I need a break from this holiday
Durban POISON
HAPPY New… ah, what the hell. I really can’t be bothered. It’s too hot. And the orcs and urukhais of the hinterland are still out in force.
A couple of semi-feral urchins are running amok at the next table. Their mom, who doesn’t look a day over 16, has that steamy innocentyet-not look some farm girls have before they turn into their mothers.
Her husband just caught me looking at her legs. His hands are rough and calloused from ploughing. Not with a plough, but with his actual hands.
I wish they would return to their loathsome lairs, these inland visitors. They have driven up prices, frightened the children and left our beaches awash in broken brandy bottles and rusty fish hooks.
Slowly, our bars, beaches and mortuaries are once again filling up with locals. That’s the good news.
The bad news is that in nine months’ time, we will see a whole new generation of mewling brats being extricated from the loins of women whose idea of celebrating the birth of Jesus was to drink heavily and fornicate relentlessly with complete strangers, none of whom were me.
Some women couldn’t wait, apparently, and were dropping their drawers as early as March. On December 25, the lead item on a local news channel was about the first baby born on Christmas morning.
A reporter spoke to the teenage mother in hushed, reverential tones as if she were interviewing the Virgin Mary and not Mary from Manenberg.
Instead of being interviewed, this wretched strumpet should have been dragged from the maternity ward by the Procreation Police and charged with wilfully copulating without due regard for the consequences.
She should have been publicly flogged, not lauded as some sort of evolutionary miracle worker.
There is nothing on the statute books that says I can’t go to Margate for the weekend and impregnate 300 unhappily married women.
Given the statistical probabilities governing twins and triplets and the fact that I have sperm with the tenacity of tiger fish, I could easily fertilise 500 embryos by Monday.
But let me have three beers to calm down afterwards and the first roadblock I hit, I’m treated like a common criminal and thrown into jail to have my bottom ravaged by a fighting general in the 28s.
I once tried to get a free dog from an animal shelter and a woman with the face of a diseased kidney said she would first have to inspect my property to see that it was suitable for the brak.
Obviously I couldn’t have her poking around my house. It’s barely fit for human habitation.
I showed her my ID to prove that I was 100 percent Caucasian and therefore genetically disinclined to harvest the hound’s organs for muti, or cross-breed it with a leopard so that I could win the Friday night fights in Wentworth, but she was having none of it. No inspection, no dog. I threatened to burn the place down but she bared her teeth and I left quickly.
So I can bring newborn babies into my house by the armful without any kind of inspection, but not a dog?
This country is full of people too stupid to even pass their driving test and yet they are entitled to create humans without passing a single test. What manner of dystopian hell are we living in?
Speaking of which, I’ve had relatives staying with me for the past few days. I came to Cape Town on holiday and, inexplicably, they decided to join me.
They arrived in a white trash motor home with two senile Maltese poodles and a long line of cars that had been trying to overtake them since uMtata.
I don’t know what to do with them in Cape Town. They don’t gamble or smoke weed, nor do they catch fish or ride bicycles.
I took them to Cape Point, where the two oceans don’t meet and the wind threatens to pick you up and dash you against knots of Waffen-SS veterans who approach the walk to the lighthouse with the same single-minded determination that Hitler approached Poland.
The reason I avoid Cape Point is the same reason I avoid Mount Everest. You get to the top, fall to your knees, cough up a little blood, shout at the sherpas or, in this case, the Germans, and look at the view.
Unless you’re prepared to adopt the lotus position and chant om mani padme hum in the hope of achieving enlightenment, I have always found that scenery can generally be dealt with in under 30 seconds, particularly if there’s a chance that a rogue baboon could come along and rip your throat out.
We also went camping in the Cederberg. Since my aunt insisted on bringing her geriatric poodles along, it had to be a dog-friendly campsite.
As everyone knows, the only campsites that take dogs are those run by in-bred Afrikaners battling to save their farms from being repossessed by the bank, the government or the foetal alcohol victim with no front teeth who lives in the shack down by the dam.
We paid R50 per person and R50 per dog. For that, we got a patch of ground that looked like it had been cleared with napalm.
The only way I could survive the 40°C heat was to drink gallons of warm beer and strip down to the camouflage print shorts that my uncle gave me for Christmas.
I have steered clear of military gear ever since I sent out the wrong signal and lost us the war in Angola.
What can I expect for my birthday – a pair of night vision goggles? A steel helmet?
The early onset of tick bite fever, or what could more accurately be described as alcohol poisoning, forced us to flee after only one night.
Back in Cape Town, the filthy south-easter raged for days and we turned on one another like a pack of caged lab rats.
I need a holiday