A darkies’ guide to whiteys

White South Africans, much like white sharks, are one of the most misunderstood animals on the planet. They have a reputation for unpredictable behaviour and non-Caucasians are often afraid to venture into their territory for fear of being attacked.

Some, however, are merely inquisitive and will circle warily before racing off in their Range Rover. Others, perhaps sensing their way of life is under threat, might go on the offensive. A lot of the time, though, this will be nothing more serious than a mock charge. Stand your ground and they will more often than not back off.

White people, particularly alpha males, are easily enraged. They have been bumped from their slot at the top of the food chain and are struggling to adapt to their new position.

In many instances, they can be calmed down with offers of raw meat and brandy. There is nothing a white South African likes more than a chunk of charred cow and a bottle of cheap liquor. If he has just eaten and is already drunk, he might show no interest in your offer. This is when he is at his most dangerous.

The best way to ward off an attack, verbal or physical, is to threaten him with charges of racism. He will retreat faster than Khulubuse Zuma confronted with a salad.

When the EFF says whites need to come to the party or their land will be confiscated, they are forgetting one thing. White people don’t just rock up at a party. They need an invitation. They also need directions. And even then, they are going to want to know who else will be there. I think if the EFF had to put white people on the guest list and tell them there would be snacks, spare girls, a free shooter at the door and a DJ playing hits from the 80s, they would almost certainly come to the party. Unless it was raining, in which case they wouldn’t.

We already have a fairly good idea of what white people don’t like. In the interests of fostering better race relations, let’s take a look at some of the things they do like.


White people like nothing more than an orderly queue. There are two rules governing the queue: no eye contact and no talking. Do not be alarmed if you are standing somewhere with your hands in your pockets idly wondering what to do with your day and white people spontaneously begin forming a line behind you. They will be too polite to ask if you are in the queue and will happily stand there for hours waiting for some of whatever it is they think you are waiting for.


Even though every white person owns at least three cars, a boat and a private plane, they rarely use them for transport, preferring instead to get something they call exercise. If you see a white person running, do not assume he has been hijacked. Your offer of a lift to the police station will be misconstrued and things could end badly.


Now that sjambokking the staff is frowned upon, white people have to get their jollies elsewhere. Riding roughshod over the environment has become the new urban aphrodisiac. White people also enjoy taking their 4×4 to the carwash, even though the trophy wife has only ever used it to drop her Aryan offspring at the private school on the corner. Don’t bother asking for a lift. There is never room because the back seat is for the Borzois. You would be missing the point if you mentioned that the dogs aren’t even in the car.

Sea views

White people have such a yearning for sea views you could be forgiven for thinking that if some of them were a bit brighter, they could be related to dolphins. But with burglaries and rates and taxes on the increase, second homes at the coast are becoming, much like the South African passport, a crushing liability.

Classical music

Apart from sausages, Vienna – the home of classical music – has little in common with Africa. White people are drawn to classical music for two reasons. It places them above the middle class – who spend their evenings listening not so much to the sound of Mozart as they do to the sound of gunshots and screaming – and it places them under no pressure to get up and dance.

Horse riding

Although horses are useful only for transporting marijuana out of Lesotho, many white families keep racehorses as a means of getting to the nearest airport in a hurry when the EFF take over the country and nationalise all private vehicles. In white culture, a pony for the youngest daughter is often a traditional gift. If you encounter a lady of the manor astride her mount down a leafy lane in, say, Noordhoek, doff your cap and fall to one knee. As they pass, you may want to whisper: “Neigh, my bru.” Unlike dogs, horses owned by white people have a fine sense of humour.


Wine was invented by white people for white people. They have much in common – both can be petulant, bitter and easily spoiled. And the cheap, nasty ones always worsen with age. If you find yourself at a wine-tasting on a farm in Franschhoek and a foreigner mistakes you for the sommelier, you might say: “I would recommend the Augusto Pinochet, madam.” Alternatively, you might want to say: “Go fuck yourself, madam.” Your call.


We live in a country run by a government that makes it exceptionally difficult for those who don’t wish to complain. Over the past 20-odd years, complaining has developed into a lifestyle. White people love complaining almost as much as they love rugby and Woolworths. If you find yourself pinned down by a complainer, don’t be reckless and say something like, “So what are you doing to change the situation?” Rather smile, nod and back away slowly.


You might think they would be used to it by now, but white people spend much of their time talking about it. Being born in Africa with European genes plays havoc with their internal barometers. Deeply conflicted, they complain endlessly about the heat, the cold, the wet and the dry.


Because their families are frequently dysfunctional, white people collect cats and dogs and treat them as if they were the fruit of their own loins. Many white people even train their dogs not to attack strangers, but to rather sit at the table and eat with a spoon. Cats don’t care much for table manners, let alone white people, and they may well be the downfall of this great nation. If a white person’s dog goes for you in the street, tell him the animal has character and he might pay your medical bills.


The only reason World War II was a success was because Germany invaded Poland on schedule. One of the reasons an African country has never tried to colonise the world is because most people don’t have watches and it would be impossible to coordinate anything. White people grow restless when things don’t happen on time, such as government programmes to house, educate and employ millions of people who might otherwise start blaming white people.


When Robert Browning wrote the immortal lines, “Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged” in his poem Andrea del Sarto, he wasn’t to know that 150 years later, pseudo-Italian architects with Arabian catamites and coke-encrusted nostrils would use it as a haute monde design philosophy. If you visit a white person’s home and they have very little in it, compliment them on their interesting use of space. If they say they have nothing because they’re poor, you should leave.


White people like old things more than they like old people. They spend a fortune putting their parents in old age homes and then spend a bigger fortune putting old stuff in their houses. They think that having a 17th Century Parisian douche bag on a pedestal would be more rewarding than a father who can’t remember his name. If white people visit your home and take an interest in your furniture, tell them the chairs were carved by Taharka, King of Kush. They will probably think this is a drug reference and try to buy weed from you. Add on 25% and give them whatever they want.

Eating out

White people go to restaurants even when they have food in the house. This is because an entire generation of white mothers failed to teach their daughters to cook. The daughters don’t see this as a failure. They see it as a step towards the total emancipation of women. Really, darling? You won’t cook and you want to be free? Fine. See ya. Have a nice life. Hello, Mr Delivery?














Orcas, Putin and the real Godzille

This pandemic malarkey is starting to get old. It’s all a bit 2020, really. Lockdown, schmockdown, right? Been there, done that. I mean, let’s be honest. When last were you shocked by any of the Covid-19 statistics or graphs trotted out each week by one or other government agency?

It’s been over a year and we’re bored. We need something new. If the media hope to keep our attention, they are going to have to come up with something altogether more captivating.

Hold on, what’s this? CNN is reporting that Russia’s developing something called the Poseidon 2M39 torpedo. This nuclear-powered beast is capable of carrying a multi-megaton warhead. Defence officials say it is designed to annihilate US coastal cities with radioactive tsunamis.

Yes! This is what I’m talking about. Regular tsunamis are one thing, but radioactive tsunamis! Now that’s something worth watching on the telly. I like to imagine that once Miami has been rendered even more uninhabitable than it already is, Vladimir Putin would appear shirtless on the back of an orca to survey the sheer awesomeness of his power.

While we’re waiting for climate change to melt more ice in the Arctic so that Vlad can create increasingly fabulous weapons of mass destruction, here are some other events I hope to see before the ANC’s internal squabbles finally drive me to pick up a pair of scissors and stab myself repeatedly in the eyes so that I never again have to read about them.

* Scientists at Wits University manage to successfully insert genes from the Melanorosaurus into Helen Zille’s genome. The Melanorosaurus lived in South Africa during the Late Triassic period, an era from which Zille draws many of her ideas. A herbivore with a large body and sturdy limbs, (the dinosaur, not Zille), Melanorosaurus means “Black Mountain Lizard” in ancient Greek. Analysts said the new species, Helenoboreus, meaning “White Beach Lizard”, could have a positive impact on the political landscape in that it wouldn’t be physically equipped for social media. It would, however, require its own seating arrangements in parliament and a fairly large salad bar.

* Researchers in the Transylvania region of central Romania discover a hairy-legged vampire bat that cures Covid-19. Patients infected with the coronavirus need to bite the bat and ingest at least 5ml of its blood. Side effects include an inexplicable desire to fight crime. The cured are advised to avoid joining the SA police as they will find themselves alone in their desire.

* Elon Musk renounces his American citizenship and moves to Gqeberha. He turns the Eastern Cape into a global powerhouse by growing and exporting the finest marijuana in the world. When police try to stop him, he buys the police. And then the army. Musk makes electric vehicles mandatory in the defence force. Eskom finally collapses and troops are issued with bicycles. Eswatini invades South Africa and two days later King Mswati moves into Mahlamba Ndlopfu and takes nine million new wives. Musk returns to America and is arrested as an illegal immigrant.

* To encourage creative thinking and a spirit of competition, the government abolishes salaries in the civil service and legalises the solicitation of bribes. Service delivery improves overnight.

* The conspiracy theorists are proven right about vaccines changing your DNA. Babies start being born with elephant trunks instead of noses. Old people begin barking like dogs. In Benoni, a diesel mechanic sprouts wings and flies out of his workshop and into a bus. 

* The Kraken turns out not to be fictitious and wakes on a Thursday afternoon off the coast of Norway. Half-crab, half-octopus, half-David Attenborough, it ambushes and kills the Norwegian and Icelandic whalers before swiftly moving through the world’s oceans. On its way to Japan, it stops off in the Faroe Islands and murders the men who slaughter hundreds of pilot whales each year. He also destroys bottom trawlers and visits the homes of executives who certify tuna to be dolphin-safe when they know it’s not.

* Ace Magashule abandons his political career, becomes a pastor and starts his own church. On The Run Ministries offers redemption and new identities, baptisms in holy revenue streams and a range of services that come with a 10% tithe. Confessions are not encouraged.

* Cannibalism is legalised, allowing the very poor to eat the very rich. Tuesdays only. Due to limited resources, the state will not assist the poor in catching their prey although exceptions can be made for the disabled. Hunting must be done on foot. No weapons permitted.

* With the government out of ideas on how to remedy the imbalances of the past, they reintroduce apartheid, with black people being reclassified as white and white people, black. There is mass confusion, but once the nation is properly informed about what is happening, everyone is happy. Everyone apart from the white people who are now black.

* A gecko has just fallen into my gin and tonic. This is not a news event. I apologise for the abrupt ending, but this requires my urgent attention. 

Losers, weepers

Today, 369 years ago, Jan van Riebeeck arrived in Table Bay and shouted, “Finders, keepers!” And that’s why it became known as Founders Day.

Alhough the Khoikhoi and San were taking decisions by consensus long before the Dutch navigator sashayed onto our shores in 1652, it was really the Europeans who brought the concept of modern democracy to South Africa. They also brought syphilis, guns, racism and Christianity, but we shall stick with democracy for now.

The very first ballot took place aboard the Drommedaris when the passengers and crew voted, through a show of hands and a fair amount of crying and screaming, to go back to Holland. “This looks nothing like the brochures!” they wailed. “Where are the quaint fish markets? The cycling paths? Where are the coffee shops and the dimpled harlots?”

Van Riebeeck said it was his boat and he would land wherever he damn well pleased, an attitude that gained in popularity as the Dutch settlers slowly mutated into Afrikaners.

In the years leading up to 1910, the British, the Zulus and the Boers had a whale of a time slaughtering one another. It was all fun and games until someone lost an eye and the British said they didn’t want to play any more.

“Here’s what we are going to do, chaps. We are going to let you become a self-governing dominion of the British Empire.” The Boers scratched their heads. Isn’t that where the British played dominoes? The Zulus heard about the plan last Thursday.

So it came to pass that General Louis Botha was elected South Africa’s first prime minister. Even though he fought like a tiger during the Boer War, he retained a soft spot for a girl who later insisted on being called Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom, the Union of South Africa and Her other Realms and Territories, Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.

As one of only three or four Boers who had ever been to London, Botha earned a reputation as something of a Brit-boetie, which was almost as bad as being seen kissing a darkie.

In 1947, King George VI popped in at the Royal Cape for a round of golf and a stern word with the Bantu. The following year, the National Party was voted into power and it was a long, long time before anyone from Buckingham Palace came near us again.

“Who are those dreadful people?” the king asked over a cup of Earl Grey beneath the royal gazebo at Balmoral. “They are called Afrikaners, daddy,” said Liz. “Rather like the Dutch, but a little more, shall we say, déclassé?”

But let us not get ahead of ourselves. On 15 September, 1910, people of a Caucasian persuasion came out in their thousands to vote in the first general election. The darkies thought the whiteys were leaving and spontaneous, yet hopelessly premature, celebrations broke out in the native yards.

Three main parties and a smattering of independents vied for 121 seats in the country’s first parliament. Nearly 105 years later, the number of parties fighting to get their snouts into the national trough has quadrupled. Parliament is also much bigger, but then so are its members.

Back then, elections were held every two, three or five years, depending on public transport and the calving season.

In 1915, the National Party made its first appearance on the ballot, as did the Socialist Party, which scared everyone by scooping 140 votes.

The Nats took ’24, ’29 and ’33 while 1938 was a huge year for the Socialist Party. Back on the ballot after a well-earned 13-year break, they took their first seat and predicted that by the end of the year everyone would be driving Ladas and calling each other comrade.

South Africa’s place in the world was well and truly secured in 1948, when National Party leader DF Malan (who later retired and became an airport) released a visionary manifesto supporting the prohibition of mixed marriages, the banning of black trade unions and job reservation for whites.

Thick, hairy clumps of farmers, their barefoot wives, wagon-mechanic sons and child-bearing daughters voted overwhelmingly for Malan – and the National Party remained resolutely in power until 1994. Good one, guys. Mooi skoot.

1960 was a particularly memorable year. A regular carnival. The mielies were fat, the lambs were healthy, the ANC was banned, there was a massacre in Sharpeville, a state of emergency was declared, Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd was shot and wounded and 850 000 white people voted in favour of cutting ties with Britain and then spent the next 35 years playing ‘international’ rugby fixtures against neighbouring towns, travelling ‘abroad’ to Margate and reading the Bible, the only book approved by the censorship board.

Soon after the Republic of Skunks and Polecats was formed, an aberration called the Progressive Party appeared on the ballot sheet. The party was so popular that by 1974 they had wracked up an impressive six seats in parliament. The NP, with 122 seats, shook with fear. Okay, so it might have been laughter.

Beginning to suspect that not everyone in the country was deliriously happy with existing political arrangements, the government held a whites-only referendum in 1983 to gauge support for the creation of a tricameral parliament that would allow coloureds and Indians to have a say in their own affairs, on condition that they tucked their shirts in and smoked their zol in the parking lot.

Meddling foreigners pointed out that the government had forgotten to include 23 million black people in the referendum. “What?” shouted PW Botha. “You lie, you bliksems. There’s nobody here by that name.”

By 1989 you couldn’t walk down the street without a bomb going off. It all became a bit much for Botha, sensitive man that he was. He had a stroke – a stroke of good luck for most – and was strong-armed out of the presidency.

The last all-white election took place in 1989. Feeling the winds of change hot against their necks, voters threw their weight behind the Democratic Party and … oops, wrong fairy tale. Here’s what really happened. A solid 80% of just over two million ballots were cast for the National Party, the Conservative Party and the Herstigte Nasionale Party combined. That’s how thrilled white people were at the prospect of a new society based on justice and equality for all. The Democratic Party limped in with 33 seats.

The country’s last white president pocketed a Nobel Peace Prize by unbanning the ANC and releasing Nelson Mandela. Then he threatened to sue the Truth and Reconciliation Commission if it implicated him in apartheid crimes and repaid one of the NP’s main financial backers by sleeping with his wife. Good man, that de Klerk.

Needless to say, 1994 was the mother of all elections. For the first time, black people were allowed to vote. The ANC swept into power and, oddly enough, failed to nationalise the mines, torch the churches and eat our children.

And so here we are today. The state has been hollowed out by hundreds if not thousands of human termites, leaving behind an economy that belongs in calipers. Our parliament of whores is a national embarrassment. We have a president who is surrounded by more double-crossing back-stabbers than Julius Caesar ever was. And there are white supremacists out there who still believe they are god’s chosen people.

Rush to join the Memorable Order of Tinfoil Hats

It’s astounding how much this so-called pandemic has revealed about the way people behave during a crisis. The compassion. The solidarity. The gibbering, eye-bubbling lunacy.

I watched a clip of mostly white people in Cape Town holding a “rally” to … I don’t know. Does it matter? One doesn’t really need to add anything to the phrase “white people protesting in Cape Town” because in the scheme of things that matter, it ranks several notches below Should Dassies Be Allowed.

These people make satire impossible. They are doing my job for me, and badly at that. Many are of a certain age. They grew up in a time when white people were assured of a decent education. I went to a government school in Durban North. Once I had learned how to read and write, I had no use for the rest. I could have left school at the age of seven and, all these years later, you would have found me sitting in this very same bar. Okay, perhaps not this particular bar. But a bar somewhere. Unless, of course, I had made even worse life choices and was, in fact, dead. Or wealthy, yet morally and emotionally dead. In which case I’d probably own the bar.

So what happened to these people? Even if they did get a government education in a school worse than mine, it was still a reasonably good education. The National Party made sure of that. They would have learned how to spell, discovered that the earth wasn’t flat, and been able to tell the difference between, say, a volcano and a hamster. 

So now, when these grown-ass people stand up in public and say Covid-19 is a hoax aimed at world domination by, I don’t know, Gila monsters, I can’t help wondering what happened to their brains between then and now. 

A certain percentage of people will sustain blunt trauma to the head during the course of their lives, but this is almost as if they were all in the same shop when the roof collapsed and their doctors later released them into the care of their families saying, “There’s not much we can do. Keep them calm. Don’t let them read newspapers or go on the internet.”

Next thing you know, they’re among us. Shouting through loudhailers about how Cyril Ramaphosa is an iguana and vanilla custard is a plot to sterilise white men.

It takes a lot for me to be alarmed, but when I hear what these people are saying in front of a television camera, out on the street, I make sure the guns are loaded and the hounds unleashed.

I can’t be accused of academic elitism or snobbish intellectualism because, as I said, I went to a government school. They didn’t come close to teaching us how to be critical or analytical thinkers. I escaped with a matric certificate. If it wasn’t for the fact that my mother took me to the library three times a week, I’d probably be lining up for a fake Rolex after retiring from a career on the railways.

Perhaps I’m being unfair. Belief in conspiracy theories is not always confined to the less-educated. Personality type also plays a part. These people are usually suspicious of conventional wisdom and authority. I’m with them on this. Well, maybe not the wisdom so much. But show me a figure of authority and it’s all I can do to stop making a petrol bomb, except petrol is too expensive so I make it out of tequila instead, add a dash of orange and before you know it, I’m reaching for a tiny paper umbrella and then it’s a quick lie-down next to the pool to plan my next move. Which invariably involves making another tequila bomb.

At the Cape Town “protest”, a swivel-eyed man held up a sign reading, “Media is the virus.” Who comes up with these slogans? Has there ever been a time when someone was watching the 8pm news when they suddenly erupted in angry welts, began frothing at the mouth and ran down the street biting people in the face? If the media is the virus, then what does that make the actual virus? Oh, right. It doesn’t exist. It’s all a construct of the toxic press, disseminating filthy lies in the hope of … what? Taking over the world? Journalists can barely get to work on time.

Another read, “Fear is the currency of control.” Know who the real fraidy cats are? Conspiracy theorists. They tell us the Covid-19 vaccine contains a tracking chip, mobile telecommunications towers are controlling our thoughts, condensation trails left by aircraft are deadly chemicals, 9/11 was an inside job, George Soros is a shape-shifting reptile controlled by Bill Gates. If I believed this sort of stuff, I’d also be terrified.

Then there was the placard that said, “Cape Town will not take the mark of the beast vaccine.” To be fair, our increasingly unstable Chief Justice Mogoeng Mogoeng has to take some credit for that piece of work.

A snaggletoothed harridan with a sign saying “Stop 5G” picked up a bullhorn and screamed, “Covid-19 stands for Confirmation of Verification ID. The 1 is A for Artificial and 9 for Intelligence. We will not be manipulated by the government of this world!”

A bald middle-aged biker dude with shades and leather jacket said: “We’ve been in crowds, we’ve gathered since last year April… so logic dictates if this kills you, one of us should be dead, and we’re not.”

It’s like stumbling into a village composed entirely of village idiots. 

Forget AstraZeneca – break out the Haldol and Thorazine. What we need are teams armed with dart guns roaming the suburbs, firing powerful antipsychotics into these loons.

No more pura vida

My holiday in Costa Rica is over and I am on my way home. Three months have flown by in the blink of a fish on a bicycle. Since the concept of time has become meaningless, feel free to make up your own way of describing the passage of whatever that thing used to be.

With less than a week remaining on my visa, filled with loathing at the idea of returning to a country that can’t keep the lights on, the Costa Rican government decided to extend all tourist visas by another three months. All I would have to do is buy additional health insurance and change the return date on my air ticket. However, this being a region where tropical brain rot is not an uncommon affliction, even among politicians, they forgot to extend tourists’ driving licences at the same time. 

This meant that while I could stay, I couldn’t drive. Since I had been using a Jeep belonging to Bloke, my son-in-law, I told him that I was quite happy driving without a licence. From what I’d seen on the roads, nobody in Costa Rica had one anyway.

Bloke prised the keys from my hand and said the police would confiscate the car if I was caught. My insistence that I could outrun any cops fell on deaf ears, largely because I couldn’t back it up with any realistic evidence. And also because he’d left the room.

A lot of expats do a border run every three months. Cross over to neighbours Panama or Nicaragua, pick up an STI and a fledgling coke habit, and come back with a fresh visa. Thing is, Costa Rica’s land borders are still closed. So you can stay, but if you want to keep driving, you’d need to fly somewhere and fly back. Sheer lunacy. I checked out the options.

A return ticket to Panama City – a mere 90-minute flight – would cost me upwards of R8000. I’d also have to take one of those disgusting nasopharyngeal tests to get into Panama. I was outraged and demanded to speak to someone. Anyone. About anything. But there were no takers and I was left to rant and rave to myself. Eventually, I ran out of energy and rum and attempted to approach the issue as an adult might.

Instead of thinking with my heart or willy, as is my wont, I used my head. It got ugly at times but I eventually decided that it made more sense to go home, regroup and return when either the world normalised or the Costa Rican government emerged from its siesta.

Bloke and my increasingly irascible loinfruit refused to take me to San Jose airport, so I had to get a taxi for the four-hour hell run. Having spent three months learning to drive like a local, I realised how much I still had to learn. Like how to overtake on blind corners while texting with one hand and eating chicharrones with the other. Or when to accelerate (always)  and when to brake (never) on a dangerous mountain road. Thanks for the masterclass, Diego, if that’s your real name.

My travel agent, who appears to have taken up crystal meth as a coping mechanism, said she thought I might require a Covid-19 test either for Germany or South Africa. Thought? Might? These are ambiguous grounds upon which to base a decision on whether to allow one’s olfactory apparatus to be rudely invaded by strangers.

My natural inclination to throw caution to the dogs was tempered by the fear of being labelled a deadly health risk and dragged from the airport, so I found a backstreet clinic that promised a test turnaround time of three hours. Perfect. Just in time for my Lufthansa flight. A woman with beautiful eyes, dressed seductively in a white hazmat outfit, lured me into a cubicle and asked if I’d ever done this before.

I sniggered like a schoolboy and wiggled my eyebrows. There was an awkward silence before she turned and reached for an instrument the size of a child’s jousting lance. I’ve had some dodgy things up my nose before, but this was perfectly unpleasant. So was I. On my way out, a growler at the front desk said, “Don’t come back.” I like to think she meant they’d send me the results, but I can’t be sure.

Three hours later, I got an email saying that I was negative. I assumed this wasn’t a reference to my attitude.

Anyway, it wasn’t an entirely wasted effort as the hombre at check-in asked for my status. “Single,” I said, with an exaggerated wink. He sighed and put his hand out. I decided against taking it gently in mine and handed over the evidence that I wasn’t going to kill everybody on the aircraft. Then I begged him for an emergency exit seat to accommodate my freakishly long legs. No problem, he said, seating me in a middle row in the section that’s always first to disintegrate on impact.

An hour before boarding, the loinfruit sent me a message to say the government had announced the extension of visitors’ driving licences. Gracias por nada, amigos.

I am currently at Frankfurt International Airport. It’s 7°C and I’m still dressed for Costa Rica. My body clock says it’s 9am but the clock on the wall says 5pm. I have overruled my body and ordered a brace of Heinekens which cost the same as a downpayment on a small house in Durban North.

Someone on the PA keeps screaming, “Achtung!” and I really wish they wouldn’t. I’ve just survived a sleepless 12-hour flight and I’m starting to feel like Flight Lieutenant Andrew MacDonald in The Great Escape, who is arrested after a suspicious Gestapo agent at a train station tricks him into speaking English. There were certainly times when flight LH519 from Costa Rica felt like Stalag Luft III. I should probably learn a few rudimentary German phrases just in case.

Achtung! A policeman has threatened to arrest me for not wearing a mask. I was going to explain that I’m in transit but feared he might think I was transitioning to a woman and arrest me anyway. Instead, I pointed at my neat row of Heinekens and said, “But I’m drinking beer.” He looked at me with his cruel, young face and said, “There is no beer.” It seemed inadvisable to point out that there very clearly was beer. I backed down and put on my mask, a cheap fashion number that protects nobody but is very comfortable to wear.

He said he’d be back, presumably with a Panzer tank, if he caught me without my mask again.

In a few minutes, I have to get on another 12-hour flight. This time to Joburg. Then another to Cape Town. By the time I get home, I will have gone at least 50 hours without sleep. That kind of thing is fine if you have access to high-grade amphetamines. All I have is a small stuffed sloth. It’s not going to be enough.


The king is dead … long live the king!

News that the King of the Zulu nation died on Friday reminded me of the correspondence Goodwill Zwelithini and I enjoyed over the years. Well, I enjoyed it. Also, it was very much a one-sided affair. Perhaps his letters got lost in the mail. Here’s one of mine from 2012.


Howzit Comrade King,

I hope you don’t mind the informality. I am King of the White People and feel that, as equals, it wouldn’t be right for me to come across all fawning and obsequious. That’s the kind of behaviour we expect from our loyal subjects, do we not? Well, when I say loyal, I’m largely referring to your followers. My subjects are a bunch of capricious ingrates who would sooner bugger off to Perth than approach me on their knees.

His Royal Highness Ben Trovato – King of the White People

Well done on trying to squeeze the KZN treasury for another R18-million. It’s outrageous that the Royal Household is expected to get by on a mere R62-million a year. I spend that kind of money in a month. And that’s just on beer.

Your chief financial officer (I must get myself one) says you will need at least another R12-million to build a new home in Nongoma. I gather your current residence in Osuthu is little more than a bunch of huts. This kind of thing is fine for your subjects, but as their king you certainly deserve something more lavish. Thatch is all very well, but it doesn’t exactly glitter in the morning sun, does it? You need chrome and glass for that.

I like your idea of building a modern palace behind your traditional palace. Get Sol Kerzner to design it. When you’re in the mood, you can pop down to the huts for a couple of tins of umqombothi with your mates on a Friday night. Maybe keep a stockpile of fresh virgins. You never know when you’re going to need one.

I hear Queen Zola Mafu, your sixth and youngest, wants a palace of her own. At the moment she’s bunking with Queen Mantfombi. Why should she have to share? It doesn’t seem right. If I were her, I’d also want my own palace. Especially if I lived at the KwaKhangelamankengane Palace and had to spell it every time I phoned Mr Delivery.

I understand you paid 264 000 euros in lobola for Queen Zola. Apparently this was taxpayer’s money that went straight into Swaziland. Good for you. This wouldn’t be the first time I have paid for a woman from a foreign country. It would, on the other hand, be the first time I’ve paid for a woman and not got so much as a kiss out of it. Oh, well. Glad I could help a fellow king into a tight spot. I’m sure you would do the same for me.

You seem to like the Swazi girls. Is there something I don’t know? Don’t answer that through the media. Call me on my private line otherwise everyone will want one.

At 27 and counting, you have more children than our president. Congratulations! This is a fine example to be setting in a country that is crying out for more people. I think a film should be made about you.

Brenda said with the level of conjugal activity in the royal boudoir, it could be called Goodwill Humping. You will be pleased to know that I beat her soundly, then impregnated her while she cooked my dinner.

There are some – my subjects mainly – who whine about you not complying with the prescripts of a ridiculous piece of legislation called the Public Finance Management Act which allegedly governs the use of so-called public funds. Keep ignoring them. Your customary needs come first. As do mine.

A word of warning. You need to do a sweep of your staff. There are people in the department – Xhosas, probably – who think the palaces should be generating income through tourism. This is an appalling idea.

Look what happened to Walt Disney, the last king of America. He ruled Disneyland for years until his senior advisor, Michael Mouse, convinced him to throw it open to the proletariat. Nothing was ever the same again. Last year, sixteen million gum-chewing, coke-snorting, burger-scoffing peasants passed through the gates.

Do you really want Nongoma to be the portal to Fantasyland? A land where everyone has three dozen beautiful wives and a million cows, swimming pools full of money and a private jet in the back yard? Yes, our subjects deserve to have their unrealistic expectations tarted up every few years, but at what cost?

It’s a slippery slope, my friend. Once you agree to lower the drawbridge, there is no going back. Next thing you know, you’re trapped on the top floor of the palace as angry mobs with flaming torches – oops, I’m getting ahead of myself here. You’re trapped because hordes of gormless tourists are queuing up for Tomorrowland, a magical place where you can have any job you want regardless of skin colour or political affiliation.

If Tomorrowland is full, they can go to Yesterdayland, where IFP assassins dressed as chipmunks randomly accost groups of visitors and make them swear allegiance to Gatsha, a loveable old puppet who needs all the support he can get. To infirmity and beyond!

If you decide to go down that terrible road, here are a few more ideas.

Adventureland – car guards dressed as authentic Zulu warriors lure groups of white tourists into the Michelin-rated Dingane’s Kraal restaurant for a meal and a massacre. Don’t leave your weapons outside!

Critter Country – win a free bankie of Durban Poison after successfully negotiating your way through a section of bush infested with black mambas, green mambas, boomslangs, button spiders and members of the Cato Manor organised crime unit.

Mineland – you have two hours to bribe a government official into giving you a licence to explore for heavy minerals and then, before your time is up, try to destroy as much of the environment as you can in a small coastal town like, say, Mtunzini.

NPAland – help hilarious cartoon characters from Uruguay sell dysfunctional and overpriced water purification plants to the health department. Avoid prosecution by calling the right people!

Metroland – bribe your way home through mobs of rioting metro police. You might get shot, you will be fined! Fun for the whole family!

Nursery crimes and other filth

The news this week that publication and sales of six Dr Seuss books will be discontinued because of imagery now deemed to be “racist and insensitive” reminded me of something I once wrote.


Some darkies might not recognise the following extracts because they grew up on nursery rhymes about driving wooden stakes through PW Botha’s heart and setting fire to collaborators, but anyway, here are just a few examples of the dangerous filth we whiteys grew up with. No wonder we’re so full of hatred, confusion and cheap brandy.

“Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full. One for the master, one for the dame, and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”

This led us to believe that black sheep were not the same as normal sheep, not merely because they could talk, but because they were black. The subservient tone and alacrity with which the sheep responds to demands for its wool suggest that it has been oppressed for some time. Furthermore, no effort is made to ascertain the sheep’s name. It is unlikely that its parents called it “Baa Baa” at home. This dehumanises the animal. Must be banned immediately.

“Georgie Porgie pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry. When the boys came out to play, Georgie Porgie ran away.”

Once I realised that I could get girls to cry simply by kissing them, it took years of therapy, a restraining order and several beatings to get me to stop. I understand now that the girls were crying because they were lesbians. Either that, or I was a truly appalling kisser. I’m going with the lesbian theory. It also taught boys that running away is a better option than sticking around to face the consequences and today I still have difficulty in taking responsibility for my actions. This nasty piece of work incites gender violence and must be banned.

“Goosey Goosey Gander where shall I wander, upstairs, downstairs and in my lady’s chamber. There I met an old man who wouldn’t say his prayers, I took him by the left leg and threw him down the stairs.”

Osama bin Laden’s attitude towards religious tolerance was formed at an early age when his mother read this to him in his crib. As soon as he could walk, Osama would visit nearby homes to check that people were saying their prayers. After spending his youth throwing old men down flights of stairs, he rounded up a few friends to fly airliners into the World Trade Centre which was full of old men who weren’t saying their prayers, and even if they were, they were the wrong kind of prayers and they deserved to die. This misanthropic jingle promotes religious superiority and must be banned in a secular state.

“Cry Baby Bunting, Daddy’s gone a-hunting. Gone to fetch a rabbit skin to wrap Baby Bunting in.”

This is nothing but a pack of lies. There are countless grown-up babies out there today who are still waiting for Daddy to get back from a-hunting. Truth be told, Daddy said he was popping out for a packet of smokes and never came back. No wonder Baby Bunting was crying, what with having to settle for a Huggies instead of a rabbit skin covered in gristle and blood. Ban it.

“Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see such sport, and the dish ran away with the spoon.”

Popular in the 1960s among people of all ages, particularly those who were partial to a cap or two of lysergic acid diethylamide with their afternoon tea. Promotes drug use and needs to be banned.

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.”

Couldn’t or wouldn’t? This is hate speech directed squarely at fat people. For all we know, genetics were to blame for Humpty’s size. But even if his obesity was caused by fried chicken and Heineken, this is no reason not to at least attempt to put him back together again. It undermines human dignity and deserves a place on the banned list.

“Hush a bye baby, on the treetop, when the wind blows the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all.”

This cruel ditty proved exceptionally popular among mothers with colicky babies. Today, it is rare to come across a cradle wedged into the branches of a tree. Mothers find it easier to leave their surplus babies at drop-off points around the city. Ban it on grounds of incitement to commit infanticide.

“Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after. Up got Jack and home did trot as fast as he could caper. He went to bed and bound his head with vinegar and brown paper.”

Children have no business climbing hills to fetch water. This is a clear endorsement of child labour and must be banned. A favourite of former health minister Manto Tshabalala-Msimang, Jack’s unique method of treating a gaping head wound gave her the idea that garlic, lemons and beetroot could cure Aids.

“Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, eating his Christmas pie. He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum and said, ‘What a good boy am I!’

This has poisoned young minds by creating an unwarranted sense of entitlement. South Africa is full of indolent youngsters expecting to be praised for nothing more than using their opposable digits to thumb a free ride to the trough. Must be banned if only to encourage genuine entrepreneurship.

“Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow; And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.”

Aside from the gynaecological impossibility of Mary having a little lamb, the entire premise of this racist diatribe is based on the lamb having white fleece. One is compelled to ask whether the lamb would have been treated any differently if it had black fleece or, indeed, if Mary herself were black. The answer is yes. The lamb would have been eaten chop-chop. Ban it on the grounds of racial discrimination.

“Pat a cake, pat a cake, baker’s man; Bake me a cake as fast as you can; Pat it and prick it and mark it with a B; And put it in the oven for baby and me.”

This clearly encourages the exploitation of the working class and is a violation of the democratic values of social justice. Since the instruction is directed at the baker’s man, one can only surmise that the baker himself is off spending the profits on a tropical island instead of giving his assistant a wage increase. Even though he is alone in the bakery, the baker’s man is instructed to bake a cake as fast as he can. Why the hurry? Are there starving people waiting in the street? Probably. But in this instance, the cake is for “baby and me”. Nobody else will get any. This song has no business still being sung and Cosatu will support me when I say it needs to be banned at once.

“Peter Peter pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her. He put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well.”

As far as domestic violence goes, this takes some beating. In South Africa, abuse of this nature is not widespread since few men have wives small enough to fit into pumpkin shells. Some men – Austrians, mainly – find that secret soundproof rooms are more effective than pumpkin shells. Most men find divorce to be less complicated. Others find that dismemberment works if the pumpkin is unusually large. This exhortation to commit uxoricide, posing as a nursery rhyme, must be banned on the grounds that women do not belong in pumpkins. As our constitution clearly stipulates, they belong in the kitchen. Ban the song. Or whatever the hell it is.

“Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle. That’s the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel.”

This anti-weasel propaganda falls into the category of hate speech and must be banned immediately. Weasels are people, too.

“Simple Simon met a pieman going to the fair; Said Simple Simon to the pieman ‘Let me taste your ware’. Said the pieman to Simple Simon, show me first your penny. Said Simple Simon to the … and so on, ad nauseum.

This so-called rhyme goes on to make Simon look like a complete retard, which he undoubtedly was. Having said that, however, there is no good reason to mock the mentally challenged. Thanks to our bill of rights, simple people are no longer discriminated against. In fact, some of them hold powerful positions in government today. However, we should avoid encouraging them and therefore this evil chant must be banned immediately.

“Three blind mice, three blind mice, see how they run, they all ran after the farmer’s wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife.”

This is not only blatantly anti-rodent, but it has a clear bias against disabled rodents. It also incites harm by encouraging pro-rodent militant groups to take revenge on farmers’ wives who labour under the misapprehension that it is somehow acceptable to mutilate sight-impaired mice. Rodents have rights, too. Ban it.

“The owl and the pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five pound note. The owl looked up to the stars above, and sang to a small guitar, ‘O lovely Pussy, O Pussy my love, what a lovely Pussy you are …”

This sick animal porn thinly disguised as prose poetry degenerates quickly, with the cat and the owl being married by a turkey in a land where the Bong tree grows. Many young lives have been ruined by this pro-marijuana interspecies malarkey and it must be banned at once.

“There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile, he found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse. And they all lived together in a little crooked house.”

These words send an unequivocal message to the youth that being crooked is no hindrance to success in later life. The fact that the cat and the mouse coexisted seems to suggest solidarity exists among the crooked, and countless children have deviated from the straight and narrow in the misguided hope of achieving happiness without having to suffer first. Must be banned right away.

“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe; she had so many children she didn’t know what to do. So she gave them some broth without any bread, and she whipped them all soundly and sent them to bed.”

This vile piece of pro-life propaganda deliberately fails to inform girls that Marie Stopes provides them with a viable choice should they find themselves repeatedly falling pregnant. It also encourages child abuse which, in this case, is probably warranted. Ban forthwith.

“Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are? Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky …”

This is possibly the most subversive of them all. It suggests that stars might be something other than fiery balls of gas. Who, besides children raised by wolves, wonders what stars are? Clearly propagated by organised religion, this seemingly harmless nursery rhyme encourages children to question science and start believing that some kind of omnipotent being created the universe. Ban it before they turn to Scientology.

“Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown, tapping at the window and crying through the lock, are all the children in their beds, it’s past eight o’clock!”

Adolf Hitler was exposed to this story from an early age. He cracked on the evening of November 9, 1938, and sent the Gestapo running through the towns, upstairs and downstairs in their jackboots, smashing all the windows and shooting out the locks, all the children out their beds, it’s past Jew o’clock! Apart from evoking memories of Kristallnacht, this narrative has disturbing homoerotic undertones and, as a final solution, it should be banned.

“What are little boys made of? Snips and snails and puppy dog tails. What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and all things nice.”

The only point of reference I have here is my increasingly eccentric loinfruit. When he was smaller and more malleable, I asked him what little girls were made of. He said, “Meat and bones.” I didn’t know how to react so I bought him a Mars bar and beat him soundly. The point is that this piece of feminist propaganda must be banned on the grounds that it portrays boys as being full of terrible things, which they are, but it is better that girls find this out for themselves.

“Remember remember the fifth of November. Gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason why the gunpowder treason, should ever be forgot.”

This is quite obviously an incitement to blow up parliament and South Africans have once again failed dismally to rise to the occasion. Does not need to be banned.

  • The Dr Seuss books deemed to be “insensitive and hurtful” to others are: “And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street”, “If I Ran the Zoo”, “McElligot’s Pool”, “On Beyond Zebra!”, “Scrambled Eggs Super!” and “The Cat’s Quizzer”.

Bathtime for ballies

These social media algorithms, man. Disturbingly out of whack. Then again, what isn’t these days?

An advert popped up on my feed the other day. I hate that this kind of talk is considered normal. Popped up on my feed. You spoke like that 20 years ago, your mother would keep you occupied while your father quietly called health services from the upstairs phone and half an hour later men in white coats came to take you away.

So anyway. Facebook, in covert collaboration with one of its multitudinous tentacles of evil, sent a company called Aqualift that makes something called bath lifts into my line of sight. Aqua-what? That’s what I said. “The Aqualift Bath Lift enables you to re-discover safe, comfortable, full-depth bathing again without having to change your existing bath.”

The only times I ever changed baths was when I changed wives. I am, however, very interested in a device that will make me feel even more comfortable in the bath, one of my favourite destinations in the world. Sometimes I feel so comfortable that I fall asleep for a day or so and wake up looking like a human Shar-Pei.

Safe bathing is a different matter altogether. No activity in South Africa is entirely safe, whether it’s cycling, having lunch or taking a bath. You can be attacked or arrested at any moment. The plague has made all of us just that much more mentally unstable. Don’t look at me with your, “Speak for yourself, mate. I’m completely sane.” That only proves my point.

We are all born with the capacity for madness. It’s in our genes, our DNA. You don’t get to evolve into the apex species in such a short space of time without at least some of the wiring being a bit loose. We shan’t even speak of our built-in obsolescence.

With home invasions more popular than ever, the last thing you want is to be dozing in a metre of warm sudsy water with your willy poking up like a periscope and have the bathroom suddenly filled with ill-humoured men in balaclavas.

In fact, it’s best that you bath fully clothed with quick and easy access to a range of weapons. Probably not as relaxing as you’d like, but certainly more relaxing than the intensive care unit at your nearest state hospital.

Bathing is also less safe these days because married couples have, through force of confinement, grown to loathe the sight of each other and it’s easy enough to toss a plugged-in toaster into the water while he has soap in his eyes. Then again, that might involve the use of an extension cord and women never know where they are kept or even how they work.

None of this explains why Aqualift thought I might be interested in their outlandish product. A bath lift? How lazy can one … hmm. Perhaps not so outlandish after all. If you can have a device to lift you in and out of your bath, why not have your entire home fitted with those moving walkways you find in airports? My Aqualift could remove me from the bath, gently place me on a travelator leading to the fridge, which opens when it senses me approaching and delivers a self-opening beer before transferring me to another travelator that takes me to the lounge and places me on a Couchlift. The only problem with this fantastic system is that I would still be naked. I suppose if there was a woman fortunate enough to live with me, she might cover me with a blanket.

Oh, right. The Aqualift isn’t so much designed for heinously lazy people as it is for the infirm. Not that the infirm can’t also be lazy. The same company makes comfy armchairs that literally tip you up into the overrated standing position. Cheerfully, they remind us that 7 000 home accidents happen each day in the UK. Please. I have that many every hour.

It must be said, though, that if you can’t get in and out of a bath or a chair without the assistance of some sort of machine, it might be time to consider the alternatives.

In earlier times, the Inuit would leave their elderly on the ice to die. Easier than fannying about with Aqualifts, you have to admit. We’re short on ice floes in South Africa, but it does sometimes snow. You’d have to drive them to the Drakensberg or the Eastern Cape highlands in mid-winter, though. And you’d probably kill them long before you got there, what with the endless, “Are we there yet?” and “Can we stop for a wee?”

The Heruli, on the other hand, placed their elderly on a stack of wood and stabbed them to death before setting the pyre alight. Seems unduly harsh, but you have to remember that the Heruli were a Germanic tribe. Their loved ones were probably grateful not to be eaten once they’d been braaied. Maybe they were eaten. I’m trying to be positive, here.

In Japan, the ancient ones would be carried to a remote, desolate place and left there to die. In South Africa, old age homes serve that purpose more than adequately.

In Sardinia, the elderly would be euthanised through suffocation or a swift blow with a wooden mallet to the back of the head. Today, strangely enough, Sardinia has one of the lowest crime rates in Italy. Perhaps the bottom fell out of the mallet market. Or maybe people just learnt to stop complaining that they couldn’t get out of the bath.

Geronticide aside, it was algorithms I really wanted to write about but I’m out of space, not to mention time. It’s not just Aqualift. The Incubi and Succubi of the corporate world are relentlessly targeting me for products for old people. I’m starting to feel triggered. Give me a good deal on a wooden mallet and I’ll take care of business myself.

Zuckerberg, you’re first.

Jabless in Central America

I would like to know where my bloody vaccine is. I check my email every day and still no invitation from the government. Am I not vulnerable enough? Does my demographic not exist in sufficiently large numbers for my life to be worth saving? I expect that might be it. Fair enough.

I am vulnerable, though, slumped under a palm tree on an isolated stretch of beach on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica 13,000km from my natural home, Durban. My adopted home, Cape Town, is slightly closer, but this doesn’t make me feel any less vulnerable. 

Anything could happen to me right now. My next beer could flow into my lungs causing me to drown. Someone might try to talk to me and discover that I am perilously close to being unable to communicate in any language whatsoever. A coconut could plummet into my lap, destroying any lingering hopes of contributing another drain on the planet’s resources. 

One child isn’t enough. We all need to have as many children as quickly as possible. Stop what you’re doing and mount your partner at once. Studies have shown that one in a hundred million babies will go on to do something that revolutionises the way we live our lives. Your child could be the next Tim Berners-Lee. Or even the next messiah. However, if your child does show signs of inventing a new religion capable of brainwashing millions, or developing a technology that obviates the need for human interaction, a mercy killing might be advisable.

At the risk of contradicting myself, being vulnerable should not be a criterion for getting hustled to the front of the queue for your slice of the vaccine pie. I’m not talking about being vulnerable in the sense of exposing yourself to the virus so that others might live. Medical staff is exempted from this poorly thought-out idea. In my defence, and there’s nobody else around to defend me apart from a massive iguana that might even be a small crocodile, it’s only poorly thought out because it’s a thousand degrees wherever you are in this country.

My eyes are bubbling in my skull like two poached eggs and my brain feels like a chunk of oxtail that’s been left in the slow cooker for six months. There’s a reason Costa Rica has produced only one Nobel Prize winner, and that was for peace. Will you all just please stop fighting? It’s too damn hot. Let’s abolish the army, declare the country a national park and print a billion beach towels with sloths on them.

When it comes to vaccines, vulnerability shouldn’t be defined according to age. The young, for instance, don’t deserve vaccines for the simple reason that they don’t pay tax. Then again, this is not entirely their fault. I blame our namby-pamby labour laws. I was ready to start work the moment I realised high school wasn’t for me. That was on the first day of Grade 8. However, the National Party had other plans for me. They insisted I finish school and get conscripted. Fight communism. They didn’t really have a plan beyond that. By the time the army spat me out, I wasn’t interested in getting a job. All I wanted to do was surf, smoke weed, drink beer and play drums in a punk band. This makes me sound more ambitious than I was.

Had there been a pandemic at the time, the government would have made sure I got the vaccine. Not because they knew Power Age couldn’t afford to lose their drummer, but because I was white. Still am. Mostly. PW Botha believed that all white people apart from Carl Niehaus were destined for great things. I disappointed him terribly. If you can hear me down there, PW, I apologise.

Children, especially those who belong to other people, shouldn’t be first in line for the vaccine. The way they behave in restaurants is enough to disbar them. The young put the most filthy things into their mouths, and this is even before they become sexually active, and yet they not only survive but thrive. Vulnerable my arse. They’ll be just fine.

In a similar vein, haha, the vaccine should not necessarily be handed out willy nilly to the elderly either. Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re special. Some of the worst people in history were allowed to get old. PW was 90. Stalin was 74. Idi Amin made it all the way to 78.

I suppose Mussolini made up for it by dying at 61. None of this natural causes bollocks for him, though. Why don’t you just shoot me and hang me upside down and let people throw rocks at me? he shouted. Communists, being the literalists they are, happily obliged.

Politicians, needless to say, should be last in line for the vaccine.

Hold on. A feral Tico with a bag of coconuts slung over his shoulder and a razor-sharp machete in his gnarled paw has just sloped out of the jungle. I read reports about him. Gringos advise caution. They say he threatened them. Americans, to be fair, are easily threatened. Often with good cause. I gave him a beer and we bumped fists. That’s all you have to do. Treat the poor and the mad well and there’s a good chance they won’t try to cut your head off.

An open letter to Carl Knight – last of the great white hunters

Dear Carl Knight,

When I got wind of your courageous exploits, I felt I had to congratulate you. For a start, you are British. We adore the British – they are our second favourite colonialists. The first, obviously, are the Dutch. They gave us the Afrikaners who in turn gave us apartheid. What’s not to love about apartheid, right? Was that the reason your parents moved to South Africa in 1980?

Your efforts to encourage tourism to South Africa in these fraught times are laudable, indeed. It’s not easy these days to find a Brit who is interested in anything other than Brexit and that tawdry harlot, Meghan Markle. 

Even though you’re only 46 and hail from Epsom, Surrey, you have your very own company operating out of Johannesburg. It’s called Take Aim Safaris. At first I thought it might be another of those bunny-fondling outfits that think the best way to shoot animals is with a camera. Ha! Poor fools. Unlike you, sir, they have clearly never cradled a 300 Winchester Magnum in one arm and a high-class prostitute in the other.

And you named your eldest son Hunter! You wouldn’t expect a man who enjoys shooting animals in the face to have a sense of humour. Well done.

You spotted a gap in the market. As the plague is still very much with us, people are understandably reluctant to travel. That’s until you reminded them that with fewer hunters around, wild animals have been breeding like, well, wild animals. You can barely walk anywhere in South Africa right now without bumping into an elephant.

So you fired off a newsletter to 3,000 of your clients around the world encouraging them to come here and kill a bunch of stuff for sport. And what a sport it is! Okay, maybe not so much for the animals, but they don’t pay taxes and won’t be missed.

You wrote, “Big elephant and trophy buffalo + hippo, croc are plentiful. The areas are well rested, the animal movement is fantastic.” Let’s see how fantastically they move with a 5.56-caliber bullet lodged in their brain haha.

“I have quota available on the big cats: leopard and lion plus elephant bulls at unbeatable prices.” This is great news. I have never trusted an animal that can’t change its spots. Leopards are duplicitous, violent brutes and I am delighted to hear that they are now on special. Lions, too, will pretend to befriend you, then have your throat out just for the sport of it. They are cats, after all. Did you know this? Or do you simply judge everything with four legs according to the price tag on its hairy ass? Fair enough.

Some of your prices do seem a bit steep. $8 for a guinea fowl? Leave a trail of breadcrumbs into your oven and they’ll cook themselves. $150 for a mongoose? Can’t be much left, especially if you’re using hollow-point ammo. And $75 for a vervet monkey? Daylight robbery, that is. Porcupines are priced right at $300. Even though it’s more of an execution than a hunt, you could still get a quill in the eye if you were very drunk and had to fall on him.

In a recent interview with African Hunting Gazette, you said you shot your first leopard at 16. Impressive! I hadn’t even had my first blowjob by that age and there you were on a wild killing spree. Have you had your first blowjob yet? No matter. It’s the killing that’s important.

I love that you hunted for a Christian drug rehab in the Northern Cape when you were younger. You gave them more meat than they knew what to do with. That’s a David Lynch movie, that is. Produced by Oliver Stone. Featuring a young Sylvester Stallone as you.

You’ve hunted all over – Mozambique, Botswana, Zimbabwe … you even shot a bear in Russia. I suppose he didn’t understand when you shouted, “Hands up! Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” You also said Namibia is a great place to hunt. 

“Namibia reminds me of South Africa 30 years ago with its low human population and massive open spaces.” Yep, there was hardly anyone living in South Africa in 1991. An easy mistake to make, what with 40 million people being tucked away out of sight. As for the massive open spaces, well, you had the Group Areas Act to thank for that.

The magazine asked what’s your favourite animals to hunt and you said, “Dagga Boys!” What? That was the name of my gang when I was growing up. But you were talking about something else. “Such an exciting hunt … it’s kill or be killed when you’re hunting buffalo.” So you engage in hand-to-hoof combat with these brutes? Respect, bro.

Our president is also into buffalo in a big way. Mainly for breeding purposes, though. No, I don’t mean … never mind.

Your greatest trophy was the buffalo you hunted with your dad in Mozambique. “It was, and remains, the fulfillment of a father and son dream hunt in a perfect environment.”

My greatest trophy was for tennis in Standard 8. It was tiny but I was very proud. My father never taught me how to hunt. Instead, he taught me how to play pool. The thrill just wasn’t the same, although people did die in some of the pubs he took me to. 

You talk fondly of the “38-inch bull in Mozambique that put me firmly on a path I’m still on”. That’s, like, just over a metre? What kind of small-ass bull is that? You might as well have kicked him to death. Anyway, what do I know. I’m sure you believe your wife when she tells you that size isn’t everything.

So the hippo-humpers are saying that many of the animals on your list are endangered. This is nonsense. There are around 400 000 African elephants left in the wild. If you shot a hundred a day, they would last for ten years. That’s not exactly endangered in my book.

There are also 20 000 lions roaming about off their leashes. That’s more than enough lions for everyone. You can get through five a day at least, maybe more if they stop hiding up trees and in cardboard boxes. Sure, their numbers have plummeted by over 40% in the last three generations as a result of hunting, but our national IQ has dropped 40 points in three years as a result of bad education and too much CNN and you don’t see us shooting our stupid people, do you? Damn, this stuff is strong. 

Where was I? Oh, yes. You charge £10,000 to shoot an elephant? That, my friend, is a small fortune in my pathetic currency. And £14,500 to put a bullet into the back of a lion’s head? That’s way too much. Are you on drugs? Tell you what. I’ll give you R10 000 for two baby elephants, three monkeys and a crocodile. You do mix-and-match packages, right? And you do pay your taxes, right?

I see you have lived in Joburg for almost your entire life. It’s completely understandable, then, that you would want to kill everything in sight. And you’ve been organising assassinations ever since 2008? Nice work if you can get it.

I see those gerbil-suckers over at MailOnline have been questioning your ethics. How very dare they. You told them, “We eat what we hunt … we love and conserve animals.” I’ve often wondered what elephant tastes like. Tough, I imagine. Do you make carpaccio out of the leopards? That would be a winner among the Italians.

You also told the running dogs of the media that “I have broken no laws”. Good one, mate. You and me and Jacob Zuma know it’s impossible to break laws in this country. Well, you can break them alright, but there ain’t jackshit gonna happen to you.

That bastion of truth, The Mirror, asked how you felt about the dwindling number of wild animals in SA. You said they were lying, which they obviously were, and said, “In South Africa we have over 20,000,000 wild animals bred and conserved here. The birth rate per annum is around 3,000,000.” You might want to check your science, son. I think you’re talking about our people, here.

By the way, my friend Ted said you look like a bit of a cunt. You’ll be pleased to know that I had one of the servants horsewhip him soundly. Your name is Knight, for heaven’s sake. You’re a member of the realm. And I do mean member.

I liked the way you wrapped up your interview with that hunting magazine: “For my family and I, there is no life without God.” There’s a rich vein of irony in there somewhere. 

Did you know that if your Boris Johnson had kept his word and implemented the ban on trophy imports pledged in his election manifesto and repeated in the Commons last year, you’d be back in Surrey organising weasel hunts by now?

Our president also has trouble keeping his promises. Politicians, eh? Long may they lie.

  • If anyone would like to congratulate Carl on the great work he’s doing, you can reach him on 011-6083999 or 082-7491747. Living as he does in medieval times, he even has a fax number: 086-5378645. His email address is carl@takeaimsafaris.com.


Click to access African-Hunting-Gazette.pdf