What not to do at RTD 2016, a life or death guide


I’ve lived a lifetime at Rocking The Daisies. I was still in the womb when Eagle Eye Cherry “saved tonight” all those years ago, although I was mid 20’s, and the amniotic sack surrounding my foetal shaped corpse was actually a medic blanket, as I heard a doctor mutter beneath veiled breath; “Agg not this poes again”. I have overshot, I have underplayed, and I have wound up in an expectant Croatian mother’s tent doing jello shots from a protruding navel at 2am. I may not be proud, but I am experienced, and if there is one thing I am highly versed in, it is what not to do on Cloof wine estate this year.

Firstly, and I cannot stress this enough, do not go to the henna tattoo tent and acquire a Mike Tyson face tat. That shit is surprisingly resilient, and clients don’t take kindly to a Monday morning effigy of the champ when your voice is gone and your breath is so saturated with alcohol that you are, quite literally, a human Bunsen burner.

Secondly, do not pay R72 for sprout bread from an organic vegan food truck. Lets call a spade a spade here, if you leave Daisies without some sort of severe infection, you haven’t given it your all. It is not the bastion of health that it may be touted as. Over priced nutritional options offer little value, because whatever mind altering concoctions you imbibe are not going to be counter-acted by buchu water. Have a cheat weekend and eat something dead and deep fried, you deserve it!

Thirdly, do not drink the dam water. Understandably this may appear as a hallowed mirage during times of disarray, but make no mistake, the toxic run-off from a pumped up Beach Bar “bro”hemoth steroid’s supply is enough to make that liquid nuclear. The duck billed platypus was once a 19 year old white girl with a flower crown from Plumstead, now she’s an egg bearing mammal with a beak. Plus the bathrooms are miles away and by day 4 the pop and squat method is commonplace.

Fourthly, do not ever wear a onesie, unless it is the skin of the person wearing a onesie that you murdered earlier in the day. It is not functional, it is not stylish, and its not cool to try and appropriate giraffe culture.

Fifthly, do not refuse free drugs from strangers. That shit ain’t cheap dawg, enjoy the colours.  

Sixthly, do not hook up with ANYONE after feasting on a succulent chilli taco. Can you imagine receiving cunninglingus from Khaleesi’s dragon? Needles to say it’s somewhat of a party ruiner and if you’re limping during Matador’s set there should be many more suitable reasons. Actually don’t have oral sex at all, the showers seem largely unused and we wouldn’t want the aforementioned dam to be the only source of hygiene.

Finally, do not wear an iconic lumo vest with the words “I’ll be your next big hit” during AKA’s set. The worst thing to happen to local music since that Rasta sang the national anthem is sensitive after his mediocre teen-bop affair was interrupted by the legendary Black Coffee’s strong arm. Even if he is the gum on the under sole of an otherwise stellar lineup do not wear inflammatory regalia as his feelings are highly fragile. (Of course if you choose not to listen to this tip, I will be selling said vests for R60 in Daisyland.)

Many things can go wrong at Daisies. Your tent can catch alight, your body hair abruptly removed in a regrettable Veet incident, the loss of loved ones to the sounds of Balkan music. It may not always be pretty, but it is truly one of the best weekends of the year. Go for the music, stay for the fun, bring at least two spare changes of pants.


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