Blue Steel (continued)

So where was I before I was rudely interrupted by an Eisner audit deadline. Oh yes my soiled phone.

But before I forget, I meant to mention the unbelievable blueberry beer we drank at the Boston Beerworks last weekend. Out for dinner on the Saturday night we get a cab (because it was about minus 5) and in the backseat of the cab we find a bottle of Veuve Clicqout which retails for about $50 a bottle here. Massive score. Looking for a place that will actually lets us in with bottle in hand and we come across Boston Beerworks. Basically a massive brewery type restaurant which offers an unbelievable range of beers on tap. Service can either be terrible or incredible in the States and the girl who attended our table was particularly friendly in her response to my "what would you recommend" retort. Turns out they have a blueberry beer which they serve with real blueberries in the beer. I have quickly learned that since having his son Brodie, Old Fella Smith has become completely obsessed with bodily functions - his comment "look there are little poos in the beer" boldly underlined this revelation. Nonetheless the beer tasted awesome and the fruit provided me with some desperately needed nutrients no doubt.

So back to my Matrix-like dive for my phone. After retrieving my 'cell' from the lav, I successfully disassembled it and left the key components out to dry on the heater adjacent to my desk. Feeling isolated from the modern world, I anxiously pieced it back together and switched it on. Thankfully it still works but sometimes it gets possessed and I can't read the screen (or maybe that's just my eyes??).

Feeling complete again with phone somewhat intact, I summoned the others to the foyer to disembark to the 10 buck chuck. Sounds like one of those stupid old jokes - an loose Aussie, a Crazy Welshmen, a mild-mannered Geordie and a cocky Londoner walked into a bar. An hour and 10 very strong bourbon and cokes later and things were looking a bit pear shaped. We trudged out of the Black Finn and back towards Eisner to collect our things as we were to meet the others at another bar at 9. I threw myself into a cab down 3rd Ave and somehow got changed and made it back to the Poms' apartment on 32nd St.

Needless to say Friday morning was not the most productive. I did however manage to find a very snappy black Diesel jacket at Bloomingdales during lunch which I ummed and ahhed about buying it for a good hour. I returned that night to make the purchase despite the exorbitant price tag. It was limited edition (only 10 made) and felt too right once I slipped it on to let go.

Friday night was a blur. Some of the Proteas had received their final Chartered Accountant exam results so I headed to McFaddens on 2nd Ave to join in the festivities. I had kept a fairly low profile with the Springboks until now but backing up on the second night found me floundering in a sea on tequila and Bud Light. I soon realised that Cape Town had it's own narcisist on tour - Christian Crouss - or as I refer to him as Criss Cross. Before long Blue Steel was being deployed at nauseum in conjunction with CC's signature self portrait (ie taking photos of yourself with one hand). The results can be found in the photos posted below - they speak for themselves.

As is my custom, new nicknames have been distributed to all males on tour. Pieter DeVilliers is now known as PDV, Pieter Douglas as Dude (resulting from his over-use of the phrase), Rob Shore is the Ginga Ninja and Geordie-native Duncan Ross is now aptly referred to as Duncan McOckinher. Together this rag tag bunch has become a formidable force on the NYC bar scene. A highlight of the night was when the Dude got the DJ to give a shout-out to PDV who was 'having' his 26th birthday and is a big fan of the kaffers. Highly inappropriate but very South African.

Saturday night was meant to be a boy's night out. It turned out to be a right royal fizzer. I did however play shuffleboard for the first time. As I managed to take down several cocky Yanks, I duly informed that I'd never played the game before in between dishing out Hewitt-style 'come ons' as I played another arsey shot.

We almost had a situation when a member of the touring party 'got friendly' with a girl at the bar. A large African-American male who I had befriended during my shuffleboard antics tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that the 'lady' in question actually dated his best friend. I referred the matter to the whole group who concurred that it would be best (and most humourous) if my aggrieved mate informed the offender himself. When I made that suggestion and received the response "I have a really bad temper and little self control", I made the executive decision to tell him myself and then hit the high road.

Went ice skating on Sunday night at the Wollman rink in Central Park. Was very cold but awesome fun. Had been a while since I graced the ice of the Ringwood rink in my roller hockey days but wasn't long until I remembered I could skate but still couldn't stop.

And finally - congratulations to my cousin Laura and her new husband Seb. From all reports a wonderful day that I'm sad to have missed. Seems like yesterday that us Bull boys were running away from our cousins down Falmouth Street when Nanna Cooge suggested we give them a kiss. From the photos I've seen, Seb won't be running anywhere.

Miss you all. Big post next week - The Strokes concert, Washington DC and maybe a tour of my local neighbourhood.

Peace.