Pal up to taxman instead of politicos

Had I taken the advice of political peers when in my late twenties, I would probably now be snoozing in the benches of parliament with Gatsha Buthelezi.

It was a close call because at the time I dabbled in politics, becoming chair of a local branch of a now defunct party trying to break the stranglehold of a governing party ensnared in so-called Christian Nationalism, that was more nationalistic than Christian. Love your enemies on Sunday, but curse, jail, even shoot them, come Monday.

My party was going to show them at the next election what balanced, law-abiding citizens think of blatant hypocrisy. I even went door-to-door in government strongholds with my party’s message. A hairy, shirtless bod shoved me out of the gate, rudely telling me where to stick my manifesto.

Another opened the door. Good sign. Wrong. He introduced me to an Alsatian, baring dripping fangs that would’ve ripped me to pieces had his beer-belly master freed him. I thought it prudent to high-tail it to my bicycle.

Despite hard and life threatening work, my party lost. Again. So cheers to active politics, much to the relief of my Heidi, who still believes I’m not all that crooked.

In hindsight I should’ve done a Kortbroek and joined the party in power. Then the ANC.

I’ve never been good with sums and until Heidi took over, I was always battling to pay our way.

But as an ANC minister I would’ve picked up a golfi ng pal to bail me out. And the many other perks. Such as being on the guest list of high-flying weddings and intimate meetings with tender squeezers and twisters. I would’ve come away with bulging back pockets, cocking a snook at the taxman.

Or maybe I would’ve joined Dilemma Malema’s red berets. I mean, we have a thing in common: we both wiped out wood.

Then again, I probably would’ve gone Gatsha’s route. Far less demanding and an ideal place to meditate while fellow dishonourable members hiss, squabble and sprout a load of hot air.

Thankfully, good sense prevailed and I’m enjoying normal life in retirement. Okay, with empty back pockets, but a close pal of the taxman.

Hi, Nhlanhla!