Sooo Sandton

The Husband and I finally made it back to Sandton on Saturday night to collect The Sister. We’d been up at 4:30am for three days in a row a couple of days earlier, so we were yawning our heads off by the time we got home. Nonetheless, we were determined to show my 26 year-old sister that old farts in their thirties can still shake their bedroom slippers on the dance floor.

Because Taboo only opens at some ridiculous hour like midnight or something, we decided to go to Koi for dinner first. That way, we figured, we’d be right next-door to the club and hence less likely to make a dash for our beds at 10:30pm.

I’d forgotten what good people-watching Koi offers on a Saturday night. Boy, it sure was good to be back in the big, bad city! There was a dolly in a stretchy lycra sequin skirt which ran from her hip-bones to her upper thighs. And when I say her upper thighs, I really mean her groin. Who knew that sequined spandex was back in style? Could its resurgence be connected to Whitney Houston’s recent comeback?


Anyhoo, back to the bitching. There was another dolly in her jogging suit. Honestly, it was a full-on tracksuit, except it was skin-tight and made of apple-green velour. All this with a pair of glitzy heels. Mooi. On the one hand, she looked hilarious, but on the other hand she had this look that screamed “I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-you’re-thinking-I-look-stoopid-but-if-that-really-is-what-you’re-thinking-then-YOU’RE-stoopid-cos-you-don’t-know-that-this-look-is-HUGE-in-L.A-okay?”

The people-watching was so good, even The Husband was getting into it. Alas, several bitching sessions and cocktails later, it was time to hit Taboo. The Sister and I tottered over – The Husband in tow – to join the queue. We were greeted by two of the largest human beings I have ever encountered. They looked like larger, slicker, suaver, suited versions of BA Barracus. They were also much, much taller than BA. Not to mention SO much wider. And you could see they weren’t wide because of fat. Kind of like rugby props where they look chubs but if you were to poke their tummies they wouldn’t be mushy – you’d encounter a wall of bulk. After being sized up and sniffed at by the 6-foot,clipboard schmodels, we were deemed suitable for entry.

I hadn’t been to Taboo for years and I have to say that the music was as fabulous as I remember. What I didn’t remember was the cheesy, dress-up hen parties. Saturday night appeared to be the night of the cowgirls. Yeeha. I’m assuming these hen things are a regular feature these days as they’ve installed a pole – apparently for this purpose. Brides-to-be (and wannabe brides) were shaking their little tushies and practically shagging this poor pole while the entire dance floor looked on. For me, the addition of the pole was a real incentive to go easy on the shots, ‘cause after a few tequilas I would’ve been up there with the best of them. Or the worst of them, to be precise. White chicks who can’t dance (yours truly inclusive) should not be allowed near poles. Poles should be strictly for the professionals.

While The Sister, The Husband and I were discussing the cowgirl doing the Lambada with the pole, she was joined by someone who could only have been a pro. After much debate, we decided he/she must be a Lady Boy. He/she was not only working the pole, but working the club too. I have to hand it to her – she had the best legs I’ve ever seen. And I did see ALL of them since her dress/ top only just covered the essentials. But boy, could she pole dance! What did I say? Leave it to the professionals…

We eventually stumbled out of there at 2am. Both The Sister and I managed to avoid the pole, although we were less successful at avoiding The Husband’s suitcases. All signs of the mountain biking pro that has been inhabiting our home for the past few months disappeared as The Husband rediscovered his penchant for Jackie D and passion fruit cordial. Needless to say, Sunday was a dog show. I’m not sure which was the greater cause of my temple-splitting headache: the tequilas or The Husband’s non-stop, “Aargh, I can’t drink anymore. Someone must’ve spiked my drinks. AaaaaaaaRGH!”