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LAST WEEK Ja­cob Zuma ad­dressed mem­bers of the me­dia in Jo­han­nes­burg at an ANC im­age-boost­ing ses­sion. He en­thu­si­as­ti­cally re­peated his idea of re­mote schools (which were ac­tu­ally fairly rem­i­nis­cent of Rus­sian labour camps) for preg­nant teenagers. That made one of those present re­mark un­der his breath it might be good idea to ban­ish the fu­ture moth­ers to Robben Is­land among the rab­bits.

And per­haps there would also be room for a re­bel­lious Julius Malema. On the other hand, per­haps that wouldn’t be such a good idea for some­one with so lit­tle self-con­trol…


ONE MORN­ING the hus­band re­turns the boat to the cou­ple’s lake­side cot­tage af­ter sev­eral hours of fish­ing and de­cides to take a nap. His wife de­cides to take the boat out. She motors out a short dis­tance, an­chors, puts her feet up and be­gins to read her book. The peace and soli­tude are mag­nif­i­cent.

Along comes a Fish & Game War­den in his boat. He pulls up along­side and says to the woman: “Good morn­ing, Ma’am. What are you do­ing?”

“Read­ing a book,” she replies (think­ing: Isn’t that ob­vi­ous?)

“You’re in a re­stricted fish­ing area,” the war­den in­forms her.

“I’m sorry, of­fi­cer – but I’m not fish­ing. I’m read­ing.”

“Yes, but I see you have all the equip­ment. For all I know you could start at any mo­ment. I’ll have to take you in and write you up.”

“If you do that I’ll have to charge you with sex­ual as­sault,” says the woman.

“But I haven’t even touched you,” says the war­den.

“That’s true – but you have all the equip­ment. For all I know you could start at any mo­ment.”

“Have a nice day, Ma’am,” the war­den said as he sped off.

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