Memories of the Golden Mile
LAST week’s account of Alan Gooderson’s colourful 80th birthday celebrations on the beachfront has drawn comment from various readers who wistfully remember the Golden Mile in the vibrant 1960s and ’70s.
One such is my Zululand pal Clutchie Nightingale, who in those days was a konstabel at Point police station.
“I remember the cops having a good relationship with everyone in this fascinating area.
“It was Barney at Smugglers’ Inn; Mrs Polly at the Pussycat Club; Georgie-Porgie at Upstairs and Downstairs; Wowie at Wind and Sea.
“Sadly, all of these are no more, like the Cuban Hat, the Nest, the XL, South Beach and the Blue lagoon.
“We seemed to all get along – the surfers, lifesavers, fishermen, bikers and even the good old ducktails.”
I remember Barney at Smugglers’ Inn, but I’m afraid I don’t recall Mrs Polly at the Pussycat Club. Maybe it’s because I was in the Navy in those far-off days and had a bit of a sheltered life. It’s the cops who get around.
Clutchie also tells me he’s having his 50 years’ school reunion (Kearsney) on Founders’ Day next month, the occasion to be marked by a rugby match against my old school (Maritzburg College).
He invites me to come along and wagers a six-pack of beer on the outcome.
That’s cheeky. I’m on for the bet. Furthermore, if Kearsney beat College I’ll also buy him a pint of crème de menthe – so long as he drinks it down, down, down, the way these Kearsney fellows do.
WHO is scripting this Washington soapie? General James Clapper, former director of national intelligence, tells the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence that Russian interference with the democratic process in America is enjoying high success and is a major threat.
This is part of a bipartisan inquiry into whether there is any substance to allegations that the Russians interfered in last year’s election or had improper contact with members of President Trump’s campaign team.
Days earlier, FBI director James Comey told the committee the FBI is indeed investigating the claims. Next, Trump fires Comey. It just happens that Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov is in Washington the next day for talks with Trump.
A photograph appears of Trump almost in a bear hug with Sergey Kislyak, the Russian ambassador, who has been named as a top espionage agent and has featured in the accusations of complicity with the Trump campaign.
Couldn’t make it up
Now many Americans are drawing parallels with Watergate, where President Richard Nixon fired a special prosecutor who was investigating the case?
Nobody is using the term Kremlingate – not yet anyway.
But one senses that a fuse has been lit.
And the chaos that suffuses Washington probably surprises even the now-retired General Clapper.
It’s a knockout
AN AUSTRALIAN MP knocked himself out laughing at American TV satire on a programme called Veep.
Graham Perrett, a federal Labour MP in Queensland, was eating sushi at home and “laughed at the wrong time”, causing him to choke on his dinner.
He ran from his living room and “somehow hit the edge of my kitchen island”, knocking himself out, he told Sky News.
He got cuts to his face and a black eye and needed three stitches in hospital. Worse, his wife can’t stop laughing about it.
Perrett says the choking fit happened while he was watching a scene that was “totally politically incorrect but very amusing”.
Yes, the Washington soapie does have its moments. This must be the first recorded casualty connected with it.
A backward poet writes inverse.
In a democracy it’s your vote that counts. In feudalism it’s your count that votes.
If you jumped off the bridge in Paris, you’d be in Seine.
A vulture carrying two dead raccoons boards an airplane. Stewardess: “Sorry, sir, only one carrion allowed per passenger.”
IAN Gibson, poet laureate of Hillcrest, wields his quill in protest at the noise at Kings Park. Kings Park has a manic DJ, Whose decibels drive patrons away; Conversation ceases When the volume increases; Must fans be treated this way?
THERE was this lecherous Scotsman who lured a girl up to his attic to show her his etchings. Before she knew it, he’d sold her four.
SOME people drink from the fountain of knowledge, others just gargle. – Robert Anthony