Aaah, to be at play. To forget. To be honest – for play, reckons Mr Blobz, is a place where we are really ourselves, as we have forgotten to be.

Play is such a blissful state of being – a mindset, a heartset. A tennis set! A cherished state we enter with the forgotten passport of childhood, that we inhabit when we’re free of the muck of daily life, the mood-sediment and undertow of our emotional tides… Yet how often we don’t even think to play, or refuse the idea, feeling like we simply can’t: or worse, that play is stupid, childish, retrogressive.

How good to see these dominoes plastered on the wall in some arbitrary Observatory back street.


They have such texture. While Mr Blobz enjoys the odd spot of online tennis, he prefers the thwock of a tennis ball on the backside in a game of stingers, or the joy of throwing a stone into a bucket. The simpler, the better.
So come and play, where we can leave things behind, where a ball or a card or a bow and arrow sing you back to yourself. Now it’s your turn.

No Poo-Poo

DSC00205This delightful instruction for dogs, which many of them will not be able to understand because the emanating turd looks a little like a tail and dogs are notoriously colourblind, was spotted by Mr Blobz on Lower Wrensch Rd., just metres away from his very first abode in this august ‘hood, way back when Mr Blobz was a mere spotty student.

No. 56 Lower Wrensch was formerly inhabited by the regal combination of Kate, Robyn, Stove and Dogs (no relation to the four-footed kind.) Mr Blobz moved in back in the summer of 1990, a mere twenty years ago, buying the carpet Stove left behind, which was soon home to one of the most renowned flea colonies in the southern hemisphere. Dogs also left for better things at this stage, leaving Mr Blobz with Kate and Robyn for company. Even with the addition of Nicky, this proved an unsteady foursome.

One of Mr Blobz’s repressed memories from this time, when his sanity was as erratic as the pinball scores in Mr Fuckit’s corner cafe, was of a sardine lasagne prepared by a housemate who shall remain nameless.

Another memory was of the Dogshit Marathon, a unique event humbly invented by Mr Blobz himself, where, barefoot, the peron who ran around the block in a combination of the fastest time (s), subtracting the mass of dogshit (g) scraped away from his or her naked heels in grams (with g=s in value), was the winner.

Sadly, the event was never held, and, judging by the mother grundy who has forbidden canines to deposit the remnants of their torried diets on this particualr pavement, never shall be.



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.