ENOUGH IS TOO MUCH
LIFE with HAROLD STRACHAN
monkey was eating his bread, all bravado and chutzpah, macho bullshit.
But one morning, I tell this barman, a man with a smallbore shotgun appeared in the garden, and another bloke from the SPCA in a white dust coat. They’re gazing up in the avo tree and I know they’ve come for my monkey. May I make so bold as to ask what the bloody hell you’re doing on my premises with an unholstered firearm? say I with the utmost sarcasm. Sorry, sir, I’ve got to do it, says the shooter, it’s my job, Mrs Meintjies in the corner house has officially complained that her grandson name of Clunt gets hysterical when he sees wild animals. Well why don’t you go and shoot Clunt then f’Chris- sakes? say I, he’s a horrible little shit with black teeth from eating chocolate for his school lunch and he’s not doing anything useful upon this Earth. Ja, wouldn’t mind, says shooter, pity it’s unlawful, I prefer the monkey. And what if I refuse to let you fire from my premises for fear of frightening my children? say I. Then I’d wait and fire from the street, says the shooter. I never miss. Ask this guy. The SPCA man nods. So he stands amongst my hydrangeas until after 45 minutes no less he gets a clear line on the monkey up in the leaves there and blasts him clean out of the treetop in a graceful arc and he lands stone dead on his back on the concrete pathway with his jaws still reflexively chewing his bread.
Yeh, the Abboes, now … says the barman. Well, say I rather loudly, Jesus got up off his bum and waddled over to the monkey and picked it up and dropped it on the kitchen step for some reason only dogs know about. A dog is a creature of ritual. Yeh, says he, it’s an illegitimate blonde. What, the dog? say I. Nuh, Loife, says he. It’s a feh bastard.