Knock Rocks: Life On The Edge Of Respectability

One of the great stereotypes that I happen to conform to is that of “Former resident of a University house who keeps harkening back to the crazy shit he and his res buddies did”.  However, this is a badge that I wear with pride, as the four years I spent as a resident in what could perhaps be called Johannesburg’s rowdiest residence were amongst the most enjoyable of my life.

I was a resident in Knockando Men’s Residence for 4 years, from 1998 to 2001, back during the tail end of what many regard as the house’s heyday.  At the time, Knock (As it was affectionately known) was a Johannesburg College of Education res that the University of the Witwatersrand, Rand Afrikaans University and Technikon Witwatersrand (TWR) occasionally sent residents to, before subsequently being absorbed by Wits when JCE was subsumed into the University of Johannesburg.  Knock had long had a reputation for rowdiness – One of the fairly well-known sayings around JCE and Wits campuses at the time was “Knock okes break everything…” – and that had not changed when I got there.  From having our own pub, the Duck & Bull, on premises, to annual traditions like the Knock Streak which saw us singing serenades to the ladies in our sister residences while stark naked, Knock was all about working hard, but playing so hard that it hurt. 

I have literally a million stories from my short but colourful stay at Knock about the, shall we say, “interesting” crowd of gentlemen that I met and befriended during my time there.  Each story becomes more ridiculous than the last, to the point that I have had people tell me that they can’t possibly be true.  While I'm multiple re-tellings have lent some dazzle to the stories that may perhaps edge on the false, I assure you that every word I have ever related about my res days (And there have been many words…) is true to the best of my knowledge.  And that is what makes the stories even more awesome.

There are stories about many topics:

-          Alcohol-related debauchery.

-          Sexual shenanigans.

-          Wanton thievery and destruction of public property.

-          Shameless public nudity.  (In fact, the number of stories I have about public nudity borders on the frightening)

-          And so on, and so forth.

But, when you get down to it, the stories are actually only about one thing:  Young men finding their way in the world.  We were hooligans and lunatics, alcoholics and sex fiends, gross offenders of public decency…  But, above all, we were friends.  Friends who were learning about living as grown-ups together, casting off the last of our childish mischief and having fun doing it, and coping with everything that life was throwing us as a unit.  I have made friends that I will retain for life, and who will always be prepared to share a laugh about the dumb shit we got up to.

For all the drunken nakedness, there was brotherhood, as well.

Now that the soppiness is out of the way:

I have always wondered if the fund of Knockando stories that I accumulated over the years would be as entertaining and funny to the population at large as they are to me and the not-so-select few I have shared them with.  As this is a public forum, I would like to experiment by sharing the stories here and seeing what people think. 

They will appear on the main blog page, but I will also dedicate a section known as “The Knockando Files” where they can be browsed without you having to trip over any of the other stuff my brain has vomited up.  Give them a read, and let me know what you think.  If you’re a former Knockandian, hit me up with a story of your own, I would sincerely love to hear it.

Before we proceed, though, I have four quick notes:

1.       Any type of story in this vein obviously owes a huge debt to those who have tread this territory before.  Most South Africans will think of the Spud stories by John van de Ruit, and while his books are fantastic, I must state that they have little to no currency here.  His stories are more about the wonder of childhood friendship and less about early adulthood.  Instead, I must tip my hat to Chris Miller and his fantastically funny The Real Animal House.  This book made me laugh out loud, and also brought forth nostalgia so powerful that I thought I would suffocate.  (This is a good thing, by the way…)

a.       I must also acknowledge an attempt by a Knockandian contemporary to chronicle his adventures before alcohol and time robbed him of his memories.  Years ago, he started a document entitled Buddha, Spicy Meatballs and Some Other Shit.  While I never got to peruse the tome, it was his efforts that planted the seed that collecting these tales in one place might be a good idea.  Jay, I hope this will come close to the vision you originally had.

2.       For the benefit of the unwitting protagonists of these stories, I refer to everyone in the story by a pseudonym.  I am very cognizant of the fact that many people that will be written about have moved on to very different lives, and would not appreciate their girlfriends or wives or partners or grandparents or kids or patient or clients or bosses or whatever finding out about something dumb and potentially embarrassing that they did decades ago.  Men named within the story have gone on to become respected doctors, accountants, engineers and even famous musicians.  Some have found profound religion, or have drastically changed their lives in other ways.  Others just want their privacy.  In any of these cases, I doubt they would find it funny if some random a-hole on the internet aired their dirty laundry without asking.  So, I came up with names that will hopefully mask their identities while still allowing those who were there to know who’s who.

3.       While I used to remember these stories like they happened yesterday, time has not proved kind to my memory.  As such, I’m fuzzy on some of the details.  Dates have been forgotten, people have been swapped in and out of stories, events blur into one.  If I get something wrong and you are aware that it’s wrong, please forgive me.  Or even better, call me out on it and I’ll fix things.

4.       For the benefit of the stories, I have stolen a literary device from Mr. Miller:  I refer to myself in the third person.  This is not to protect myself – I am downright proud of most everything I did as a clueless twenty-year-old – but rather to shift emphasis off of a single person and onto what matters:  The collective group of friend that are the beating heart of these stories.

With that out of the way, I will kick things off with what is probably my favourite story from those tumultuous years.  And where it goes from there, who knows?

Find the story here.  Read, comment, whatever.  Above all, I hope you enjoy it.