Tem­pest of note when you no longer go by the Grace of Bob

Pretoria News Weekend - - OPINION - Jou­bert Mal­herbe

ON THE histri­onic bit of the clas­sic Queen song, Bo­hemian Rhap­sody, Fred­die Mer­cury gets even more bom­bas­tic than usual.

That’s the “scaramouch” bit where he ex­claims “thun­der­bolt and light­ning/ very very fright­en­ing”.

Scoffed at by many rock cognoscenti, Rhap­sody re­mains a peren­nial favourite with lots of pop­kids, if the Face­book en­tries by mem­bers of var­i­ous rock afi­cionado groups are to be be­lieved. Great gui­tar solo by Dr Brian May, BTW.

I ac­tu­ally do have the al­bum that it’s on. Although I haven’t played it for decades, I’ve heard the song on juke­boxes and PAs many a time.

Any­way, the fright­en­ing thun­der­bolt(s) and light­ning part was per­ti­nent to me the other day when I was caught up in just such a sit­u­a­tion… and I have a bruise and a bump to prove it.

I was out for a per­am­bu­la­tion with my two dogs, Fudge and Ziggy. When I left home in funky Dor­ingk­loof, the sun was out, although the sky looked pretty omi­nous.

I thought noth­ing of it and we set off and even paused here and there to say hi to our ca­nine chums. How­ever, when we got about half­way, the dark skies from the south started clos­ing in rapidly.

When we got to the home of golden Labrador Pop­pie – which be­longs to friends of mine, Rudi and Geral­dine – it started buck­et­ing down.

The streets were trans­formed into gush­ing rivulets as we splish-sploshed our way home. The pelt­ing rain­drops were the least of our wor­ries, be­cause light­ning flashes, ac­com­pa­nied by heavy thun­der, il­lu­mi­nated our way.

I tried not to run un­der­neath trees as I re­called that song by Shawn Phillips, The Bal­lad of Casey Deiss, with the line “the light­ning came and my brother died”. Gulp.

I even sent up a few “so help me God”style ex­hor­ta­tions. When I re­lated this to fel­low Dor­ingk­lower Jaco later, he said I must have felt a bit like Noah.

I was mighty re­lieved when we got home. We stum­bled in and sprawled un­der­neath the lapa to catch our breath; poor old diminu­tive Fudgie, in par­tic­u­lar, gave some wor­ry­ing seizure-type wheezes along the way.

Af­ter we set­tled down, we went in­doors. The area by the front door is tiled and with them be­ing drenched, they were more slip­pery than JZ dur­ing ques­tion time.

As I stepped onto the sur­face with the dogs in tow, my feet slipped out from un­der­neath me. I fell back­wards and, bang, hit the back of my head on the tiles.

I saw stars and feared I was con­cussed; a bit like Basil Fawlty in that hi­lar­i­ous “don’t men­tion the war” sketch. I had a shower af­ter which I felt okay and the three of us had a nap. Like I said above, I still have a bump and a bruise to prove it.

The weather cleared up, and a bit later I was able to re­store equi­lib­rium by vis­it­ing Henk, Phil and Jomo’s Café de Café to con­tem­plate life over the rim of a jar of su­perb Jack Black ale.

This was with spe­cific ref­er­ence to the as­ton­ish­ing events in Zim­babwe and the ig­no­min­ious exit of mad Bob af­ter his ini­tial pig-headed re­fusal to leave with, erm, grace.

Much has been writ­ten about the sit­u­a­tion. The tip­ping point, it seems, was the sack­ing of “Crocodile” Em­mer­son Mnan­gagwa and the ap­par­ent anoint­ment of Bob’s Gucci spouse Grace as heir ap­par­ent. Maybe there’s a les­son to to be learnt by re­gional lead­ers bent on “keep­ing it in the fam­ily”!

● RIP Mal­colm Young from AC/DC… we sa­lute you.

● RIP too gui­tarist/vo­cal­ist Stan who, with brother Sion – known as Mel­low – has been keep­ing us en­ter­tained at var­i­ous out­lets in the Dor­ingk­loof/Irene area for many years with a fine se­lec­tion of folk favourites.

He was aged 72 and died re­cently, in the arms of Sion, af­ter the on­set of a sud­den car­diac/res­pi­ra­tory con­di­tion.

Glad to say, Sion is still play­ing. Thanks for the great tunes guys… your legacy will live on.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from South Africa

© PressReader. All rights reserved.