Mr.Blobz

What better to do that flare up the ‘hood on a weekday morn’? This is one of Mr Blobz’s community-minded neighbours, adding some thoughtful action to the street. Why not?

Entrails. Aren’t they beautiful? Upturned and eviscerated, this rubbish bin spills a story onto the operating table of Polo Road, spattered by a street-surgeon that is a rattled bergie. What do we read, inside the blood, beside the filth? Crinkled stories in a Frito packet, a smile torn Black Label and the endless Savannah, coffeefalls, gushing gallons of Ricoffy, and Mr. and Mrs. Marlboro graining the patient with tiny studs of sticky tar… The surgeons hands recoil from the rubbished allegories that have crumpled here, tossed away, woven in a forgotten heap, decorated with a Jive and Diet Cream Soda…

John Samuel Streeter!  What a guy!  One wonders what the hell he was pumping out of his shack? Diatribes about missing cufflinks and collars? A bit of Handel and Vivaldi?

What were the chief concenrns of the Victorian age, besides their obsession with sanitation? The broadcasts – note – were the first regular ones.  He was then, a blogger in his day, but more so, not just casually downloading the software, but building it, with cathodes and diodes, transmitting from his shack.

This man, ultimately responsible for the Nigel ‘Nosepicker’ Pearce, had a SHACK. Don’t we all need a shack? Mr Blobz knows this shack well – ok, not intimately, having never overnighted or had high tea there – but it’s often piqued the edges of his moustache, given its lovely finishing and skilful trim.

This then, the shack where it all started.Where John Samuel Streeter sipped on his Ceylon tea from a Royal Doulton mug, or had a glass of beer from the Ohhlsons Brewery perhaps, and went live all over Cape Town.

A lovely lounge suite was kindly donated to Alfred Rd recently – the “Blue Rose.”  Here are some locals, unwinding after a long day.  Note the beautiful plant life in the foreground, so thoughtfully bedecked with some items from modern life: bread wrappers, chip packets, maybe even a nappy if you’re lucky. Relax and sink back into the scenery.

It all came apart at the seamz quite quickly though…

Mr Blobz wondered whether the fabric had not been culled by some amputees, desperate for novel bandages. Mr Blobz himself was of a mind to burn the ample woodwork, but it seemed like he might put his handsome shoulder out trying to extract the timber. There are quicker pavement forests to cull anyway.

Mr Blobz noted with trepidation some legsome neighbour paying two very soused and confident opportunists to haul the Blue Rose away… This is where she ended up, after thousands of farts had rendered her fabric to shreds, hundreds of grubby chicken-fat fingers had her way with her. She’s feeling blue, doesn’t know what to do…

Weedz in Obz. Stretching from the pavementz to the starz.

Mr Blobz likes John Seymour’s definition of a weed as ‘a plant growing in the wrong place.’

Our leaders are weeds, tho’ they might be honoured to be considered as plant matter. In the wrong place – government, instead of the knacker’s yard. Especially Arts and Culture Minister Lulu Xingwana, who thinks she’s human. She’s a weed.

So, figs and oaks can be weeds, depending on where they are. Some weeds tho; aren’t b-a-d, they help fix the soil for suceesive plants, and provide greenery. Mr Blobz has a lawn composed entirely of a weed – unsown and windblown – and for now, it’s in the right place.

Obz likes weedz. Some of our locals are weedy – thin, pale and pimply – and lots of weed is smoked here too.

Sometimes a spade-wielder comes along and chops them away. They leave the roots, usually. The weedz bounce back, all resentful.We have some wonderful specimens here.

Mr Blobz would like to celebrate the unintended, untended gardens on the pavements, these eezy litter traps, and their roots that eat at our foundations. Because if the roots don’t strangle us, reaching up through the tar and into the windows, it just means we’re dead already.