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IT was long past midnight and a cold drizzle was falling from a black spongy sky as Corridon walked along Old Compton Street, his hands thrust into the big pockets of his trench coat, his wide-brimmed slouch hat pulled down over his eyes. In this small section of Soho the streets were deserted; the usual loafers driven indoors by the rain that had been falling since early dusk.”

I have borrowed the above paragraph from Mallory, a novel by James Hadley Chase. You may or may not have read it, but I walked those streets with Martin Corridon, the ex-commando and ex-ethics of any kind. It was 1950 and the Second World War had just ended.

Hunched in that drizzle, Corridon and I adjusted the collars of our mackintosh as our instincts attuned to the imminent danger of the backstreets of London.

Corridon and I were on our way to The Amethyst Club, owned by Zani, who had a finger in most of the crooked pies manufactured in Soho. His Savile Row suit, the immaculate white shirt, the hand-painted tie, and the big diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand, were as out of place on him as a top hat on a baboon.

For many years I slept on a sponge mattress with my grandfather in the kitchen and the cock would crow while I was lost in the musty pages of a novel, unless the candle decided to sabotage my efforts mid-book by burning out.

Hadley Chase, Chinua Achebe, Buchi Emecheta, Irving Wallace, Arthur Hailey, E skia Mphahlele transported me to the places I could only dream about. Crucially, all those years worked wonders for my vodkabulary. I suspect this is the ingredient that swayed the Sunday World editor to grant me this honourable opportunity to spew my tequilasoaked shenanigans upon you, the reader of Straight and Two Beers.

Monday was Freedom Day and Friday was Workers Day, all important days in our calendar as a nation. While enjoying your long weekends times two, I hope you found the time to read that book by your bedside because April 23 was World Book Day. I have four dog-eared books by my bedside and I get lost in them before my eyelashes decide to smooch.

The world of books is illuminating and defies loadshedding; it does not require a plane ticket to explore the

of Irving Wallace s remote Polynesian island.

Books broaden the reader s horizons. They stimulate the imagination and leave the brain flexible enough to discern bullshit from those in authority.

A reader would never hatch a pogrom to kill a foreigner because books have no borders.

Please guys, Facebook doesn t count. Informative as it might be, it cannot be a substitute for the real thing. It is not a book, finish and klaar. It warms the cockles of my mind when upon boarding a plane, fellow passengers whip out their hardcover books and tuck in.

Of course, when I am not hassling the hostesses to keep my glass lubricated, you will see me up there in the skies reclining with a paperback.

The bloody smartphones have replaced books as a passenger s best friend, judging by the gadgets in the taxi passengers hands nowadays.

I better warn you, them gadgets are not good for your fingers and your neck. Read books dammit, and stop burning down the libraries!