Lurching to a different drum

I’M JUST a boy, standing in front of a doctor, asking him to make it go away. Oh, and I’m in my underpants.

“What’s the matter,” the doctor asks. Where do I start? With my broken hand? Or my non-broken hand that got burnt trying to get supper out of the oven with one hand? Or my exploded ear? Or with flea bites in places I thought even fleas wouldn’t dare go. Or my torn knee? Or my blistery ringworm splodges?

Instead, I say: “I’m falling apart, doc!” My health woes started two weeks earlier with an ear infection. The pressure built and after a fizz, crackle and hiss a detonation went off inside my head. My eardrum had burst.

A few hours later I blow my nose and my ear whistles. “That’s gross,” says The Shrink, my crossword companion.

But it has cool party trick potential and I try to see if I can whistle the “Shoot the Boer” tune out of my ear. “Careful,” warns The Shrink, “you’ll land up in the Equality Court.”

“Don’t you mean the Ear-quality Court?” She groans. “Can you get me a cappuccino, please!”

“We’re fresh out of tuna. But can I interest you in a cup of pilchards instead of a cup of tuna?”

“You really are quite deaf !” she says. “Deft? Why thank you,” I grin. Since the eardrum bang it’s like I have bubble wrap inside my head. The world is muffled. I say “I Beg Your Pardon” about 60 times a day. I can’t handle this Earmageddon anymore, which is why I found myself in my underpants in front of the doctor. “My body has gone to war with itself,” I tell him. “It’s enough with this quiet diplomacy, doc. I need serious firepower. Make like Iran and send in the nukes.”

The doctor shakes his head. “Let me check your urine first,” he says. “I beg your pardon?” “Go to the loo to wee,” he says. “I beg your pardon?” “Go. To. The. Loo. To. Wee.” “Louis Toweel? Is he one of the brothers who didn’t go into boxing?”

He points to the door. “LOO! TO! WEE!”

I leave. When I get home I pack my bag. “Where are you going?” The Shrink asks. “To the airport. The doctor wants me to see a specialist at Luthuli House,” I explain.

She gives me a crossword clue to keep me company:

That evening I arrive at Luthuli House. A guard blocks the entrance. “What do you want?” he barks.

“I’ve come to see the specialist,” I tell him. The bodyguard looks confused. “For my hearing,” I explain. “Oh, the Malema hearing?” “Yes, yes, for my lame hearing!” “Are you his attorney?” he asks. I nod, wondering how the hell he knows I also have a torn knee. He ushers me into a room. My eyes adjust to the light. There’s a panel of ANC heavyweights. “Who are you?” says Derek Hanekom.

“He’s Malema’s attorney,” the guard says.

“You speak for Juju… well, what does he say?” asks Hanekom. “I beg your pardon.” “It’s much too late for pardons,” says Hanekom. “Anything else?”

All eyes are on me. What the hell, I think. I pinch my nose and belt out “Shoot the Boer” from my ear.

* STONE DEAF: This Daily Telegraph clue is made up of STONED (what happens when you’re “drugged up”) + EAF (the first letters, “leaders”, of Escapade, Are and Fined).