconds. Seventeen seconds that felt like seventeen decades. What made it worse was his amazing imagination where he could actually feel the hairy legs of the monster climbing up his own hairy leg, right up into his personal space.

On eighteen seconds, he jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel because you cannot get into a fight naked. Unless you are an agent fighting Russian spies but even then, it must be kinda awkward. Some things will always be in the way. The good news was the monster didn’t move.

He got dressed at the speed of a guy who wakes up in the arms of a person who is proof that alcohol can seriously impair a person’s judgement of beauty. Fully clothed, Man was almost ready to deal with the situation. I say almost. He had three options. (1) Leave the monster, lock the house and emigrate to another country. (2) Ignore the monster and let Wife deal with. (3) Kill it. The first option would not work because we need a Visa to visit most foreign countries because our country is fucking amazing. Option two meant Man will have to get a divorce lawyer and he doesn’t know any. Option three was the shittest but only option. He is Man after all. He looked around the bathroom for the perfect weapon. He moved with the stealth of a cat who is 10 kg overweight and grabbed a shoe. He took a deep breath, leapt forward with the grace of a frightened gazelle and slammed that motherfucker into four pieces against the floor. The muck and juice splashed across Man’s newly washed face and stuck to the three day stubble. (I wish.) He wiped it clean with the back of his hand. And laughed and laughed and laughed. He felt proud and manly enough to do a little victory dance.

Then he scraped the mashed up left overs from the shoe and flushed it down the toilet like the hero he is. A shiver ran down his spine when he looked backed and saw three severed legs still lying in the corner, the leftovers of the massacre. He decided to leave it there for Wife to find.


“Age is just a number,” they say. “Age is all in the mind,” they say. “You are only as old as you feel,” they say.  Well Man thinks they can go fuck themselves on a highway.  They are walking around with their head up their ass because growing old is inevitable. It is a fact of life. Father Time goes slow but steady. Whether you want to believe it or not, that old bastard will creep up on you, jump and suck the life out of you like a facehugger.

Man had to learn this ugly truth the hard way, during his last summer vacation.

Man spends his annual vacation camping, which is basically paying a lot of money to live like a homeless person.  In a surprise twist, he likes to take his family with him, all nicely handcuffed and packed in the boot. The family owns a caravan because living in a tent would imply that he is divorced. He is not. Setting up camp is a great way to increase the anxiety levels in Man, simply because it has to be done in a very specific way. His way. Camping sucks when the wind mistakes your tent for a kite and blows it into a neighbouring country.  The resort has people who are more than happy to set up your campsite for the price of a small car but why would he pay someone if he has two in-house slaves working for free?  

It is difficult to get them to do what you want because contrary to popular belief, teenagers have a mind of their own and they get slightly annoyed when tasked with things that keep them away from their phones. This process of keeping them off their phones and setting up camp damages the vocal cords of Man. Wife says he should improve his communication skills because he is basically just barking instructions. With the lack of enthusiasm displayed by the in-house slaves it is clear that they do not understand canine. Just so you know, an anxious Man, a mad Wife and two annoyed teenagers does not make for a happy camper. Man got tired of barking so during the last vacation he took out a second bond on his house and paid the resort to set up camp.

Strike one.

When Man was younger he blasted the great music of his generation without any consideration for loss of hearing or the objections of other people who lived in a three mile radius from his home. Science has proven that you become a better person every time you hear an eighties song. Depeche Mode, Erasure, Roxette and Transvision Vamp all begged to be listened at the highest volume your walkman or stereo sound system could allow. If not, they would ask for their money back. Fact. But loud music sounds better until it doesn’t anymore. The entertainment crew of the resort plays music on speakers that would make a rock band weep. The problem is that the DJ doesn’t shave yet so he is blasting some real atrocious shit over the airwaves. Rap and Kanye and bands who have acronyms for names. Subconsciously Man and Wife migrate to the furthest point from said speakers to find a quieter place where they can have critical conversations about life. Solving mysteries like how much wine is left and what’s for dinner, without having to scream at each other because we do that often enough.

Strike two.

Man normally likes to make an entrance into a pool whether it be diving, bombing or falling in drunk. He used to participate in every rigorous activity thrown to the guests by DJ Playshit and his crew which includes everything from volleyball to racing on a lilo. I say used to because since Man sprained his shoulder whilst trying to cross the pool on an inflated cylinder, he now prefers to float around like a fat hippo on a hot day. He turned out to be a very agitated hippo because of this one little piece of shit who jumps in the pool, then gets out, then jumps in again, then gets out again, then jumps in…You get the picture. All of this unnecessary activity happened within the boundaries of social distancing. Man turned to face the toddler on the fifth jump and before he could say, “for fuck sakes dickhead, get in or piss off!”, Wife gently guided him to calmer waters.

Strike three.

Henry Ford invented a car because he got tired of walking from his house to the pub.  True story. Saving us from the same fate.  If you opt to walk in summer, you sweat and that is not a good look on Man. Every time Man walked from the camp site to the pool, his fat cells were withering away, crying sweaty tears in agony. You see, there is a steep climb from point A to point B and seeing that Man doesn’t plan in scaling the seven peaks any time soon, it turned out to be a bit of a pain in the arse, hamstrings and calves. Man is a lot of things but a sadist is not one of them and out of pity for the genocide that was taking place in his own body, he decided to take his car and drive to the pool.

Strike four.

Back in the day life used to be much simpler. Our fast food selection was more limited, people had actual face-to-face conversations with one another, teenagers listened to decent music, the fucking Kardashians was not famous for doing nothing and Man could get out of a bed or a chair without his body making a weird noise. Even if it was for a good reason like getting a beer.  The biggest mystery is that most of these noises are not just created by his joints, or his intestines, some of them spontaneously erupts from his mouth. Weird grunts and other extra-terrestrial sounds that Man was never able to produce before. He learned a new language overnight without even trying to.

And that is strike five. And that is enough.

Man is out. And old. er.


Man was always on time. Then he got married or more importantly had kids. He adopted his own mantra, “Lateness implies greatness”, because Man was tired of fighting with kids about being on time.

A couple of years ago, or 2 BC (Before Covid) as it is known in my house, Man had to attend a funeral of a distant relative who shared 7,3% of his bloodline. God rest her soul. Man hates funerals as much as the next man and try to avoid them because he ugly cries. Nearly all of the funerals he attended were about death and tragedy and crying and sadness. Things Man tries to avoid as much as possible. I say Man HAD to attend this specific funeral because his parents told him to do so. And being a kid of the eighties, that is the only reason you need. Man and Wife and Sister and Boyfriend were late and he was in a hurry to arrive at the church before the coffin left the building.

Man has not achieved the ability to travel through time, so he tried his best to make up some time. And to do so, he ignored the speed limit. A superhero in a brown uniform with a fluorescent vest jumped in front of the car. Man didn’t know where Captain I-can-stop-a-car-with-one-hand-because-I-am-stupid was hiding but he must have some really big cahoonas to jump in front of a speeding car the way he did. Man dropped a massive f-bomb and pulled to the side of the road.

The superhero strolled over with the eagerness of a dying snail. Man opened the window, cursing under his breath.

“Sir, do you know you were speeding? ” said Captain Ninkanpoop.

All four occupants of the vehicle was dressed in black and looked relatively solemn because we were on our way to a funeral. Man was wearing a pair of sunglasses because the African sun will blind any person for being arrogant enough to face it without one. Then the most brilliant idea since the discovery of the wheel and beer popped into his head.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t realise. We are on our way to a funeral of a very close family member,” Man said in a trembling voice. “Sorry if I sound a bit emotional,” his voice drenched in tears. “I was lost in thought and neglected to check my speed. I am truly sorry and under normal circumstances I’m a very cautious driver.” *insert sniff and extremely weepy voice “It is just a very difficult day for all of us.”

The grandmother of all awkward silences hanged in the air for about three minutes. Man added another sob for dramatic effect.

Eventually Captain What-do-I-do-now spoke again. “I am so sorry to hear that sir, please go on. Just make sure you drive a little slower. Your safety is our main concern.”

Man almost choked on the fake reply. The real problem was that Captain This-was-not-part-of-my-training was fooled by the tears of a grown man. He was certainly not going to sit and wait until Captain WTF had a change of mind, so they sped off. Not one of the four occupants said a word until Sister broke the silence sixty-eight seconds later.

“I didn’t realize you were so close to our aunt,” she said in a sympathetic voice.

“I’m not”, said Man and took his shades off. He turned to face his passengers, the audience to his brilliant performance. There was not one tear in sight. The eyes of Man was as clear as day and his mouth turned into an evil grin. It might not go down in history as his proudest moment because there is a special place in hell for those who make fun of the dead but that performance was worthy of an Oscar.

Even Wife was stunned with his acting ability and she is probably wondering what else he is faking now. Man could see the cogs and gears of her mind running in overdrive. As the car turned the corner, surprise and shock dissipated into thin air, leaving room for laughter to settle in very comfortably. Man had to compose the group as they got closer to the church because it would seem very strange for a party of four people to arrive late for a funeral, laughing hysterically.

Now Man needs to confess something else…

Man never flashed his boobs to get out of a fine but only because he does not have any.


Man needs a mask before he can leave the house. He couldn’t get his car from the service station because he forgot his mask. The security guard didn’t want Man to enter the shop. Man wasn’t impressed because he could see his car through the window. The security guard was a real arse. He stayed calm, bit his lip, worked through the anxiety and was able to walk away without breaking a window or assaulting said security guard with a dustbin. He went back to the office, got the mask and returned for his car. Man is fed-up with masks. Not to mention the persistent sanitizing that is required everywhere. Some places are trying to cut costs so they have this disgusting brew of vinegar and snot that smells like the room of a 15 year old boy. Everyone is trying their best to avoid spreading the virus. It is a twisted version of hell but there is something worse.

Masks and cheap sanitizer doesn’t come close to the other invention of Satan that is also supposedly there to protect us from viruses, albeit the electronic kind. I’m talking about a fucking password.

Just like a mask in the real word, Man cannot get anywhere online without a password. If you want to buy stuff, read stuff, write stuff, post stuff, access stuff, play with stuff, order stuff, pay stuff or watch porn.  A password is even required if you just want to retrieve your own goddamn stuff.  You end up with a thousand different places all across the Internet where you are screwed if you forget the magic word, consisting of eight digits or more.

He doesn’t have a problem with the concept of a password because he’s not stupid. It is important to use protection at all times because it’s expensive to raise kids nowadays. Man just battle to understand how normal, non-Einstein folk, is supposed to remember all the different passwords required for daily functioning. Man sometimes forget the names of his children, not to mention a passwords used to subscribe to a website thirteen years ago. (It was an experimental phase, don’t judge him.) And don’t you dare write your passwords on a list or even worse, make the mistake of telling someone about it. You will be ostracized and treated like patient zero being diagnosed with a new deadly virus transferred to humans from a bat. (Too soon?)

Due to humans not using their full brain capacity, most people will pick one password for everything.  The one word that rules them all.  A word that grants the user freedom to roam around the Internet and do whatever you want. One word that cracks the Internet like a ripe zit, spewing credit card numbers, bank accounts, online shops and social media all over the bathroom mirror. And don’t worry if the password expires because you simply change the number at the end and you’re good to go.

Even if you are Captain America and you opt for two or three different words, because you now, that is what you are supposed to do and you tell everyone that is what you do and because you are a dick, chances are that those words will be in some way relatable to your person. The name of a bitch, or a lover, or a friend, or a mother, or a sinner, or a saint and you should not feel ashamed. Everyone does it. So if someone knows you really well, they’ll probably get very close to guessing your password or a portion of it. And if you really are Captain America and don’t agree with this statement…Bite me.

Man will now paint a picture. With words. Man cannot draw nice pictures with brushes and shit.

A fat, acne ridden dude who hasn’t washed his hair in three years sits in front of a laptop with seventeen screens around him. Another man stands behind him and is trying to keep a straight face and not puke all over the electronics because the stench of the rotten food on his desk is filling his soul. He gives Fatman important personal information of his ex because he wants to destroy the lives of her and the new fucking asshole she hangs around with now. Fatman tries a few words and then after a couple of seconds, WA-LAH! he gets in. The other man jumps up and down with excitement and hands Fatman a USB drive filled with photo-shopped images of his ex in precarious positions. He only needed the one word to destroy a life. (This is a fictional story and any relation to a person in real life is purely coincidental.)

Now is the time for the big reveal. Man is that man. No, not the guy with the ex because I already said that is a semi-fictional story. No, I’m not the hacker because Man is 47 and don’t have that much acne. He is also not the toy-boy because as stated before, Man is 47. Are you not listening? Man is more like the ex in the picture but without the boobs and stilettos. Did you know they don’t make stilettos in a size 12? Back to the point. Man is totally hackable. Any person with more than four brain cells and the ability to use a keyboard would probably be able to hack into his accounts after spending a couple of hours in his office. If he didn’t limit the amount of passwords he is using, then his daily interaction with technology would probably be something like this:

Please enter log in name:


Your password has expired.  Please enter new password:


Your password requires a minimum of eight characters.  Please try again:


Your password requires a capital letter.  Please try again:


Your password requires a numeric character. Please try again:

Mammothtooth 1

Your password doesn’t allow spaces. Please try again:


Your password requires a symbol character.  Please try again:


Your password requires another capital letter. Please try again:


Your password doesn’t allow subsequent capital letters.  Please try again:


That password is already in use.  Please try again:

Man throws laptop across room. Man leaves shattered pieces on floor. Man walks to bar. Man finishes three bottles of whisky.


It’s been forever. O-kay, that is a bit dramatic. It has only been three years but so many, many things have changed.

I’m not referring to the obvious shit storm (which my computer is trying to change to hailstorm because it’s an idiot) we’ve been living through for the past two years. Wearing a mask is not so bad when you have a face like mine. I got bumped from a 3 to a 6, at least. My voice and eyes are to die for. Al least according to my wife. I also don’t have to shave that often.

It’s hard to believe that it has been three years since I’ve posted on a blog. For the newbies, I used to write over at but I don’t own the domain anymore because I forgot to renew the damn thing. I am not willing to pay the price of a small country to get it back. Never mind, I’m not one to cry over spilled milk. I have ugly cried over spilled wine but that is another story. The lost domain signaled the end of an era. As both my kids left home to study and party and meet people at university, I have migrated from being a dad to a man who pays their bills. Like a human trust fund. I also moved on to a new career that doesn’t involve travelling because I got tired of not being home.

(Typing that paragraph makes me sound really, really boring and middle aged.)

This blog will be about a Man who loves to Write about Stuff.

See what I did there?

Welcome peeps.

PS- You can still read my old posts over at