I have begun worrying about things. This is unusual for me. I have worried very little ever since leaving school.
Worrying has an effect on one’s health. It also has an effect on one’s financial status. If I had worried more in my formative years, I might be a rich man today. Or dead. I prefer to think I’d be dead.
Men and women worry about different things. Men worry about going bald. Women don’t. And neither do I. Not because I am a woman in a man’s body, but because my 75-year-old father still has plenty of hair. I might be wrong, but I think hair loss is inherited from the paternal side and, for a lot of men, it’s the only inheritance they’ll get because when fathers lose their hair, they very often go mad and spend their life savings on fast cars and cheap women and leave nothing for their sons. The daughters needn’t worry because they will have married for money.
I found a grey hair the other day. It was lurking in the downstairs department. Upstairs I have about a million grey hairs. Well, people tell me they’re grey. I like to think of them as dusky blond. Grey hair can, I suppose, look distinguished. Take Richard Gere. Then again, he did unspeakable things with gerbils. I can’t even imagine what colour the gerbils were after that little experiment.
I don’t worry much about crime. I have never been mugged, molested or murdered. Like most white people in this fabulous country, I only start taking an active interest in things once I have been personally affected. Otherwise you can all go to hell.
I worry that Zambia has a white president. Guy Scott was thrust into the position, albeit in an acting position, after Michael Sata flew to London earlier this week to allow his chain-smoking habit to collect its lethal dues in a more relaxed environment.
Forgetting about FW de Klerk for a moment, which can’t be easy if you’re a DA supporter, Scott is the first white president in Africa since … I don’t know. Inexplicably, there’s nothing on Google relating directly to white presidents in Africa. I find this odd, given the mayhem they have caused. Scott may well be the most dangerous of all – a white president who thinks he is black. Given a free hand, his government would be a bastard hybrid of the Mau-Mau and the Ku Klux Klan.
Luckily, his parents were born in Britain, which pretty much excludes him from running for president when elections are held in three months’ time. Unlike Scott, at least most of our white people have parents who were born here. And if they weren’t, well, voetsek, first generation whities, voetsek! And I’m not just saying that because I’ll be the perfect age for minister of defence by the time Julius Malema becomes president. Viva EFF, viva!
What else do I worry about? Well, I worry about the Catholics. Actually, I worry specifically about Pope Francis. Catholics in general couldn’t give a damn if all non-Catholics were consigned to burn in the hellfires of damnation for all eternity. Which is only fair.
I worry that this pope could be the antichrist. A comment like this might well go down in some giant celestial book of judgment, but it probably won’t. When it comes to tossing the dice against organised religion, I’ll have a go every time.
Just the other day, Pope Frankie suggested that gay people might not be the spawn of the devil after all. Then Elton John went and ruined everything by calling the pope his “hero”. While I initially supported the pope’s homo-friendly position, my feelings for Elton John left me with no choice but to torch my local Catholic church and two gay biker bars, which turned out to be normal bars frequented by bikers. Funny thing, leather. You never can tell.
Il Papa now says that God was responsible for evolution. Basically, He organised the Big Bang, set the process in motion whereby we’d eventually become Humans, then left us to our own devices. God then makes an increasingly rare appearance, the last being at Newlands when He stepped in to give the Stormers a hand.
Addressing the plenary assembly of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences at the Vatican, Frankie shattered the cherished beliefs of millions of people by saying, “God is not a magician with a magic wand able to do everything.”
You tell us this now? If Pope Petrus had cleared this up back in 64 – and I don’t mean 1964 – a lot more people could have gone to the beach instead of wasting their Sundays in church. Those were the lucky ones. The others had their limbs lopped off or had the Pear of Anguish inserted into their orifices. The early Catholics were nothing if not inventive when it came to creative new ways of encouraging people to embrace their god as not only the best, but also the only one on the market.
I also worry about the organs occupying my thoracic cavity. They are not to be trusted. Late at night, I hear them muttering and burbling among themselves, plotting my downfall for when I least expect it.
And I worry that No. 1 on the local fiction bestseller list for October was the new Wilbur Smith and No. 2 on the non-fiction list was Oprah Winfrey’s What I Know For Sure. The blurb on the list said, “‘The Universe will rise to meet you.’ I deeply believe. My all-time favourite quote.” The universe is expanding at 74 kilometres per second per three million light years. You might think there are one too many ‘pers’ in there, but you would be wrong. The point is, if the universe had to rise to meet you, you’d better be wearing more than a vest and tracksuit pants.
Yes, I know she’s speaking metaphorically. Although with Oprah it’s sometimes hard to tell. But I worry that people genuinely believe Oprah will impart a rare nugget of wisdom that will change their lives. Haven’t you people ever watched Oprah? There are no secret nuggets. There are only McNuggets. And you’re not going to get a free car, either.
Not many people know this, but Oprah and I have a lot in common. For a start, we share the same publisher, who will doubtlessly be delighted at my efforts to discourage you from buying her book. They will, I hope, forgive me my trespasses if I encourage you to buy my book instead, even though Oprah needs the money more than I do.
My latest, and possibly final contribution to the literary pantheon, is called Incognito – The Memoirs of Ben Trovato. However, me being marginally less sought after than Oprah as an oracle, you might struggle to find my book on the shelves. I was informed this week that bookshops probably won’t be ordering more stock because mine is an “old” book. It came out in June.
Great Expectations is an old book. War and Peace is an old book. Would you struggle to find them in a reputable bookshop? Of course not. Then again, I’m no Dickens or Tolstoy. But neither is Oprah or Wilbur.
If you don’t find my book on the shelves, ask the idiot savant behind the counter to order it for you. If he or she refuses, set the shop alight. Then go home and order it online. Or not. I’ve spent my advance. I don’t care.