Black on brown, malevolent sprites of crime, school of intent and line, wondering to the skyline, shapes of black fish-spine, cut in a wall, following all.



My eye was haywire with this orangeness on the road nearby.

Is there is some turmeric involved here? Foul play from mustard seed? White rice is conspicuous by her absence.

Perhaps a disgruntled pumpkin? Raised in terror, artificially fertilised and pumped with drugs, cut away from itself, loaded and trucked to a Fridge ‘n Aisle or Green Abbatoir.

Mr Blobz sees this orange splodge as the remains of a massive avian meal.

What is the most plausible origin of this remarkable splat?

Mr Blobz would like to know…



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…

We all need a shack


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.


The Blue Rose


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.


Some days, Mr. Blobz walks around staring into the gutter. This is where most life ends up, on the journey from the pavement to the drain.

Sometimes, we leave traces here, clothing, condoms, beer bottles and shoes, before we’re broken down into constituent particles and washed out to sea. This fella left some of his footwear.


Perhaps he was absconded, getting into a car, and in the scuffle, lost a shoe. And now he’s wearing cement shoes at the bottom of Duncan Dock.

Or perhaps, drunk, after exiting a nearby establishment, he careened against himself, and hopped away from his shadows on one leg, like a big human bunny.

Or, perhaps again, he met true love that night, and in the rush of ecstatic union, forgot that his Fairy Godfather would be turning his trusty sword back into a leaky catheter at midnight. And in the flurry, he lost a shoe.

And an old bag lady, with just a memory of him pressed against her heart,  is searching for it still, so that she can find her prince.

Pope St.

Pope St – amongst Dryden, Burns, Dickens, Campbell and others – is strictly Salt River, and therefore out of Mr Blobz’ ambit. However, this is part of his ‘hood. Where the old corner cafes survive, and the community is vas. Chock-full of street art and on the big dusty main streets, crap galleries, flailing in the wind.


Sam and I sometimes ride here, and he tells me about different types of graffiti (mess vs art), and gets irritated if we’re on a downhill and I have to stop to take a pic. But for the most part he’s just happy to be on his bike.

There are the usual scrawls. Look into the eyeball…


Loverzzzz. Luvaz. Lovers. Frenz.


Tiekie for Bogy. And here, a list of them…


Rollcall of a posse, who’s who and who’s here, top of the list, in favour. And as times change and people fall out and move away, get hairy and marry or stray, love still tops the list.