A dre­am trio to sa­ve SA?

George Herald - - Arts & Entertainment - C­liff B­ü­chler

Had a dre­am. Cle­ar as day. It was af­ter the Ti­to bud­get speech. A coi­n­ci­den­ce? Or por­tent of t­hings to co­me?

Cyril, Ti­to and Pra­vin meet at so­me ho­tel in the cen­t­re of Jo'burg. Ho­pe it isn't the old Fe­de­ral we fre­quen­ted as young jour­na­lis­ts.

Then a­gain, if the meet­ing is me­ant to be in se­cret, the old wa­te­ring ho­le is a cle­ver co­ver, as on­ly jour­nos fre­quent the tat­ty digs, and they're too bu­sy ex­chan­ging their spor­ting ex­ploits to con­cern them­sel­ves with a mot­ley trio en­te­ring the buil­ding. Ho­we­ver, if they hap­pen to spot our three top po­li­ti­cal play­ers, they'll do­wn drinks and sniff them out.

The gents se­at them­sel­ves in a dar­kish cor­ner of the loun­ge, and speak in hus­hed to­nes. Says Ti­to, "OK, Cyril, gi­ve it to me straig­ht. Why on e­arth did you p­ress on my but­ton to fill a se­at t­hat's a ve­ri­ta­ble hot po­ta­to?"

"Ag, sor­ry, Ti­to, but it was Pra­vin who per­su­a­ded me to buzz you," says Cyril.

"Yes, Ti­to, I'm the guil­ty par­ty. But you know how the­se t­hings work."

"No, I've f­or­got­ten how they work. Re­mind me."

Cyril ta­kes o­ver. "You know we're fa­cing an e­lecti­on, and the ANC is in the dwang. So we had to be ca­re­ful who we ap­point in Com­ra­de Ne­ne's pla­ce. It had to be a per­son out­si­de the ci­r­cle - and who knows the job."

Says Pra­vin, "The ci­r­cle is get­ting smal­ler with fe­wer to trust.

So, your fa­ce ca­me up. The fa­ce re­ser­ved for a ban­ker. Ha-ha.'

"And you know the num­bers," adds Cyril. "So my num­ber's up. Tee-hee. But w­hat do you ex­pect me to do with this hot num­ber?"

"Ea­sy," says Cyril. "Tell them w­hat they want to know."

"W­hat do they want to know? I've f­or­got­ten."

"T­hat you're going to do a cle­an-up job, and on­ly the rich will be he­a­vi­ly taxed," says Pra­vin.

Says Cyril, "Then toss them a cur­ve ball". "I've ne­ver been good at ball ga­mes," says Ti­to.

"No, w­hat I me­an is, pull out a red her­ring," says Cyril.

"Fis­hing? Can't stand fis­hing."

"No, Ti­to, bring up so­mething di­vor­ced from the norm. Li­ke toll fees."

"But ha­sn't it al­re­a­dy ta­ken its toll? Tee­hee."

Cyril whis­pers to Pra­vin w­hi­le do­w­ning a C­hi­vas, "Ha­ve we bet on the wrong horse, Com­ra­de?"

With t­hat my Hei­di pun­ches me a­wa­ke. "Why we­re you whin­nying in your sleep?"

"Pro­ba­bly just a ho­ar­se cough, ha-ha, tee­hee," I ma­na­ge.

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