Memorable moments: The longest wait

A friend of mine once shared a story from a solo trip to Thailand that serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of travel-induced optimism. He had gone for a massage and, finding the masseuse quite attractive, soon found himself in a state of unmistakable physical arousal.

The woman looked down, looked back at him, and asked a direct, three-word question: "You want wank?"

Being single and on holiday in a far-flung land, he didn't take long to weigh his options. He figured, “Why not? I’m miles from home, I’m unattached—let's go with the flow.” He gave her a nod of consent.

She smiled and immediately left the room. My friend lay there, his heart racing with anticipation, assuming she had gone to fetch some oil or perhaps to prepare for the "service."

She was gone for a surprisingly long time. He waited in the quiet room, his expectations mounting with every passing minute of the silence. Finally, after a significant delay, the door opened and she stepped back inside. She looked at him with a pleasant, professional curiosity and asked:

"You have good wank?"

It turned out she wasn't offering her services; she was simply offering him the room for a bit of "private time" while she went off to have a tea break. He had spent ten minutes in a state of high-alert romantic anticipation, while she had simply been waiting for him to finish the job himself.

Memorable moments: The 0.1 percent predicament

When Ally and I first arrived in Sydney, we stayed with our friends Doug and Claudia while we navigated the daunting task of finding a home and work. I soon spotted an opening at Agency Fusion—a firm specializing in web strategy and marketing. It felt like a perfect fit, but there was one hurdle: a mandatory online aptitude test.

I’ve never been a fan of the artificial pressure of these assessments, so I decided to level the playing field. I recruited a "dream team" to tackle the link. I handled the verbal sections, Ally—with her creative, visual eye—mastered the pattern recognition, and Doug, the engineer, tore through the numerical data. Working as a single unit, we were unstoppable.

A few days later, I sat down for an interview with the founders, Louise and Warren. We clicked immediately; the conversation flowed, the skills aligned, and the vibe was perfect. As the interview wound down, they looked at me with genuine awe.

"Well," they said, "we love your experience, and personality-wise you’re a great fit. But goodness gracious, Graeme—your aptitude test results came in the top 0.1 percent of the global population. You’re at a genius level."

I got the job on the spot. It was a triumph, but as I walked out of the office, the weight of the "Genius" tag began to settle on my shoulders. I realized I hadn't just secured a position; I had committed myself to an impossible standard. For the duration of my time there, I lived with the quiet, nagging stress of trying to live up to the combined brainpower of an engineer, a creative director, and a strategist. In retrospect, I probably should have just done the test myself—it would have been far less stressful to be "merely" competent than to spend every day pretending to be a one-in-a-thousand prodigy.

Memorable moments: The evolution of Srini

My close friend Srini is a remarkable man. Raised in Bangalore, India, he began his life as a self-described computer nerd—a coder who spent the majority of his time behind a screen, significantly overweight and largely confined to his room.

Then, out of the blue, a LinkedIn job offer arrived from Australia. It took immense courage, but Srini got up from his desk and flew to a land he didn't know, where he knew absolutely no one.

In an effort to meet people, he joined a hiking group on MeetUp. For his first trek—a long trail in the Royal National Park—he arrived as the ultimate beginner: wearing jeans and carrying his lunch and gear in plastic shopping bags instead of a backpack.

I met him shortly after on another hike and immediately fell for him. He was a beautiful, friendly, and passionate guy, and that passion was quickly transferring to the outdoors. He graduated to a more professional group, tackling challenging, off-track routes. As the weight fell off, a new version of Srini emerged.

He became a master of navigation, leading our little group of friends into remote wilderness areas. He was fearless. He took up climbing, then canyoning—which required swimming through dark, subterranean rivers that never saw the sun. Remarkably, he could hardly swim when he started, but he refused to let that stop him.

Soon, the man who once carried shopping bags was abseiling down massive waterfalls and setting up complex rope systems to keep us all safe. He took up pack rafting, learning to navigate huge rapids with the same precision he once used for code.

Today, Srini is the ultimate mountain man—fit, skilled, and fearless. He has pursued adventures across the Himalayas, New Zealand, and Europe. He is a true inspiration, proving that a person can completely rewrite their own "software" and that passion, once ignited, is the most infectious force in the world.

Memorable moments: The potjie and the peaks

In 2015, I was backpacking through South Africa with my friend Chrisel. We arrived at a hostel nestled in the shadow of the magnificent Drakensberg mountains and discovered they had a potjie—the traditional, heavy cast-iron cauldron used for slow-cooking over an open fire.

We went to the local shop and loaded up on supplies: lamb, heaps of vegetables, and stock. Back at the hostel, I set about building the fire in the garden. It wasn't something I did often, and the pressure of "getting it right" started to mount.

As the oil began to sizzle, the stress took over. I became obsessed with the mechanics of the meal—searing the meat, tossing the vegetables, frantically moving everything around to ensure nothing burnt before the liquid went in. Chrisel told me to relax and leave it be, but I snapped back, convinced that one wrong move would ruin the entire day's investment. I was totally lost in the drama of the pot, my world shrinking down to a few square inches of bubbling iron.

Finally, after an hour of intense, fixated labor, the water and stock were added. The lid went on. The "crisis" was over; the stew just had to simmer for the next three hours.

I stood up, my body stiff from crouching, and finally looked up from the dirt.

The sight hit me like a physical wave. The spectacular peaks of the Drakensberg were looking down at me, ancient and unmoved. The trees in the hostel garden were swaying gently in a soft afternoon breeze. I could hear the rhythmic twittering of birds darting to and fro. It was a scene of absolute, unwavering peace.

I realized then, with a visceral jolt, that while I had been trapped in a self-made prison of stress and "culinary emergency," this peace had been present the entire time. It hadn't gone anywhere; I had simply tuned it out. I hadn't been mindful. I had been living in a mental simulation of a disaster while standing in the middle of paradise.

The Drakensberg didn't care about my burnt lamb, and the wind didn't care about my irritation. They were simply being. That realization remains the foundation of my daily practice. When the world feels loud or the "stew" of my life feels like it’s burning, I go outside. I look at the greenery, feel the air, and listen to the birds. By choosing my senses over my thoughts, I find the peace that was there all along. It’s the ultimate way to wake up.

Memorable moments: The Wit Els hopping hazard

In 2006, I returned to Cape Town for the Wit Els hike with Ally, Russell, and our friend Mike. It was a formidable four-day undertaking: a steep mountain climb followed by a descent into a deep canyon for days of relentless boulder hopping along the river.

Just before we set off, Mike met two pretty Belgian backpackers. Smitten, he impulsively invited them along. We began the ascent, finally reaching the summit in the pitch black—only to discover that the top of the mountain was engulfed in a raging wildfire. It was terrifying, but we managed to reach "The Hoar Hut," which fortunately sat within a protective firebreak. We spent the night huddled inside while the world outside turned into a furnace.

The next morning, we descended into the steep canyon to begin the boulder hopping. It was here that Mike’s romantic gesture collided with cold, hard reality: the Belgian girls were catastrophically bad at it. They had zero balance and were incredibly cautious. Every hop was a twenty-minute negotiation.

By day three, we had only covered a third of the river. The "four-day" hike was looking more like a fortnight. With our supplies and patience dwindling, we were forced to take the only emergency exit on the river—a brutal, punishing climb back out over another mountain.

It was a stark lesson in the logistics of attraction: when inviting strangers on a boulder-hopping hike, always ensure they actually know how to hop.

Memorable moments: The Matric marathon

In South Africa, the Matric Dance is the undisputed peak of the school social calendar. It’s a night of high-stakes glamour, tuxedos, and floor-length gowns. I went with a childhood friend, Wendy, but my close friend Tony was in a bit of a bind. Tony was the academic titan of our year—frighteningly intelligent and always top of the class—but he was a bit of a nerd and lacked the social "processing power" to find a date.

Feeling for him, I offered up my sister, Jo. She was gorgeous, lovely, and possessed a non-judgmental patience that I knew would be the perfect safety net for Tony.

The night began perfectly. We all looked the part in our formal gear, the atmosphere was electric, and the girls looked spectacular. Then, the music started, and the "disaster" began to unfold on the dance floor.

Tony, whom I had never seen move faster than a brisk walk toward a library, didn’t so much find the rhythm as he did a pace. Being tall and gangly, he didn't sway or step. He jogged. He began to lunge up and down on the spot with giant, athletic strides—arms pumping and legs churning with the mechanical efficiency of a cross-country runner.

Poor Jo was dutifully in tow, trying to maintain some semblance of a dance while Tony treated the disco lights like a finish line. After about an hour of this high-intensity cardio, Jo and I managed a quick sidebar. She was breathless but smiling, her legendary patience still intact.

"My God," she whispered, "he must have clocked up at least ten kilometers by now!"

It was a classic "Tony" moment. He had approached the dance floor with the same relentless focus he applied to his exams, oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in the room treating a slow ballad like a qualifying heat for the Olympics.

Memorable moments: The Observatory leak

Back in Cape Town, Russell, Roger, and I had a regular, somewhat clandestine ritual: the Sex Quiz in Observatory. It was held in a private basement area of a local pub, tucked away from the more "prudish" patrons upstairs.

The highlight of the night was a round where the quizmaster would play snippets from various adult films. The challenge was simple: guess what happened next. You earned a point for a correct answer, and another if your guess was funny enough to make the room roar. To facilitate this "educational" exercise, a TV was mounted high on the basement wall.

One night, we were deep into the third snippet—a particularly explicit scene that required some creative guesswork. Suddenly, a flustered pub staff member came sprinting down the stairs, looking like he’d seen a ghost (or at least something he wasn't supposed to).

He spoke urgently to the quizmaster, who hit the "Stop" button with panicked speed.

It turned out that the pub’s technical team had forgotten one crucial detail that evening: they hadn't separated the TV feeds. Throughout the entire building—including the main bar and the quiet family restaurant upstairs—every screen was showing our "private" quiz content.

It was the ultimate reminder that in life, just when you think you’re in a private "basement" of your own making, the rest of the world might just be watching the broadcast.

Memorable moments: The lassies of Kathmandu

In 2023, I set off for Nepal with a group of friends, including Russell, to tackle the trek to Everest Base Camp. Before we hit the trail, we spent several days in Kathmandu, where I quickly discovered a local obsession. In the central square, they served the most incredible lassis—the traditional chilled yoghurt drinks, thick with flavor and topped with a generous dusting of nuts and currants.

They were delicious, refreshing, and—dangerously for me—incredibly cheap. I became a regular. In one particularly enthusiastic sitting, I managed to put away four of them in a row.

After the trek, we went our separate ways. I returned to the familiar "blue-dot" navigation of Sydney, while Russell flew back to Cape Town. Being a good friend, he met up with my family to give them a firsthand account of our Himalayan adventures.

My niece, Samantha, who was in her early twenties, was listening intently as Russell regaled them with stories of the mountains. But then, the conversation took a turn for the surreal.

"Wow," Russell said, shaking his head in fond remembrance. "Graeme sure did love the lassies in Kathmandu. On one morning alone, I saw him pay for four of them."

A heavy, awkward silence descended over the room. Samantha looked visibly shocked, shifting in her seat with a face full of genuine discomfort. My sister, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure, leaned in.

"What’s the matter, sweetie?" she asked.

Samantha didn't hold back. "Well," she stammered, "I just don't think Russell should be sitting here talking about Uncle Graeme’s predilection for Nepalese prostitutes or his sex life!"

It took a few moments of frantic back-pedaling for Russell to explain that the only thing I was "consorting" with in the central square was a blend of fermented dairy, sugar, and dried fruit. I realized then that while I was busy enjoying a harmless local delicacy, my reputation back in Cape Town was being accidentally dismantled by a missing 'i' and a very imaginative niece.

Memorable moments: The logistical symphony

One evening, Ivor and I went to watch his little daughter perform at a school music evening. It was one of those classic parental milestones, but the physics of the event were spectacularly skewed.

When it was her turn, she appeared on stage looking tiny and delicate—followed by an adult lugging a cello that was quite clearly three times her size. It looked less like a musical instrument and more like a large wooden wardrobe she was expected to wrestle into submission.

What followed was a masterclass in slow-motion preparation. It took a solid twenty minutes of intense focus just to get the logistics right: the chair was adjusted, the music stand was maneuvered, the endpin was stabbed into the floor, and she spent an eternity shifting into the "exactly right" anatomical position to accommodate the giant mahogany beast.

Finally, after the Herculean setup was complete, she took a breath, gave what seemed like exactly three deliberate strokes of the bow, and... it was over. The performance lasted about thirty seconds. The ratio of "preparation" to "actual music" was mathematically absurd.

But she was absolutely adorable, and despite the comical brevity of the piece, Ivor was beaming. He was the picture of the proud father, unmoved by the fact that the setup had taken forty times longer than the symphony.

Watching Ivor that night, I realized that pride has nothing to do with the length of the performance. It’s about the twenty minutes of watching someone you love negotiate a truce with a giant wooden beast for the sake of three perfect notes.

Memorable moments: The two little waves

I met my wonderful friend, Ivor, during my university years while attending a youth group. He quickly became one of my closest confidants—one of those rare people in whose presence you can be entirely, unapologetically yourself.

Our relationship possessed a beautiful depth; we spent countless hours in those "putting the world to right" conversations that only seem to happen in the quiet intensity of youth. But we also shared a relentless sense of fun and a love for those deep, gasping belly laughs that leave you breathless.

In fact, we developed a term for our friendship that I still think is the perfect descriptor: "Two Little Waves."

In physics, there is a magical effect called constructive interference. When two small waves overlap in just the right way—at the exact right frequency and phase—they don’t just pass each other by. Instead, they merge and amplify, suddenly transforming into one massive, powerful wave.

That was Ivor and me. On our own, we were just two students navigating life, but when we got together, the interference was purely constructive. We didn't just add our energies together; we multiplied them.

Suddenly, two little waves became a swell of double the fun and double the hilarity. It’s a metaphor that epitomizes our bond to a T.

These days, he’s in Cape Town and I’m in Sydney, living separate lives on opposite sides of the world. Many months pass between seeing each other.

And yet within within minutes of reconnecting, it’s back. The same rhythm. The same laughter. Two little waves coming back into perfect alignment.

Memorable moments: The Khumbu Siren

In 2023, a group of us—including Russell, Gavin, and Rajesh—set out for Everest Base Camp. It’s a brutal trek under the best conditions, but Russell started the journey with a stubborn throat infection. By the time we hit the higher altitudes, it had mutated into the dreaded "Khumbu cough," and it was, without exaggeration, the most extraordinary sound I have ever heard emerge from a human being.

It didn't just sound like a cough; it was a multi-stage acoustic event. It would start as a low, ominous rumble in his chest, then rapidly accelerate in pitch until it hit a high-velocity, uncontrollable wail. To the rest of us, it sounded like the melancholic mating call of a cross-eyed yeti searching for a lost love in a blizzard.

The hike was grueling. For days, we pushed through thin air and steep terrain—conditions that would break most healthy people, let alone someone whose lungs were performing a one-man opera. Yet, Russell was a legend. He remained cheerful and relentlessly adventurous, refusing to let the "Siren" in his chest dampen his spirits.

We, however, were not quite as legendary.

While we genuinely loved Russell, we were also as brutal as the mountain itself. We became so fascinated by the mechanics of the Khumbu Siren that we turned it into a competitive sport. Every time we reached a particularly steep precipice with a good echo acoustic, or a quiet moment of reflection, one of us would drop a perfectly timed one-liner.

Russell, unable to help himself, would start to giggle, which would immediately trigger the wail, echoing off the Himalayan peaks while we stood by, shamelessly scoring points for the "Best Trigger."

It was terrible, really. But as we climbed higher into the clouds, it became the soundtrack of our journey—a mix of thin air, gasping laughter, and the most ridiculous cough in the history of mountaineering. Russell eventually made it to Base Camp, proving that while the mountain is tough, it’s nothing compared to a man who can survive both a chest infection and the "kindness" of his best friends.

Memorable moments: The Karoo comedy club

In 2025, I headed into the Karoo desert for Afrikaburn with Russell and a fantastic group of his friends. It’s a surreal, makeshift community of 13,000 people where the world of money vanishes for a week, replaced entirely by the "gifting" economy.

One of the most prized gifts in that dusty world is a shower. Since all water has to be brought into the desert, a wash is a miracle. We would stand naked in a queue, eventually reaching the front to be doused in warm water and given a thorough, good-natured scrub-down by two delightful ladies. It was the kind of communal, ego-stripping experience that only happens in the Karoo.

Russell, ever the visionary, brought two gifting ideas of his own that were absolute triumphs.

First, he curated an incredible collection of temporary tattoos. We set up a "Tattoo Station" that became a magnet for connection. It was a brilliant way to bond with strangers over a bit of ink and water. I remember our friend Dawn, who has a wicked sense of humor, showing off her new acquisition.

"I’ve got a little mouse on my inner thigh," she announced with a mischievous twinkle. She peeled back her sarong to reveal the spot, only to find the mouse had vanished. She looked genuinely perplexed for a second before deadpanning, "Oh dear, I think my pussy has eaten it!"

But Russell’s piece de résistance came the following day.

The toilets at Afrikaburn are a unique architectural experience: rows of twelve "long-drops" on stilts, completely open to the desert breeze save for a low wooden partition. It’s a place where you can contemplate the vast horizon while attending to your morning business in full view of passers-by.

Russell realized he had the one thing every performer dreams of: a captive audience.

Armed with a chair, a boombox, and his endless mental library of one-liners, he set up shop right in front of the loos. A friend dubbed it "The Shit Show," and the name stuck instantly. Russell delivered a masterclass in comedy to the row of seated spectators, encouraging them to heckle and yell "CRAP!" whenever a joke didn't land.

Before long, a crowd of passers-by had gathered, and the atmosphere was electric. It was a festive, ridiculous triumph. Most people go to the desert to find themselves; Russell went to the desert to make sure that even in their most "exposed" moments, people were properly entertained by a man who truly knows how to work a room—even when half the room is sitting on a long-drop.

Memorable moments: The Quizmaster’s missed calling

Russell has a vast, almost intimidating general knowledge. He possesses a photographic memory that never fails; I also have a photographic memory, though I usually forget to take the lens cap off. This makes him a formidable opponent in any trivia setting, and an even better Quizmaster. During the COVID lockdowns in Australia, he’d gather all my local friends on Zoom from Cape Town and host brilliantly fun sessions that kept us all sane.

But the true extent of Russell’s "genius" really shone through during the infamous sex quizzes we used to attend in Cape Town pubs.

The format was simple but inspired: the Quizmaster would show a scene from a vintage adult film—nothing too extreme—and we had to guess what happened next. You’d get a point for accuracy, but more importantly, you’d get a point for making the room laugh.

Russell was in a league of his own. His predictions for the "next scene" were consistently more creative, elaborate, and hilarious than the actual movie. Whether it was an unexpected plumber-related plot twist or a bizarrely timed monologue, his "scripts" were far superior to the real thing.

I’m convinced Russell missed his true calling as a writer-director in the adult industry, specifically in the untapped genre of "Comedy Porn."

It takes a special kind of genius to turn a blue movie into a red-faced comedy routine. Russell’s photographic memory and quick wit made him the undisputed king of the pub quiz, reminding us all that if you aren't laughing at the ridiculousness of life (and especially sex), you’re probably doing it wrong.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road olympics

During the years Russell and I were housemates at Willow Road, the house became a laboratory for high-stakes, low-budget adrenaline. We didn't need a gym; we had a three-seater couch and a dangerous amount of competitive energy.

Our Couch Jumping competitions were a masterclass in poor risk management. The goal was to clear the entire length of the sofa in a single leap, which required a massive run-up and a violent "emergency brake" landing. We’d stick the landing, panting and triumphant, with our toes skidding just inches away from a literal death plummet off the balcony.

Then there was the day of the Garden Cane Duel.

Dressed in our bathrobes—which felt appropriately "regal" for the sport—we engaged in a ferocious fencing match. We weren't just poking; we were really laying into it. Russell landed several sharp, swishing blows across my shoulders that stung like a swarm of hornets.

Determined to counter, I swung back with a lucky—though profoundly unlucky for him—swish that caught him squarely across the nipple. The resulting yelp of agony was instantaneous. We were doubled over, a mess of terry cloth and bamboo, caught in that strange space between genuine pain and hysterical laughter.

It was at exactly this moment that Russell’s brother, Roger, walked in.

He stood in the doorway, staring in genuine horror at two grown men in bathrobes, armed with sticks, sweating, and clutching their injuries in a living room that looked like a disaster zone.  We tried to explain the "logic" of the match—the rules of the bathrobe-fencing and the strategic importance of the couch-jump—but I think he realized then what we already knew: at Willow Road, if it wasn't slightly dangerous or entirely ridiculous, it wasn't worth doing. 

Memorable moments: The rose and the bromance

It’s amazing to think how the most important friendship of my life began. At the start of my final year at university, I had just started dating Ally. We were completely smitten, spending every spare moment together.

But I wasn't the only one who noticed her.

Every day, as Ally sat on the Jamie Steps at UCT, a charming, quirky guy named Russell would approach her and gallantly present her with a single rose. He was persistent, funny, and utterly unique. Ally was flattered, but eventually, she had to break the news: "I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend."

Russell, being the gentleman he is, backed off immediately, but he and Ally remained friendly. Then, the day came when I finally met the man who had been "wooing" my girlfriend.

I didn't feel a shred of jealousy. Instead, I immediately fell for him.

He was hilarious, adventurous, and possessed a spark of madness that matched my own. Our "bromance" was instantaneous. Ally and I stayed together for the next seventeen years, and throughout that time, Russell was the third pillar of our lives. He even moved in as our housemate for several years—a period I still count among the most enjoyable and laughter-filled times of my life.

Ally and I eventually went our separate ways in 2009, but my bond with Russell remained unshakable. Even now, living in different countries, our friendship is priceless. Whenever I return home to visit family, we don't just "catch up" over coffee; we disappear into the mountains or head off on some new adventure, picking up exactly where we left off on the Jamie Steps.

Memorable moments: The millionaire mockery

Brothers Russell and Roger are among my closest friends, and our friendship has always been fueled by a mutual love for the well-executed prank. In 1999, when Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? first exploded onto South African television, the stakes for our brand of mischief reached an all-time high.

Both brothers possess prodigious general knowledge, having honed their trivia skills through years of grueling pub quizzes. Russell was the first to take the plunge. He applied for the show and, a month later, received the coveted "screening call." The producers filtered contestants with a numerical logic question—something like, "How many standard bricks would it take to pave a tennis court?" You had to deduce the answer on the spot; the closest estimates won a seat in the studio.

Russell made the cut. We all tuned in to watch him dominate the "Fastest Finger First" round and take the hot seat. He was brilliant, breezing through the levels until a tricky question about the Winter Olympics finally stumped him. He retired with a cool R32,000—not a bad haul for a single night’s work.

Naturally, Roger was itching to follow in his brother’s footsteps. The competitive fire was lit, which provided Russell and me with the perfect opening.

I have a bit of a knack for voices, so I called Roger’s house and adopted my most professional, "Stacey-from-the-production-office" tone.

"Hello, Roger. This is the production team for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? We are currently screening for our next round of contestants. As you know, we require you to logically deduce a numerical answer. The closest contestant to the correct figure will be invited to the studio."

Roger was instantly beside himself with excitement. He was hooked.

"The question for you, Roger, is this: Exactly how many pages are there in total in the complete 32-volume set of the Encyclopedia Britannica?"

"Oh... oh dear," Roger stammered. "Let me see... can I confer with my friend here for a moment?"

"You have sixty seconds," I replied frostily.

What followed was pure comedic gold. We could hear them frantically whispering in the background, trying to calculate the average thickness of a volume, the density of the paper, and the likely page count per inch. It was a masterpiece of desperate, high-speed mathematics.

Finally, Roger came back to the phone, sounding breathless but confident. He delivered a number he had practically sweated over—something incredibly specific, like 32,640.

I stayed perfectly in character. I let the silence hang for a long, dramatic beat.

"Thank you, Roger," I said, my voice dripping with official gravity. "Now, for the tie-breaker: How many individual feathers are on a standard, adult South African Ostrich?"

That was the breaking point. There was a beat of stunned silence before Roger started to protest. "Wait... what? Is that even logically deducible? How on earth could I—"

At that moment, Russell and I both lost it. The "production office" collapsed into a fit of hysterical giggles as I dropped the accent. Roger was fuming for a solid minute, his brain still stuck in "Encyclopedia" mode while we roared with laughter at the other end.

He didn't get the R32,000, and he certainly didn't get to the hot seat, but he did eventually see the funny side. It turns out that while he knew everything about the world’s most famous encyclopedia, he’d completely forgotten the first rule of our friendship: Never trust a phone call from Russell and Graeme.

Memorable moments: The Bainskloof break-in

Russell, Roger, and I were heading to Bainskloof for a camping weekend in the mountains. The journey was already a triumph; we were in such high spirits that when "What the World Needs Now Is Love" came on the radio, we blasted the volume, pulled over to the side of the road, and performed a full-throttle celebratory dance in the dust.

After a glorious, lingering swim in the river, we finally reached the campsite entrance. It was well after 8:00 PM—the strict cutoff time when the wilderness gates are closed and locked for the night.

We stood before the towering fence, miles from any other civilization, and faced a grim reality: we were stranded. Refusing to let the night end in the car, we resolved to "infiltrate" our own campsite. What followed was a precarious, sweating, multi-stage operation. We hoisted heavy coolers, tangled tents, and sleeping bags over the high wire, clambering up and over like a very poorly coordinated SWAT team.

It took a considerable amount of time and effort to get the gear and the first two of us over. Finally, it was Roger’s turn. He made the climb, navigated the drop, and landed heavily on the "inner" side of the fence. As he stumbled back to regain his footing, his shoulder thudded against the massive gate.

With a slow, effortless creak, the gate swung wide open.

It hadn't been locked. It was just... closed. We had spent forty-five minutes risking our necks and our gear to scale a mountain fortress that was, in reality, welcoming us in with an unlocked door. I suppose the world does need love, but that night, what we really needed was to just try the handle.

Memorable moments: The birth of Discombob

You may wonder how a man gets a nickname as singular as "Discombob." It wasn't born on a sports field or in a classroom; it was forged in the high-pressure, slightly surreal doldrums of a call center for an online gambling company.

To stave off the boredom of explaining "betting requirements" and "connection timeouts" for the thousandth time, Russell and his fellow agents invented a secret game: The Word of the Day. The rule was simple—you had to shoehorn a completely ridiculous, multi-syllabic word into a professional call with a client without getting caught or losing your cool.

One Tuesday, Russell nominated "Discombobulated."

For most, it’s a word used once a year in a crossword puzzle. For Russell, it was a specialized tool. He didn't just use it; he orchestrated it. With the gravitas of a seasoned pit boss, he’d lean into the mic and tell a frantic gambler on the other end of the line:

"I completely understand your frustration, sir. It is remarkably easy to feel discombobulated by the ethereal nature of digital slot rotations. Let’s see if we can re-combobulate your account balance together, shall we?"

By midday, the office was in physical pain from suppressed laughter. Russell managed to drop the word into over a dozen calls, sounding so absurdly professional that the bewildered callers—many of whom were already in a state of high-stakes stress—actually started agreeing with his "discombobulation" theory.

Russell didn’t just win the game; he rebranded himself. From that day forward, he was Discombob, a man who proved that even in the dullest call center, you’re only ever one ridiculous word away from a legend.

Memorable moments: The bitter truth

On our way back to Cape Town after a weekend at the Breede River, Russell and I pulled over at a picturesque olive farm. As we strolled toward the farm shop, Russell stopped by a heavily laden tree, reached out, and plucked a plump, dark olive.

He popped it into his mouth and began to chew with a look of pure, Mediterranean relish. "Ooh," he hummed, nodding with approval, "the olives here are absolutely delicious. You have to try one."

I didn't hesitate. I reached for the nearest branch, picked a beautiful-looking specimen, and bit down hard.

The taste was instantaneous and catastrophic. It wasn't just "bitter"—it was a violent, astringent assault on my taste buds that felt like chewing on a piece of toxic chalk soaked in battery acid. I didn't just spit it out; I launched it. The half-masticated olive flew a good five metres across the grove in a projectile arc of pure regret.

Russell immediately erupted in giggles. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, and revealed his own olive—completely untouched and tucked safely under his tongue.

"Ha ha! Got you!" he crowed, finally letting the prop fall to the grass.

I stood there with a mouth that felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper, watching him double over with laughter. I’ve since learned that olives must be cured in brine or lye for months before they are remotely edible; unfortunately, I learned it the Russell way.

Memorable moments: The red face and the grin

For reasons that seemed logical at the time, Russell and I stood in the kitchen and decided to settle a debt of honor: a chili-eating competition. The rules were simple—one lethal-looking bird's eye chili each, consumed simultaneously on the count of three.

"One... two... three!" Russell barked, his face a mask of competitive intensity.

I didn't hesitate. I bit down hard, releasing a capsaicin explosion that felt like swallowing a lit blowtorch. Within seconds, the heat was formidable. My vision blurred, my throat constricted, and I felt my face turn a shade of crimson that probably matched the chili itself.

Gagging and desperate, I didn't even have to leave the room. I lunged for the fridge, ripped it open, and grabbed a liter of milk. I chugged it with the frantic energy of a man whose life depended on dairy, milk splashing down my chin as I tried to douse the five-alarm fire in my gullet.

Finally, as the internal blaze subsided into a smoldering ruin, I wiped the milk from my mouth and turned to see how my opponent had fared.

Russell was leaning casually against the counter, looking remarkably cool, calm, and—crucially—completely un-charred. I looked down at his hand. His chili remained perfectly intact, without so much as a tooth mark on it.

He looked at my tear-streaked, milk-mustachioed face and flashed a wide, shameless grin.

"You win!" he chirped.

They say a true friend shares your pain. Russell, apparently, prefers to just supervise it from a safe distance with a front-row seat.