I was trying to find a suitable word to describe what I was drinking last night and the only word that came anywhere near was 'grog'.
For those of you who don't know what yakka is, it's a punch made with vodka and lemonade, topped up with chopped lemon and ice. Sounds pretty innocent. The girl whose party it was had made 24 litres of the stuff and had kept it fermenting in her garage for two weeks beforehand. There were about 15 people at the party.
After about two glasses it began to be sneaky. It was ridiculously sweet, and very refreshing, like robinsons barley or something, with just a slight bitter aftertaste. Also, with the lemons and all the 'bits' that were in the glasses, we became lulled into a false sense of security. We all said "This has fruit and ice, it MUST be good for us". (We didn't really all say that, but the sentiment was palpable)
For some reason, we started playing the 'Roxanne' drinking game, where you stand and sip every time Mr Eight-Hour Tantra and his Policemen say the word...well, you get it. With the constant sitting and standing, and the fact that those motherfuckers say 'Roxanne' about 90 times in that damn song, pretty soon I had a hell of a sugar-rush.
Sometime between my body trying to combat diabetes from all the sugar, and my mouth trying to swallow endless slices of pizza, I became drunk. Not in a bad way, but sneakily. The yakka had been hiding in the attic like a Chechen sniper for three or four hours, and suddenly BAM! it unloaded a rocket-propelled grenade right into my cerebral cortex.
I looked round, petrified of the spectacle I had become, and the massive social faux-pas I was committing by having become the equivalent of a boy shaped life-size jelly, only to realise that I wasn't alone. People were sitting in their chairs, suddenly more subdued and talking with a world weariness not felt since the Fuhrerbunker in 1945. Conversation, once flowing, now trickled like a pesky nosebleed, and laughter came, unsolicited and wild.
I shared a cab home with my 'definitely not a date' and got to bed at about 5.30 or so, pretty confident that at least I hadn't been ballistically drunk and thus, would be wholly operational on the morrow. Not the case.
I woke up with a geriatric hangover, that's one where you essentially can't survive without the assistance of home help. I had such a case of the spins that I was afraid to leave my bed and the distance between my prone, shaking body and the bathroom was so great (four foot) that even the thought of going for a glass of water or an aspirin made me go foetal.
Eventually I came to my senses and was able to put on some music and sit up a bit in bed to see a barrage of messages and two missed calls. I hadn't heard anything, so I suppose this SAfrican punch (aside from diabetes and liver failure) can make you temporarily deaf too. For an insomniac, I slept like a baby for at least eleven hours. Well, I was in a yakka-coma for eleven hours.
If you'd like an audio representation of what yakka is like, then wrap your ear-hole around this sea shanty by A. L. Lloyd.
Was meant to have a guest today to watch Westerns, the Ennio Morricone ones. She knew I was going to this party but still wasn't too impressed when I managed to find my way out of bed at 4.40 and postpone. Words like "You said," and "Typical" were thrown about (and still are) with the wrath of Shiva, but I'm secretly impressed that I was able to work my phone, let alone type.
So, I bid you welcome to my blog. I happen to know a few people who keep pretty extensive blogs, and lots of my friends are into journalism, law or broadcasting -- writery types and whatnot -- so I'm joining in too, let's see what comes up.