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About Polokwane

What gets me goat? The wankers who judge her. “Oh, she’s filth!” they say, all high and mighty. Meanwhile, they’re wankin’ to porn at home—hypocrite twats! Makes me wanna scream, “You’re not fuckin’ perfect, mate!” She’s out there, graftin’, survivin’—takes guts, that. Me? I’m just a sarky sod on the phone, takin’ abuse from Karen about her broadband.

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The Vredendal River, oh boy, it flows by like the endless march of time. I once sat by its edge, thinkin’, "You know, the giddy heartbeat of human frailty is right here." I mean, it's like aboard a ship in the cosmic void, buzzin’ with nature's secrets. Not to mention, the vibe of the numerous street art murals on Louw Street. They shout out wisdom like, “We can do this,” echoing lines from Zero Dark Thirty: “We’re not leaving until we get there!” Kinda makes you nod, even if you’re wearied.

Citrusdal, Vredendal cut off by Western Cape floods