SNLV: This blog may offend sensitive readers

S: Snobbery N: No holds barred L: Loathing V: Vehemence

Sunday was a beautiful day. It was sunny and hot and although it’s early March, there is already a feeling of “make the most of the good weather while you can”. I off course woke up (when it was) too late, having been at a wedding the night before, and in no mood to rouse myself for a beach or other mission. Clearly I’m getting better at not feeling guilty for not worshiping the outdoors on sunny, windless days. Hurrah!

That evening, my friend Ash came through to town, for a chilled night of DVD and girly chatter. She was suffering from cabin fever, and I was suffering for laziness, so we decided to take a walk on the Prom in Sea Point before settling in for the night. The air was heavy with crisp, salty scents and it was strangely misty, but not cold. We went for a short stroll before making our way to Winchester Mansions for a sunset drink on their terrace.

Winchester Mansions carries itself with an air of grandeur. And I often wonder what we’d see if we were invited to a flash of summer soirées from years past. It’s an up market hotel, with seaside luxury and Victorian charm. So, when we pop in there for a tête-à-tête with a sea view, we expect our fellow patrons (mostly foreign tourists) to conduct themselves accordingly.

Oh, how horribly mistaken we were. The reality was so far from the truth that the after The Event, Ash and I found ourselves spiralling through a quagmire of sheer disbelief and disgust right through our dinner and DVD.

As we mounted the steps, we found ourselves behind a man that ambled his way to the last vacant table on the terrace. I thought his languid gait was in the spirit of a lazy, hazy Sunday afternoon, and although frustrated that we didn’t make it to the table before him (there was no way to pass him, without being rude) I didn’t take much more notice of him until the rest of his family arrived. That’s when the fun began…

The wife/mother: I’d put her at 40-something. And I’m betting that she got her new breasts for her 40th birthday. I’m also willing to put money on the fact that it was hubby’s idea. Her baubles were so tightly bound by a tank top two sizes too small that their only means of breathing was to escape out the sides of her vest. Not a look I would go for, but possibly exactly what she wanted. Her mouth was permanently arched as if she had smelt something bad and her over-dyed hair wouldn’t lie flat.

The sons: were loud and obnoxious, pandering for their father’s attention, pulling out every bad manner antic they could think of to get a response from him. They couldn’t have been older than 17 and both were smoking and drunk. The younger decided to shatter a plastic bottle cap with his bare foot as a display of machismo. One of the shards hit my leg, and I wasn’t quiet about it. Of course, it didn’t really help, but I felt better.

The husband/father: it turned out, wasn’t walking slowly to his table, he was stumbling in a drunken haze. Poured whisky after whisky down is throat, stood up to demonstrate the fine art of doggy-style to his family and the rest of us, and lead the troupe in sing-a-longs. Upon leaving, he also ordered a Redbull, which he took, along with one of the bar’s glasses to his car where his family was waiting for him.

The Hotel Pool: At some point, the sons disappeared. We were delighted. Our delight soon turned to dismay, which soon turned to disbelief when the elegant hotel manageress came out to notify the father that his son had gone for a swim, that the pool was off-limits non-residents and that she had had to give him a towel to prevent him from dripping through the hotel foyer. “Did he drown?” quipped the father. “No” uttered the manageress while steeling herself for what she new would be an impossible conversation. “He’s a big boy, leave him” said dad. “The pool is only for residents, are you a resident?” The manageress kept her cool. “We’re checking in later.” I swear I saw his nose grow.

Ashely and I suffered through the entirety of their banal and tacky repertoire. Wondering whether they had lost their way to a sports bar in Milnerton and whether they realized they were on our side of the Boerewors Curtain. We preyed for them to be made examples of and asked to leave. We shuddered at their commonness and gagged at their boarish ways.

As a final swipe, Ashley mentioned to the bar’s manager that one of his glasses had been taken along for the ride home. I think she was hoping that if the guy had paid by credit card, they could still charge him for the glass. The manager stiffened visibly and thanked us. His eyes told us everything we needed to know; he was frustrated but thankful that they had finally left. I commend him though; he behaved, as one would expect manager to in an upper-class hotel to conduct himself, with restraint and respect.

Perhaps my mother is right: we need people like that in life to teach us how not to behave. I think it goes without saying that it wouldn’t even cross my mind to behave in that way. And I’m more than happy to say, at the risk of being called classist or a snob, that those kinds of people are not welcome. Go back to where you came from, and stay there. Please.