Thursday 8th August 2013

Roy and I have just returned from the Wild Coast where we went for a three day golf festival called the Racing Masters. Things started off rather badly when my wife and daughter picked me up at the stables on Sunday morning. She had adjusted the drivers seat of the car, and when I tried to correct it going 60 kms an hour down Ramgoolam highway, the seat suddenly shot forward as I touched the brake forcing me onto the brake pedal with the force of an overweight hippopotamus & sending the vehicle into a totally unplanned full arrest in the middle of the freeway. I took my face off the windscreen and my boerie out of the ashtray as my wife and daughter, who were also cuddled up in the front by now, hurled various Gaelic profanities at me.

Goofmans chariot outside the family home

The drive down to the famous holiday resort is about an hour and three quarters. Staying within the allocated speed limit, we flew past Jimbo Goodman and Secretariat as they chugged down the slow lane in their late model Mercedes sports. I don't think he realized that he had lost his caravan going up the Twini hill. On the Sunday afternoon, many players try to get in a practice round before the opening cocktail party. I was teamed up with Dereck 'King' Martin, Gary Wilson and Billy Basson. When the notorious wind comes up it is extremely difficult to shoot a low score, and so proved the case as we hacked around the ravines and bushes with King sticking to his mantra that 'if you want to win, you have to follow the mower'. After a few beers and a good laugh, I handed over the folding stuff to King and made a mental note to let Mr Snyman get hold of his handicap.

Shezi's cousin at the bar

Shezi's custom golf bag

The cocktail party is always a wonderful get-together with racing friends from all around the country in attendance. Everyone's favourite bookmaker, Tubby Luckan, had a good idea of who to price up favourite for the most sought after prize, the drunkest player. Previous winners included Shezi and the Greek hang-glider, Luckless Howdoyoulikeme, and both had some stiff opposition from all of the Pakistani trainer 'Prince Hill', Ricky Sin, Larry Southwood, Pepperoni Petzer and up and coming possibilities, young Michael Shezi and the well educated, Aidan Glynn. Graeme Hawkins, who must be applauded for making this such a premium tournament, has again excelled as he and his team have things running like clockwork. Dave Lavarack walked in imitating an aging Al Capone with his customary small hat & looking more like Humpty Dumpty sporting a yarmulka. Mike Bass and his wife Carol are both playing this year and the lethargic left hander has a few scores to settle with the Durban pigeons. Having just won another Group 1 in the Gold Cup, Mike is looking forward to a relaxing finale to his annual KZN sojourn. The Humble Hero, Joe Soma, is talking to his erstwhile schoolmate, Ricky 'I'm not the Full Polony' Sin. I am told that Ricky Sin is the only Chinaman South Africa with no idea where China is. It is hard to believe that Sin, Soma, Georgiou and Azzie were all in the same class together, although it has to be said that they do look like they could come from the same genetic pool somewhere around the eastern Mediterranean. Twenty intakes at the Jockey academy could not have rivaled that racing passion, and our dear Mr Sin is the proverbial cuckoo who flew over the nest. If he is classified as sane, then I am a Skaap.

Soma's class of  '75

When the food and speeches have come to an end, most troop up to the Casino to try and beat the tables. I notice Goofman at one of the machines and I remind him that he has given up playing. He assures me that he is only watching Secretariat play, and like his grandmother Zsa Zsa Gabor, a table player of note, soon starts  raking in the coins. Mark Gullen is a very lucky gambler and soon he has also filled his boots as the Prince looks on with the envy of a southern Yemen Al-Qaida operative at a Vegas strip joint.

Michael Shea having a bath

The next morning the wind has died down when we receive our starting times and head off for an early beer. Mike de Kock and fellow players are working out the stakes and handicaps as Jimbo strides through with a clip board, fashionable arm warmers from a farmers market in Southern Lesotho & a Monte Christo hanging fom his lips, while he has a bet with all and sundry. Hibrie Roy Moodley has made the trip down with his wife, Mumsy, and tells me that he had three bets at the roulette table, all on the same number and all arriving in a row.....money to money. Shezi, who had to be wheelchaired to his room by his trusty wingman, Gary Harris, is looking rather spritely and winks conspiratorially at the young bar lady imitating an over-confident Bernie Ecclestone, similar facial trenches, I mean features, included. He has shortened in the betting with Tubby Luckan. His son, Michael, who is more of a clone than Dolly the Sheep, greets me with a traditional 'Inshallah' and slyly slips a six pack under his jacket.

Luckless's caddie slumped at the tenth

When the scores have come in after the first day, most have struggled.. The halfway leader, Shane Simmons, has shot a 41 to take a good lead off the chasing pack led by Williamson, Southwood, De Kock and a struggling Goofman whose myopic companion, the affable Secretariat, has clearly taken the stuffing out of him. The Humble Hero has set a bit of a record by knocking out his caddie, who was 'just' 150 meters away, with a wayward drive at the second. Luckless was trying to revive her & rummaged around her underwear to find out where the ball went as it was a new pro V. She was taken to a nearby clinic and had returned by the time we were on the back nine, albeit not remembering her name, ancestry or her sexual proclivities for that matter..

Supper that evening is a boisterous affair around the raised bar and sunken swimming pool, and Robert the Bruce, alter ego of the affable Brett Crawford, is starting to stake his claim for the doppers' prize. The final day is a perfect Natal winters' day and I have been drawn with Michael Shea, Dr Aidan Glynn and young Brad Van Der Scaler, who is one of the finer strikers of a golf ball that I have witnessed. We load our cart with a dozen Peroni and get down to the first box where we utilize the famous Australian beer bong to steady the nerves. We watch Hibrie Roy Moodley drive one down the middle. His swing resembles an Octopus with cerbral palsy falling out of a tree...

Dr Aidan after the party

I have had a bet with Bongie Delpech and I have a two stroke lead over him as he drives past me. He seems to have lost the vision in his left eye as he tells me that a spider has bitten him, and not between holes, but on the eyelid. I fake my sincerity when I tell him that I hope it does not affect him. By the sixth tee we have run out of beer and our good friend Clive 'Youpoes' Napier delivers the two bottles of Semi-Norf and four liters of Kokorot Sop. Michael Shezi starts pouring some wonderful Kwamashu singles and approaching the last, Dr Aidan Glynn has gone from His Eminence the Vet to the Vietnam vet and is slurring in a dialect of medieval Vietcong. The famous 18th hole has a group of spectators drinking beer and the irrepresible Shezi is chirping away as usual. King comes through with another good score and once again fleeces me of what little is left in my wallet. Fish Sturgeon, whose riding style resembles someone washing sarongs on the banks of the Yangtse river, suffers the ignominy of four puts on the green to tremendous applause and a lot of ribbing from his fellow stunted pilots. With the final pairing advancing on the last hole, the word goes out that Larry Southwood has turned it around and, apart from rumoured to be now batting for the other side, has  drawn clear with former leader, Shane Simmons, folding like a new deck chair.

Goofman before Secretariat

 Eventually, everybody retires to the clubhouse where the bets are paid out and the once confident Jimbo Goodman looks a shadow of his youthful self, a broken man languishing in the mediocrity of his inconsistent swing. Ricky the Lunatic gives the crowd his best impersonation of an autistic jockey as he animatedly starts swinging his arms like a mongoose whose backside has just been caught in a mouse trap. 

Kevin Shea at the 18th

The prizes are handed out by all the girls who have made the event so successful, and Aidan Glynn is one drink from falling as he stumbles around the room like a wounded Zulu at the Battle of Blood River. Dean Hayman and I have started surreptitiously throwing bread rolls at the base guitarist who keeps nodding off to his own beat. He occasionally glances around the room inbetween naps to discover his tormentors and he steadfastly fixes his stare on Keith Williamson. Luckless, the Greek Hanglider, is catching all sorts of objects being thrown across the room at him by his gormless and embarrassing owner. I am not sure Luckless will invite him next time. Watching David Van Der Scaler dance, I can only surmise that he had a severe bout of polio as a youngster that has now developed into full blown Muscular Dystrophy. As is the norm, the gang drifts off to the tables, and much to delight of most, the tables have turned and most fill their pockets.

It is a great end to the wonderful Champions season.   Until next time.

Friday 19th July 2013 Klawervlei

Klawervlei had kindly invited me without Roy to come down to Cape

Town for their farm sale. Many trainers from around the country had accepted

Robbie Hill's family back home

the invitation to come down to the farm for a get together that

resembles an Irish wake in spring & just a few weeks before

armeggedon. We left the sunny confines of KZN and arrived down south to wintry wet conditions. Our driver, who could have been Waiho Marwing's clone, in his limited wisdom had decided to take the scenic route out to the farm. We set off in good spirits with my co-travelers consisting of Prince (Robbie Hill), the only Pakistani trainer in

Robbie Hill having a smoke

South Africa, Alison and Kevin Wright exiles in waiting from Zimbo, Gavin Van Zyl, and Jane Thomas looking forward to her first emancipation tour. The initial drizzle quickly escalated into a full blown monsoon as our vision was restricted to roughly twenty yards or so. In his limited wisdom again, Waiho had decided to take the bulk of us to our guest house. He found a side cutting to the right off the main road and suddenly we were off the beaten track and going down a district road that would have not looked out of place in downtown Tripoli during the recent uprisings. The road narrowed down to less than a single lane as we circumcized a stagnant festering lake until we reached a dead end at which point Prince started displaying the first signs of severe cabin fever. The somnolent Cognac he had quaffed

prior to departure had started to wear off and his nascent displeasure

Robbie Hill at the Karachi Academy

combined with nicotine withdrawal symptoms only seen in baboon cigarette addicts at an East European animal research station was steadily bubbling beneath the surface. Waiho did a thirty seven point turn before he made his way back to the highway barely avoiding a fully laden pantechnicon from the nearby SADF munitions compound & traveling downhill at speeds way beyond safe.

Jane Thomas looking for a drop toilet

As our fourth sedentary hour approached and we set off in hope of beating the sunset, Jane Thomas, who had finished two liters of over priced bottled water, started appealing for a toilet somewhere soon, very soon. With legs crossed for once like a fresh koeksister, she implored Waiho to find a latrine, even if it was a second hand drop toilet, as Prince joined in & vociferously demanded a smoke break. The tension, palpable as it was, was briefly broken by the news of the Wrights' horses running first and second in the Borrowdale feature.



We eventually arrived at the stud around four and a half hours after

Dean Kannemeyer

disembarking to be warmly greeted by barman extraordinaire, Matthew Sham, who has the finesse of an enebriated blacksmith. The upstairs pub was full and the TV was switching between the Ashes and the rampant Sharks as George Clooney braaied all forms of animal off-cuts for the sozzled carnivore diners. One of our country's greatest young cricket stars, David Miller, was a guest as well as his father, Andrew, who also doubled as auctioneer. David is the real deal in more ways than one and when Dean 'I'll Have Another' Kannemeyer realized who he was, he promptly posed for a photo alongside him looking like Sammy Davis Jnr at a Vegas cabaret. 

Michael Roberts, donning an apron, had provisionally taken over the barman duties as Matthew did renditions of Flower of Scotland and Ireland's Call, and to appease the numerous skaaps in attendance, did Ruiperd with the diminutive Roberts joining in for the chorus. Klawervleis two front men, John Koster, and Grant Knowles, have done a great job of ensuring that all visitors are warmly cared for and I spot one of the quiet gentlemen of racing, Ricardo Lerena, savaging the remnants of a charred chicken in the corner. He catches my eye & nods appreciatively at me.

When it is eventually time to retire to our respective hamlets, I

thankfully notice that Waiho is not around. Jane is being ushered to

her van with a degree of vociferous coaxing by Knowlsie, somewhat akin

Muis Roberts as himself

to the loading of a reluctant feature race favorite, as Michael Roberts gets a bout of the giggles. Our guest house is a renovated set of stables once owned by a successful racehorse owner. I am ushered into Jungle Warrior's stable and Michael Roberts gets Numeral's. He  catches me stealing his chocolates off his pillow and promptly manages to lock me in my stable for the night.

The next day we were greeted by a chill usually seen on the outskirts of the Siberian Tundra and Michael Roberts waltzing around in a

sleeping shirt last ironed when he rode work for old man, 'Pa' Brown.

Breakfast is in a renovated barn and Clint Larsen (not the footballer)

Paul Matchett, Cathy Howells and I have some country grown sustenance

before we set out to see the yearlings. Klawervlei is a wonderful set

up and the different barns have been named after great racehorses of

old. I walk around viewing the woolly nags with Michael Roberts who is

only slightly taller than a premature weanling and twice as critical.

The crowds are starting to arrive and it makes viewing a little

tougher. We escape to the main tent to warm up with some coffee to be

promptly serenaded by John McVeigh's cousin, Andre Reui, on guitar playing ballads from yesteryear. His rendition of 'You're as cold as ice' seems touchingly appropriate. Prince strides by wearing a Springbok rugby jacket that would be loose on Clyde Basel & stearing well clear of the free bar as if it was a leper colony. These Pakistanis don't seem to have the constitution of the locals.

Robbie Hill training trotters for Karachi Derby

An announcement is made that the sale will be starting a couple of hours late as Chris Van Niekerk and Sean Tarry are unable to land their '63 vintage Dakota on the local miellie field due to thick mist and are forced to fly on to Cape Town International. This announcement

blows the Wrights right out of the water as they have to get back for an earlier flight home. The Humble Hero, Joe Soma, strides in looking fresh and strong and no doubt looking for someone to natter with over

a drink. Brett Crawford steps up to the plate in eager fashion and soon their little coterie is growing as the local tipple, the Green Tractor, makes its belated appearance. Brett was last seen irrigating a field on the side of the road. Lynton Ryan, the horse guru of note,

has given me a list of  horses to look at and we end up inheriting a Seventh Rock filly for R75000. Herbert Mulholland seems to be a man on a mission as he pushes Dennis Drier all the way for the sale topper with the hammer dropping at a princely R240,000. This sale is fast turning out to be the premier social event of all post July functions. The seventy odd lots are soon sold by Andrew Miller for a total of around three point eight million proving that it has come of age. As soon as the last lot has been led away following ex champion sprinter, Mythical Flight, McVeigh's cousin, Andre, starts crooning again with the most popular person in the room becoming the attractive blonde bombshell behind the bar. Because I have to catch the early flight back to Durban, I manage to evade the rowdy colleagues and hitch a lift back to my hotel in Cape Town with Gareth 'Peppier' Pepper.

Monday 8th July 2013

The Vodacom Durban July was run this Saturday in warm winter sunshine after the midweek inclement weather had put a damper on it. 

July Day

Rain had sleeted down nine days before the event turning the course and infield into a Phnom Penh rice paddy. Then to make matters worse, on the Thursday evening a fresh deluge was dumped by the weather gods sending shivers up the spine of the Gold Circle board & spinning them in to frantic last minute discussions. Permission for the use of two helicopters to dry the track was vetoed by the town board, probably because all available helicopters had been diverted to Hluhluwe & the Kruger Park to track down the murderous Rhino poachers with various Vietnamese 'tourists' in tow. Thankfully, the wind picked up to such a frenzy that it could have forced a cancellation of the annual Sydney to Hobarth boat race, a race once interrupted many years ago by two South African weekend sailors, Herman Brown and Lynton Ryan, whilst on a tourist sailing tour of the harbour oblivious to the fact that the start of the famous boat race crossed paths with their tour route.

The wind certainly helped to alleviate the problem even though it was decided to call off the two opening events to abet the drying track. Approximately fifty five thousand revelers descended on the track to witness the current equine superstars do battle. The array of outfits, or in some cases, the lack of them, were outstanding, and big race trainer, Jeff Freedman, came in a canary yellow suit last worn by Freddie Mercury at a '70's bath house party in San Francisco. Freedman had been the subject of much mirth when hypnotized at a pre-July function & must still have been under the spell to don such an outfit. It was so loud it came with its own volume control and his owner, Shorgen Phillips, wore a matching yellow outfit to boot. With the Tour De France in full swing, maybe they were both vying for the yellow jacket.

Jeff Freedman at July after party

Another big race trainer, Gavin Van Zyl, tried to emulate Elton John as ring master and wore a top hat that made him resemble Paul Kruger at his first official opening of parliament. Quite a few race goers had gone for the top hat and tails look that resembled the Doves undertakers team ready to troop inebriated wanton women off the premises. It seemed as if all the major players in the industry had turned up  and many overseas visitors filled the various venues. Minkey Goss of Summerhill fame had a slew of dignitaries in tow as he strode up to his private box. His stud is trying to win its ninth consecutive Breeders' title and he was forced to watch as main challengers, Klawervlei, turned out some excellent equine athletes to win big races on the the day. It sure looks like it is going to be a humdinger of  battle to the wire. Master horseman and stud man extraordinaire, John Koster, the King of Klawervlei, was all smiles as he surveyed the athletic prowess of his successful breeding stock.

The opening event was won by the talented, Master Plan, for Fred Crabbia who lamented the fact that his son of Jetmaster had been overlooked for the big one again despite not having won a race for almost a year. Talking about big ones, I notice Clyde Basel, the epitome of masculinity, clambering up the stairs in an instance.

The final field had come in for some heated debate by some of the major players and much had been said about the merits, or lack of them, of some runners. There will always be opinions, and differences have led to everything from divorces to world wars, and possibly, next year the process and approach will have to be amended and modified. The great race and its traditions do not need to be tinged by this type of controversy.

I walked out of the parade ring to be accosted by an inebriated Indian fellow who says, "Hey Laffty, how's yourself? I'm a touch door neighbour of Ronnie the barman. What you'd like?"

drunk Indian man

I have no idea who he is talking about but send him packing with a lazy twenty and a promise to keep my ear to the ground in hope of finding a winner. The queues coming from the ATM machine are longer than Bill Lamberts entourage as he wafts by followed by more government hangers on than the Titanic had lifeboats. I do not envy Bill's job as he panders to the expectant free loaders up in the sumptuous enclaves of the classic room. Greg Sadie, the original Elvis impersonator, wafts by with a pile of computarforms under his Hugo Boss shirtsleeves as he makes his way down to the bookmakers, jacket pockets abulging. He is a form studier of note & resembles one of Liberace's close confidants on his way to a Vegas soirée.

We get a hint of what is to come later when Kolkata wins the fourth race for Sean Tarry, Chris Van Niekerk and Klawervlei, as he shows his well-being after impressing at the Vodacom gallops just ten days previously. Dees Dayanand looks as though he is dressed up for a Bhangra competition in Sea Cow Lake over Dewali. He has a large following around the country and many of his friends are fawning all over him outside the parade ring like groupies at a Bon Jovi concert. In the actual paddock, you see a lot of the usual suspects including those that don't know the difference between doing things right and doing the right things. Another hypnotee from the Thursday night function, Raymond Deacon, could also still be under the soporific effect as he lumbers by looking like Rin Tin Tin on bunga & dressed for an Everest trek.

The Golden Slipper winner produces the first group one winner for main line stallion Trippi and Team Tarry as For the Lads wins a good race. A proud moment for Gaynor Rupert, Drakenstein Stud and fellow investors, as the chestnut filly out of Skin Tight comes home well to kick off a big day for rising star, S'manga Khumalo.

I waltz up to the view room to have lunch and I see what appears to be the diminutive, Michael Roberts, walking across the course with his head bent down akin to a Buddist monk traipsing along in deep meditation. I realise that you are not supposed to look up if you see a shadow of a pigeon, but he may have wandered off into the remote recesses of his imagination. We might not have HRH the Queen on track but the irrepressible Bill Lambert has a regal demeanour of his very own as he brings another group of admiring visitors in to the parade ring. He

Bill Lambert

introduces me to the Mayor of Pietermaritzburg and his counterpart from Durban. I wonder where the original mayor of Durban, Robbie Martin, is entertaining as he normally has an entourage of aging blue rinses with him - probably the bar at Stella Football Club.

They introduce the twenty jockeys to a crowded parade ring before they mount up and get on to the course to tremendous applause. The atmosphere is outstanding as everyone gives a minute silence to the ailing senior statesman, Nelson Mandela, before a wonderful rendition of our national anthem by a very talented Soprano singer. The big race is run at a good tempo as runners vie for their positions and Heavy Metal holds off determined challenges from Run For It and Do You Remember to once again emphasize the dominance of superlative stallion, Silvano.

The big three are back, with Chris Van Niekerk and Sean Tarry securing back to back Vodacom Durban July winners and young S'manga Khumalo becoming the first black rider to win the race. Many of the fancied runners are strung out like junkies in Kabul and last years winner, Pomodoro, trails in down the field to emphasize the uncertain and erratic nature of this great game.

Leaving the parade ring, I literally bump into my Indian friend from earlier in the day who has now completely marinated his body in alcohol and is less than one drink from intensive care. I have seen people look better after the life support system has been turned off. "Eh Laffty..." he slurs before he loses focus totally and shuffles off aimlessly.

I notice Gary Player, South Africa's greatest golfer in the parade ring talking with Robin Bruss.

I had last seen him, that is Gary, at Royal Ascot where he received a standing ovation before giving out the prizes. There were autograph hunters standing in line and it is a pity that he is not afforded the same treatment in his homeland. He is a great ambassador and loves his racing. Jimbo Goodman my great friend and co presenter breezed by resembling British Actor Terry Thomas in the last weeks of his life, without the moustache, contentedly puffing on an Monte Christo on his way to auditions for 'Çarry On Up The Khyber'. After the Currie Cup match was shown on the impressive big screen the parties got in to full swing with the wonderful Durban backdrop being illuminated by a fireworks display.

James Goodman

The post festivities cleaning crew managed to resuscitate 'Fat Boy' Scott from a slumped position in his box at eight thirty in the morning. He was last seen been wheel chaired into the liver transplant unit in the emergency ward of Entabeni hospital. Our best wishes are with him.

Fat Boy Scott before first drink

Tuesday 2nd July 2013

Hughes Pulmateeth

Shoudna

Roy and I have just returned from London where we met with barrister, Hughes Puldmateeth, who was pushing for the extradition of murder accused, Shoudna Dunnit Dewani, to face the music. South African authorities, a toothless poodle at the best of times, have pulled out every stop to enable the return of Shoudna to Cape Town to face trial. For those of you who have forgotten the case, Shoudna is alleged to have paid a couple of murderous illiterate villains, John 'I'll Poke You' Dhlamini and his retarded cousin, Cutthroat Dhlamini, to hijack him and his beautiful wife on a predetermined rendezvous in Gugulethu and to allow him to escape while they promptly did away with his new unfortunate bride. The two miscreants were caught on CCTV being paid by Shoudna and have since been charged, incarcerated and sent away for a long time. Both fingered Shoudna as the brains, for lack of a better term, thus incriminating the Wagon wholesale. Shoudna's sexual proclivities & sometime preferences have emerged and his murky entretempts have revealed liaisons with a German gay bouncer amongst other trysts with a string of double adaptor males. Shoudna scarpered back to the safe enclaves of Blighty, and his delusional publicist, Max Nodifference, in conjunction with his lawyer, Hineed Decashbadly, have inter alia dismissed and denigrated the South African judicial system and gone for the last chance saloon, the insanity plea. Shouldna has since shacked up in a caravan on the grounds of an upmarket Bristol hospital for the rich mentally disturbed. Meanwhile, this man is saner than Tony Blair, not that Blair is squeaky clean, particularly - a stint in front of the UN Security Council for war crimes would be a good start - but arguably alot more conniving, and if the British public want to protect him, then they will be doing their own judicial system a massive disservice.

Hineed Decashbadly

Max Nodifference

Puldmateeth has told the court that Shoudna's health has improved and that he no longer spoke of sewerage pipes or any forms of self-mutilation even though the subject of self-flagellation has never been broached. Shoudna's legal team has asked for a few conditions to be put in place before they considered sending him down south to face the truth. Psychiatric help has been guaranteed for him in Cape Town and a single cell has been requested because the legal team feared the brutality of the crowded Cape jails and the possibility of him being repeatedly sodomised by half of Kyalechee. In reality, given his penchant, it is hardly certain that this would be a deal breaker. The trial in Bristol is expected to conclude within five days and British judge, Horace Blighty Smith, will decide the fate of the man who has seemingly intentionally destroyed the lives of a few families. Meanwhile, Horace would do well to look at Blair as the second case on the agenda. Blair might well fall into the same bracket of seemingly intentionally destroying the lives of more than just a few families - talk about an individual getting off Scot-free!

Max Nodifference, a publicist with a predilection for courting controversy amongst other things, is the 'go to' man when airhead film stars and top sportsmen need to get maximum coverage or maximum spin. The silver haired egotist has made some far etching comments about our judicial system and the letter of the law in this country and once again has proven that he will get your name out there as long as the cash is good. He claims his driving force is the hypocrisy within our society....Ya Max! Our good friend Max is himself currently facing sexual offences of his own that date back to the Jimmy Saville epoch, although apparently nothing connected to Saville's antics per se. Saville appears to be on another level when it came to surruptitious sexual indulgence on both sides of the sexual divide & mostly among the prepubescent, mentally challenged or downright paralysed it would appear. Max himself has denied eleven sexual assault charges from girls that were aged fourteen to nineteen at the time of the alleged offences, all supposedly between 1966 & 1985 - something to do with the sexual revolution, presumably. Of course, our man Max refutes the charges outright as totally unfounded, protesting his innocence of all charges. His trial is set for March next year & that will make for entertaining listening.

Tuesday 25th June 2013

 



Roy and I have just returned from Maastricht in the Netherlands where we went to watch master musician and egomaniac, Andre Rieu, complete the final touches to his new vision of beaming his concerts across the globe through participating cinemas.

 

Andre Rieu

Affectionately known by his psycophantic fans as the King of Waltz, Andre has launched his biggest and most spectacular concert performed to date for cinemas.

Maastricht

The concert has been filmed in front of thousands of adoring fans in the beautiful medieval backdrop of his hometown of Maastricht, famous for the fiscal treaty and Orangutangs that have featured in so many cinematic extravaganzas.

Octogenarian actor and director, Squint Leastwould, once famously used one of his pieces in his seventies western classic, Hennie Witch Hay But That Way Bruce, which featured Clyde as a soppy camel's assistant & sometime sleeping companion.

Squint Leastwould

Rui with his John Mc Veigh non-hairstyle and John Travolta switch hitting ego has played to sold out concerts since the Dead Sea was on the critical list, and is now trying to get his masterful compositions out to the masses via more affordable media streams, and given his penchant for detail, this venture could catapult him way ahead of current pop stars. Rieu has courted controversy for many years with his apparent disdain for orchestras that did not play 'my way' as in the Johann Strauss Orchestra, and many journalists have been on the wrong side of his wrath over their comments whether founded or not.

 

Auditions for Likmadef Sweetly

His musical instrument of choice is the 1667 Stradivarius violin that was created a few years apart from the French euthanasia instrument of choice, La Guilloitine, both having been known to send people scurrying in all directions. Under his father's instruction, Rieu began playing the violin at age five and by his teen years had mastered his music, and, may it be said, most of the local girls & the odd yodeller attracting many a suitor. Rieu has always had something of a rock star demeanour and has been the single most important person in the revival of the Waltz music category. Ever the boastful egomaniac, Rieu is a wonderful musician and it is a pity that the bulk of classic radio stations refuse to play his adopted brand of vintage music. He speaks many languages including Limburgish, Dutch, French, English, Pigeon Italian, Swahili and a colloquial spin on Argentine Spanish that most Argies struggle to comprehend with the exception perhaps of some rural gauchos from the remote Patagonian region, and can swop from one dialect to another at the drop of a Stradivarius or the odd Argentine matador's bull. His two favourite pieces are the Dutch Blue Danube & the Greek favourite 'Likmadef Sweetly or Not At All'.

 

His extra large orchestra, the equivalent of a small Austrian village, travels in a convoy of several large buses, strangely supplied by a neo-nazi group from Braunau am Inn, the birthplace of its most famous citizen, Adolf. The Mercedes buses are state of the art with a new Lebanese recycling system imported from Downtown Beirut. Andre has never forgiven the Walt Disney organisation for not allowing him to write the film score to the film, "The Sound of Music", which is accredited to Richard Rogers and his partner, Doesn't. Andre has been offered the chance to produce Emmimen's latest album, Recovery. He turned it down for two reasons due to two prior commitments, firstly a concert for Old Age Pensioners in the Barvarian town of Rogersberg, and secondly, a duet with Eminem at a concert in the former East Berlin with the title, Rap is Crap, Waltz is Better.

 

 

21st June 2013

Roy and I have just returned from Royal Ascot, a most regal racecourse in the middle of the Berkshire countryside, where we were hoping to witness Shea Shea win a Gr1 for the first time for a South African bred in Royal Ascot history.

 

Homo Sapiens - Abboud

 Mike Abboud, the Egyptian cross-dressing champion double adaptor, has volunteered to be my dailychauffeur, butler & sometime masseur. We eagerly set off at 11am on the inaugural day of thismost wonderful racing carnival to enjoy the delightful picturesque setting on a fine & glorious summer's day in the land of old & in the company of the most noble of creatures, the thoroughbred racehorse.



Royal Ascot Cross-Dressers

The two of us managed to scrum our way through the world's biggest car park, the M25, and on down the M3 to the outskirts of Ascot where we met the conflux of traffic from every conceivable angle. To say that the traffic was slow would be a huge understatement as we limped along at an arthritic snail's pace to the parking area allocated us. We eventually got on to the course just under two hours after we had set off. It is certainly a magnificent social occasion with the pride of British racing in attendance & all rubbing shoulders from aristocracy to Liverpool plumbers, albeit in different enclosures. The rules are rigid. Women are required to have something perched on their heads from all sorts of hats to a miriad of fasteners, with the men all sporting various shades of top hats as they enjoy the atmosphere in the various enclosures.

More cross dressers - sometimes known as women

For the first race, just after Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth had arrived with her pre-selected guests in horse drawn carriages, the ring announcer had to ask the impish jockeys three times to mount before they complied. The excitement was palpable when champion racehorse, Animal Kingdom, went down to the start as heavy favourite in the first Gr1 event of the meeting.  

Animal Kingdom - "Darn those Poms!"

 

The American champion had already shown his unquestionable ability on two different continents & including racing on three very different surfaces, and he was now hoping to make his final bow from racing over the undulating hallowed turf of Ascot on yet another continent on his way to the rogering barn with a dramatic & final swan song.  Alas it was not to be as he pulled like a demented dentist on acid and was a spent force long before the rising ground, leaving losing betting tickets strewn across the course like confetti at a fourth of July celebration. But it was a brave attempt at the very least.

The gallant Shea Shea

It was now time to see whether super sprinter, Shea Shea, could prove the worth of South African bloodstock and win the prestigious King Stand Stakes. He was given a very good ride by Christophe Soumillion who timed his run up the inside with great precision to hit the front at the furlong mark only to be denied by Sole Power in the shadow of the winning post. I very much doubt that it would have been the same result if they had run alongside each other as Shea Shea has always liked to chase horses, and being alone down the inside he clearly thought he had done enough. The Ascot track is wider than a reed dancer's backside and the two horses finished a full wheat field apart from each other. It was a valiant effort and made all the remarkable by the transworld travels that prevail upon our unfortunate South African equine athletes.

Sozzled Cockney Barman Sid

Our next move, which was probably our best, was to introduce ourselves to the cockney barman located next to the bandstand. After the races, the bandstand comes to life with the locals raucously singing renditions of popular British dittys such as Havana Nagilla and the chart topper from all over the Midlle East, Awedony, made famous by Amr Diab. The only way we could look forward to our ride home was to wait until the crowd thinned out, and that only occurred as the second show Drive In was coming out in Mpumalanga and the famous car park piss ups were finally calling it a night.

 

 

18th June 2013

Roy and I have just come back from an invitation to join the Springbok rugby team for their game against the visiting crossdressers in their kilts all the way from Scotland.

The kilted crossdressers

We booked into our hotel in this very Afrikaans speaking city, Nellies'spread, and went to join the anachronistic prayer meeting on the eve of the game at the Church of the Skaap Boeres. On game day, the team coach Heineken Miller stirred up old Skaap passions as he implored his impressively sized team to play for their country & the President in particular. Watching the game and game plan or lack of it, one has to wonder if coach 'Two Beers' is getting it right. The two props, Jannie Twoplusthree and Just Hadafeast Intotherearer, had been given another chance to prove they deserved to remain as the Bokke incumbents. Again their performance was lower than the Bagdhad skyline, and Two Beers and the SARFU organ grinders need to possibly look elsewhere to solve the problem."



Ï'm heeeere...

Spear Please, the vice captain and number eight, who probably has the best body in the sport, is a shadow of his former selfs and should possibly look at another sport like jousting on Lesotho ponies or BMX acrobatic cycling on the Durban beachfront.

In the first half of the Test, the Boere played with their traditional laager mentality of bygone Bulls sides and were put to the sword by an aggressive attacking display by the Scottish Fifteen. Two Beers must have been pulling his hair out watching this one dimensional Skaap team stumble into half time on the wrong end of the score line. The team talk, no doubt delivered in various Afrikaans expletives intermingled with the occasional line in Zulu to satisfy BEE requirements, seemed to lift the torpor that had engulfed the squad in the first half and took effect immediately the second half started.


What did ya say?!

For once, the first instance of indiscipline did not emanate from the protein stacked & overly pumped Bokke, but from the irate Scottish second rower, a certain Mr Hamilton, who pushed Iam Elizabeth in the proverbial chops with the predictable handbag throwing match ensuing.
After Hamilton's subsequent dismissal, the outnumbered Scots were unable to hold off a steadily improving local side, and the inclusion of the younger brigade helped flatter a largely over-rated Springbok team. Heineken Miller has had some easy touches to the start of his tenure after taking over last year from the wildly gesticulative & utterly illiterate, Peter Devilears.

The untutored

Devilears, who often sounds like a whimpering, untutored imbecile, did at least come away with a mildly consistent and competent team (mostly coached by the senior players admittedly), and, but for some howling decisions by some Kiwi pygmy official, Twice Torrence, could have added another World Cup to the country's coffers. 

"Tha mi a'fuireach ann on Eirinn" = I live in Ireland

Anyway, the post match speeches after this most recent test were quite unusual, requiring an interpreter & subtitles to understand Scottish captain, Roy Laidlow. Then man of the match, Si Killeasy, treated viewers to a new dialect of Newlands slang emanating from Pollsmor prison in the Cape that would flummox most seasoned coloureds. Baas Boota then took the slaughtering of the English language to a new level that an uneducated thug from Manchester would fail to duplicate as he tripped over the most basic grammar with pronunciation a mating chimpanzee could better.

13th June 2013....Vatican

vatican choir boys

Roy and I have just returned from Vatican City to substantiate claims of a gay lobby vying for power and influence within the Vatican. Current and recently ordained head of the Catholic Church worldwide, Pope Francsbinkisst, a 44/1 shot to win the vote when the white smoke emerged from the Vatican enclave earlier this year, has found himself having to face a long simmering & probably smouldering underground gay movement within the Catholic Church and now oversee a dossier handed to him by erstwhile pope, Pope Bendthedict, on his abrupt departure. On Tuesday, Vatican spokesman, Fredrico Longballme, did not deny the reports but stated that he wished to make no further comment on the matter & would rather retire for some introspection to a local gay club, Incognito, on the periphery of the Vatican grounds adjacent to a pharmaceutical company that has manufactured female contraceptives since '68 & has been funded from conception (forgive the pun) by the Vatican Bank.

Frangelico

 

The Latin American group, the Regional Organization for Priests and Nuns of Religious Order, known by its Lebanese acronym, GHEY, issued an apoplectic apology emphasizing that it was most distressed by the article. The organization has long been the subject of speculation about a gay lobby, and the sudden retirement of Pope Bendthedict was rumored to have been the result of ongoing internal squabbling & wholesale blackmail on an unprecedented scale. It has been commonly reported that Pope Bendthedict had asked three senior cardinals to investigate leaks regarding the scandal that homosexual clerics existed within the Vatican and that there was a strong probability this group had been blackmailed by some informed laymen from the Vatican spanking sector... I mean banking sector. The Vatican Secretariat of State, Cardinal Terdinand Feltsumkids, said the reports were "unverified, unverifiable or completely false" and retired to Incognito for a nightcap with long time companion, Longballme.
 

The notion there may be gays in the Vatican might come as a shock to the 1.2 billion Catholics but it is a wake up call to the blinkered devotees that all is not well in Rome. The ever present expose of paedophilia within the papal ranks has cost the Vatican millions in followers not to mention sunday stipends, and made followers reconsider this ancient and covert order within and beyond the Roman Curia. With Pope Francsbinkisst taking a new stand on openness and hoping to distance the Catholic church from 'Omertà', the Italian deep rooted & entrenched code of silence, he is bound to open  Pandora's box although admittedly no chance of any other. The latter is left to the nuns at the Instituto Maria Bonissimo Bambinos nunnery on the periphery to the gates of Rome.

Bunnied fowl

 

Vatican expert, Rodger Delocalsnicely, explained that the gay lobby had been discussed with the internal investigation unit that came out from Sicily (again excuse the pun) around a private table at Incognito. The party enjoyed a sumptuous dinner of bunnied fowl followed by a special dance routine display from the in-house gay boys...sorry show boys...a few shooters of Benedictine & at least a dozen bottles of Frangelica to cap off a wonderful passionate display by the male prepubescent entertainment. 

 

Cardinal Pullme from Tristan de Cunha, now a senior adviser to the papacy, said that all the problems began with the leaked diaries from the former papal butler, Señor Rubmyunderwear. The diaries, it is alleged, open a can of worms regarding the proclivities of the scarlet robed brethren and their nocturnal activities. It seems that Bendtheedict was not the only pious devotee to stand down after Archbishop Dlamini was sent fudge packing back to downtown Rwanda........!

Cardinal Pullme