It’s back to funny council business
By now the municipal by-election in George is history, with candidates, old and new, slinking into the raadsaal, there to hibernate until 2019. Even the keen ones will soon be influenced by the gesoutes, picking up on the tricks of ducking and diving hot potatoes - and finding ways and means of supplementing incomes. It comes with the territory.
After over thirty decades of sipping and supping with them, I can fill a tome or two of intriguing encounters witnessed closeup. Especially mayors, who survived on embedded journalists (not to be confused with bedding down with – although maybe in some cases . . .?), who they tried owning with sumptuous lunches and best reds. There were portly, thin, handsome, and downright ugly ones. Some were natural orators, others horrendous speech makers - the latter inevitably holding forth with never-ending Gatsha scripts written by unapprised PR people.
At least in the early days mayors were elected, not appointed, and served only for one term, so the bad ones couldn't do too much damage.
Interesting how the office of mayor has lasted so long in a society that has largely dropped British customs - of which the mayor, Lord Mayor, in fact, was and still is an important element. Thankfully, here we are not saddled with addressing a mayor with the lumbering "His Worship the Mayor, Councillor Sir Christopher Crapper, MBE, representing the City of Birmingham". Here it's simply Piston van Wyk, mayor of Blikkiesfontein. Finish and klaar.
Mayors' wives also featured. They automatically carried the title of mayors (sporting a thinner gold chain) and attended public functions with hubby. Among them were money grabbers, spending the entertainment allowance in the best fashion boutiques and hairdressing salons.
A number hated the job and made all kinds of excuses not to attend mayoral activities. One clever aunty had it down to a fine art: she suffered from sleeping sickness, so she couldn't embarrass her hubby by nodding off during his speech. Truth is, it was boredom that did it, and had nothing to do with any physical affliction.
Then there was the naughty mayoress who had it off with the mayoral limo driver. She insisted that only he drives her, to invented ladies' functions. The tryst came to an end when a parking attendant spotted a bobbing black BMW in the shade of an old oak.
Sadly, mayors are now boring executives toeing the party line - whether good or bad.