Plett Rage

Being in Plett, during Rage, in my thirties feels like accidentally walking into a pre-school full of unattended toddlers, shitting and vomiting all over themselves while pissing their parents’ money onto the beach. From the Ragers’ point of view, I probably seem like a geriatric just waiting for the reaper to deliver a swift, merciful death any day now. Is there even life after 25?

A number of years ago I happened to be in Plett, during rage, at the age of 24 and was horrified at the sight of drunken children, wearing whatever fashion dictated that year while attempting their first weekend of adulting. Students cannot wait to cast off the chains of uniform, then simultaneously flock to one town and wear the same clothes as their peers. Their faces wore a smirk of cocky achievement because they had just conquered the mountain that is High School, blissfully unaware of the bitch-slap that life was slow roasting for after uni. I immediately pulled the old-man-card of ‘We weren’t like that at that age.’ It’s a filthy lying card. We were exactly like that. Possibly worse. We just choose to remember that we didn’t behave like babies away from mom, playing crap music and drinking purely because we damned-well could do so legally. Such rebels.

Meanwhile, in 2019, nothing has changed. The teenagers are doing all the same, dumb shit while believing that they are as unique as granny tells them. Except, this year, the fashion gods commanded the Ragers to dress like Rick Astley, and they obeyed by the thousands.


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