My South Africa

American Bubbles and the Zuckerberg Sucker Punch

With the launch of the Facebook IPO and bearing the toxic debt crisis of 2008 in mind, I couldn’t help but laugh when I came across this piece by Mark Twain. It is from his book “Roughing it” (published in 1872). Read it and you’ll agree with the French saying: ‘Le plus ça change…’ meaning the more things change, the more they stay the same. Especially in America it seems.

Every one of these wild cat mines–not mines, but holes in the ground over imaginary mines–was incorporated and had handsomely engraved “stock” and the stock was salable, too. It was bought and sold with a feverish avidity in the boards every day. You could go up on the mountain side, scratch around and find a ledge (there was no lack of them), put up a “notice” with a grandiloquent name in it, start a shaft, get your stock printed, and with nothing whatever to prove that your mine was worth a straw, you could put your stock on the market and sell out for hundreds and even thousands of dollars. To make money, and make it fast, was as easy as it was to eat your dinner.

Every man owned “feet” in fifty different wild cat mines and considered his fortune made. Think of a city with not one solitary poor man in it! One would suppose that when month after month went by and still not a wild cat mine (by wild cat I mean, in general terms, any claim not located on the mother vein, i.e., the “Comstock”) yielded a ton of rock worth crushing, the people would begin to wonder if they were not putting too much faith in their prospective riches; but there was not a thought of such a thing. They burrowed away, bought and sold, and were happy.

You guessed it: Mark is laughing all the way to the bank.

New claims were taken up daily, and it was the friendly custom to run straight to the newspaper offices, give the reporter forty or fifty “feet,” and get them to go and examine the mine and publish a notice of it. They did not care a fig what you said about the property so you said something.

Consequently we generally said a word or two to the effect that the “indications” were good, or that the ledge was “six feet wide,” or that the rock “resembled the Comstock” (and so it did–but as a general thing the resemblance was not startling enough to knock you down). If the rock was moderately promising, we followed the custom of the country, used strong adjectives and frothed at the mouth as if a very marvel in silver discoveries had transpired. If the mine was a “developed” one, and had no pay ore to show (and of course it hadn’t), we praised the tunnel; said it was one of the most infatuating tunnels in the land; driveled and driveled about the tunnel till we ran entirely out of ecstasies–but never said a word about the rock.

We would squander half a column of adulation on a shaft, or a new wire rope, or a dressed pine windlass, or a fascinating force pump, and close with a burst of admiration of the “gentlemanly and efficient Superintendent” of the mine –but never utter a whisper about the rock.

And those people were always pleased, always satisfied. Occasionally we patched up and varnished our reputation for discrimination and stern, undeviating accuracy, by giving some old abandoned claim a blast that ought to have made its dry bones rattle–and then somebody would seize it and sell it on the fleeting notoriety thus conferred upon it.

There was nothing in the shape of a mining claim that was not salable. We received presents of “feet” every day. If we needed a hundred dollars or so, we sold some; if not, we hoarded it away, satisfied that it would ultimately be worth a thousand dollars a foot. I had a trunk about half full of “stock.” When a claim made a stir in the market and went up to a high figure, I searched through my pile to see if I had any of its stock –and generally found it.

The prices rose and fell constantly; but still a fall disturbed us little, because a thousand dollars a foot was our figure, and so we were content to let it fluctuate as much as it pleased till it reached it. My pile of stock was not all given to me by people who wished their claims “noticed.” At least half of it was given me by persons who had no thought of such a thing, and looked for nothing more than a simple verbal “thank you;” and you were not even obliged by law to furnish that. If you are coming up the street with a couple of baskets of apples in your hands, and you meet a friend, you naturally invite him to take a few. That describes the condition of things in Virginia in the “flush times.” Every man had his pockets full of stock, and it was the actual custom of the country to part with small quantities of it to friends without the asking.

Think about it and you’ll also call it the ‘Zuckerberg Sucker Punch’.  Please hit ‘Share’ if you liked it.

My brief time in the Top 1% Club

NOTE: This is not part of the unauthorised autobiography series ‘UNPREPARED’, which I fear is boring my readers, so I gave it up for the moment. This is real life drama.

I’m back at work. This joyful news should have been greeted with joy and celebration across the world, especially by me, but it wasn’t.  First of all, I was still smarting at winning R22 million in the lotto and then losing the ticket. I shall not dwell on that too much. However, I was still happy to have a job to go to at last.

No sooner had I happily stepped into the office or I see a Facebook posting about incomes and where your own placed you in the world rankings when it comes to poverty and wealth and where you are on the global pay scale.

It was with joy that I learnt that I was earning more than the average Luxembourger, placing me in the top 1% of top earners on this blighted globe…

Of course I was delighted. I put on my best mental suit and prepared to rub shoulders with Warren Buffet, Bill Gates, Richard Branson and the like. It was not to be.

I immediately put on a surly demeanour and cast a baleful eye about to see who could possibly be richer than me, as I have seen the seriously rich do… and found the results discouraging. Judging by the cars parked outside ‘The Window of Opportunity’… just about everybody. Nevertheless I still cut my waitress’s tip by half. We rich people look after our pennies, I argued.

I stopped short of buying a “FUCK THE POOR” bumper sticker for my 1995 Toyota Corolla 1.3 and rather printed out a copy of the BBC website’s results proving that I was now part of the Top 1% Club and hastened there to enjoy the fruits of my wealth.

The guy at the door was snooty to say the least but us wealthy people can be snootier than most, so I gave him my most snootiest look and entered the Top 1% Club. It was a disappointment to say the least.

It soon became apparent to me that Groucho Marx was quite correct in eschewing clubs that would have him as member. The place was crowded by some 70 million people and I can’t stand crowds. I also learnt quickly that I was but #70 millionth and that it gave me no standing whatsoever.

This latter fact I learnt from the doorman, who hunted me down and said: “Excuse me sir, but there appears to have been some error in calculation on the BBC website and if you would quietly come with me and not make a fuss, I can show you the way to the Top 10% Club where they assure me you would be most welcome. As I understand it, one only needs a bank account and some sort of regular income to feel quite at home there.”

A very burly fellow stood behind the snooty doorman and indicated in no uncertain terms that the doorman spoke the truth and that I should heed his advice without too much delay.

I must admit here that I knew from the start that the BBC website’s assessment of my wealth seemed dodgy to me, so I left without ever meeting Bill or Rick and what was that other geezer’s name? Oh yes, Old Warren.

You can verify your own income status here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-17543356

UNPREPARED 3: My first day turns sour…

NOTE: For a chronological reading of this here fine autobiography, read from the bottom up. Not this post but all the posts titled ‘UNPREPARED’.

So it came to pass that on the 18^th day of August in the year of our Lord 1963 the mothership felt an irresistible urge to expel me. As I indicated earlier, I was also quite keen to go lest I be suffocated in the womb, but when I saw I had to leave by the same way I arrived, I had serious misgivings.

This was a monstrous proposition! When I came in I was but a slender sperm and now I weighed 10.3 pounds and as far as I could see the passage didn’t change in size at all! This was against the laws of physics. But seeing that there was no other apparent way out and with the mothership pushing me forcibly from behind, I plunged headfirst into that dark place and very nearly had my brains squeezed out of me for my sins. I felt like a square peg in a round hole ever since.

Nevertheless, I came out laughing or so the nurses thought. In fact I was merely gasping for air and making gurgling noises to prove it.

Then followed a series of events that changed the course of my life violently and of which I still bear the brunt to this day.

“He’s got reason to smile’, the one nurse said to the other while giving me my first bath. The other nurse was also bathing a baby born at the exact same moment as I and inquired as to why I had reason to smile. Her baby was bawling his head off but despite his contorted face I could see with my already keen eye that we bore a striking resemblance to each other. I didn’t like that at all but kept on gurgling as this seemed to please the nurses no end. I’ve been trying to please women ever since with little success.

“He is a an Oppenheimer, you know,’ my nurse continued. “No silver spoon in his mouth. I’ll be damned if it’s not a 24 carat golden one. He is likely to live a life of unequalled luxury and pleasure being the first-born and all.”

She prattled on along these lines some more but I paid her no further notice because I was already planning my life as a trust fund baby and found it to my liking. Very much to my liking. Here was something I felt I could deal with. I relaxed and gurgled some more until the other nurse piped up:

“Yes life is strange. My poor little one is the fifth-born to those poor missionaries and they are already struggling to make ends meet. I don’t know what it is with some people and their desire to bring more misery into the world and its cruelness. Look, they almost look like twins, yet the one is a prince and the other a pauper. How strange the ways of the Lord.”

Very (profanity deleted) strange indeed! Nurse #2 had hardly uttered those philosophical musings when an overhead geyser burst according to the will of the Lord no doubt, but it could also have been due to the fact that it was very old and situated in a public hospital. One would never know but the result of this event was predictably disastrous for me.

There was a lot of scurrying about to evacuate us and some others babies from underneath the scalding water, some of which landed on me and I set myself to bawling in a very convincing way. So much so that by the time the confusion passed I was completely breathless and then it happened.

“Which one is which?” I heard the nurses enquire of each other. I was still gasping for breath when the pauper’s son started gurgling with all the joy of an usurper spotting his chance.

“Oh that must be young Master Oppenheimer!” the nurses exclaimed in unison and tagged him thus when I screamed out loudly at the injustice of it all. Had I but kept my mouth shut or gurgled I could have saved myself a lot of bother, but when I thought of applying myself it was too late.

I was speechless when I was branded ‘Baby V’ and remained so for a considerable time afterwards because I somehow knew that was to be the story of my life. Always a bit out of breath, a bit late and completely unprepared for the life of a pauper. Oh cruel fate! I just wanted to get back into the womb and stay there. This latter desire of mine also shaped my life in unforgiving ways whenever I acted upon that impulse.

UNPREPARED: My time in the womb…

NOTE: For a chronological reading of this here fine autobiography, read from the bottom up. Not this post but all the posts titled ‘UNPREPARED’.

My time in the womb started off well enough. The egg and I got on swell and soon we were inseparable despite our earlier disputes and differences of opinion. For instance, upon moving in I was content just to lie there and suck in some nutrition but she was adamant that we should start growing things with immediate effect. Move in with a woman and house alterations will soon follow. That was one of my earliest lessons I learnt in life.

Myself at 15 weeks… having a good time just growing things.

On an unrelated historical note my father apparently had a ball-ache immediately after my conception. It must have been the guy with the surfboard stuck in his urinary tract. He apparently finally got rid of it by vigorous wanking despite his later dire warnings to me about doing the same.

So the smug guy with the surfboard went down the washbasin drain while I was luxuriating in the womb and I thought for a moment that there was some justice in the world. I was wrong of course.

Meanwhile the egg and I got on with great diligence in growing stuff. Toes, fingers, legs, arms… in short all the components needed to constitute something that could pass as a human being. She occupied herself mostly with the brain and head while I spent my energies on the extremities. I was particularly fond of growing a strange plant between my legs, wondering what use it could possibly have in the world.

Had I known then what I know now, I would have uprooted it without mercy. It was to prove a particularly destructive force in my life. The decisions I made on the behest of that thing still make me reel whenever I have the courage to examine them, (which is not often) but that’s a different story.

As I said those early days in the womb boded well for the future. There were food and drink aplenty and just lying there growing things was a quite a pleasant activity while there was nothing else to do.

Meanwhile my parents were clearly still at it in the missionary position. This I know from some passing sperm that came around from time to time only to find me shouting abuse at them and making rude gestures to ward them off.  They all died a forlorn death of course and I somehow pitied them. Once again, had I known then what I know now, I would have known that they were the lucky ones.

Be that as it may, my own short-lived happiness was also due to expire. This came as a direct result of the first of a life-long series of miscommunications with the mothership. This was a harbinger of all future miscommunications with women.

When I indicated that I preferred a diet of meat and potatoes, she somehow interpreted it as a great desire for salami coated in icing sugar. Similarly when I suggested a simple salad would meet the bill for lunch, she would gorge herself on artificially coloured strawberry ice-cream. The list of these miscommunications is too long to enumerate here. Later in my life when I indicated that I would just like to lie on the couch and watch rugby, they (women) would interpret it as a desire to mow the lawn, fix the gutters and clean the garage. Later in my life I was frequently astonished at this type of miscommunication, but then it was too late.

Suffice it to say that that my mother’s eating habits gave much discomfort to a fast-growing fetus and made me a finicky eater ever since.

Nevertheless our diligence in the growing things department made it clear that bigger premises were needed as a matter of urgency and I began fearing that the mothership would explode lest we stop growing. When I overheard my mother voicing the same concern to my father, my fear grew into sheer terror but I could not contain myself and kept on growing.

The need for more space was now so urgent that I squeezed the remainder of the egg into oblivion and alas, that’s what happened to my feminine side ever since. I once even tried to resurrect it with the help of a therapist but to no avail. (This is an utter lie, I can now truthfully tell. She has been with me trough thick and thin ever since our first meeting and was exceptionally helpful when I needed to lie. Nobody can lie like a female of the species when in need.)

From frequently overheard conversations of my mother, I also learnt that the frightful day of my birth was fast approaching. This filled me with equal measures of joy and terror. Joy because the womb had by then become suffocating and quite frankly I was bored in my solitude with the egg being gone. (Or so I thought.) Terror because I somehow knew I was wholly unprepared for what was to follow. I only later learnt exactly how unprepared and then it was too late. To be continued…

UNPREPARED: My life as a sperm

Having lately been inundated by three requests to ‘tell my life’s story’ by friends who were probably just hoping that I would stop telling them about my recent spate of misfortunes if I was busy writing somewhere else, I finally yielded. This is then the first instalment of my autobiography with the working title: UNPREPARED.

Where does one begin with such a mammoth undertaking? I suppose at the beginning. Now as a sperm my characteristics were already pretty much defined. When I was produced in the scrotum the place was already teeming with billions of others and I did my best to stay inconspicuous and just blend in. It quickly appeared that I was a ‘Johnny-come-lately’ and blending in became a more difficult chore than what you can imagine. The more wizened sperm there were already in possession of fashion accessories like sunglasses, Speedos and one even had a surfboard.

An early pic of me and you must admit that I was quite photogenic. 

As I was quietly standing at the back of the ball trying to figure out what was going on, I learnt from some passersby that today was to be ‘the big day’. Apparently my parents, who were missionaries, spent a lot of time in that position of late and I arrived on their wedding anniversary. ‘It’ was sure to happen that day again.

Sure enough, I hardly had time to digest that bit of information when the signal came for us to ‘get ready’. “Get ready for what?”, I asked of the guy in front of me but he just gave me a cold look and adjusted his Speedo and swimming goggles and stared ahead of him in a focused way.

The place was rocking (literally) now and the excitement was palpable. I took my place at the back of the queue thinking that from there I had a much better chance of avoiding any unpleasantness ahead. How mistaken can one be?

As I was saying the place was rocking with increased intensity and we were now being thrown all over it in a disturbingly disorderly way. I was feeling kinda seasick and must surely have turned a whiter shade of pale when I unexpectedly landed right in front of the guy with the surfboard.

Then there was the sound of a siren and a voice that announced: “All men to their stations. This is not a drill. I repeat this is not a drill. All men to their stations we’re all gonna die!” (For the record, I plagiarized Woody Allen here) Then there was as sudden shudder and I was shot out into some very dark passage. I looked over my shoulder for my companions but I was all alone. The guy with the surfboard got it stuck sideways in the narrow part of the urinary tract and apparently blocked all the others. I was panic-stricken to say the least and have remained that way ever since. I’m still cursing that guy with the surfboard to this day.

However, as there was not much else to do I just swam ahead to whatever fate awaited me while quietly humming Bob Dylan’s ‘The times they are a-changing’ in my head. Thinking of the smug guy with the surfboard, I was particularly pleased with the part that goes “And the first one now will later be last’.

Little did I know then that a fate worse than death awaited me namely life. I was feeling as Mark Twain described in his ‘Visit to Niagara’: “You can descend a staircase here a hundred and fifty feet down and stand at the edge of the water. After you have done it; you’ll wonder why you did it; but you will then be too late.”

Thus I swam with Bob Dylan urging me on until I came to a cavernous hall where somebody called me over. Although the swim was not unpleasant and the water was warm and even balmy, I was feeling kind of tired and went in the direction where the voice came from. There I found an egg and suddenly felt very attracted to the egg, but not knowing what to do I decided to rest my weary head on the egg and get some sleep.

Imagine my consternation when I woke up and found myself inside the egg! I was speechless but seeing as this installment is getting a bit long I shall tell you about my terrifying time in the womb in the next one.

DISCLAIMER: I freely admit that my time as a sperm was brief and that my memory of that time is sketchy to say the least, so I cannot vouchsafe the veracity of the above a 100% but that’s how I remember it.

Water is my thing and I can ramble if I want to…

My regular readers would attest to the fact that I always try to be positive on these pages but sometimes my positive nature is sorely tried by the news. Today’s Timeslive (online) is a case point. The first top story deals with water being unsafe to drink in 14 municipalities and the second is about how the stupid superstition in Vietnam that rhino horn can cure cancer is the driving force that will drive rhinos into extinction.

While every effort should be made to counter rhino poaching, my chief concern is water. Without water we will go the way of the dodo along with the rhino, yet only 10 people shared that story on Facebook as opposed to 75 sharing the rhino story. Priorities people!

Water is my thing. I don’t ever drink the stuff neat to be sure, but I drink a lot of it in other forms…. tea, coffee, beer… you know, health drinks as such. However I am most keen on water when it occurs in the form of red wine.

But water is really my thing and the state of the water in South Africa is shocking to say the least.

Yes, you can still drink the tap water in Joburg or so people tell me. I’m not an adventurous type, so I take their word for it.

Other people tend to worry about electricity and such and I just shrug. It will be hard to blog, nay impossible without electricity… and the winters will test you, but without water you’ll die without much further ado. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking dying as such. I mean history has shown that to be the only decent way to leave the planet… and some part of me wishes for more people to do so with a greater sense of purpose.

These days I’m a kind of a Malthusian. I became such, not because I wish large scale death upon humanity… it is just that sometimes I get the distinct impression humanity is not only wishing it upon themselves, they’re actively striving to inflict it upon themselves. In fact some days I’m convinced that they wish it with more sincerity than I can ever muster and apply themselves with such unfailing diligence in destroying the planet they depend upon for their meagre existence that I don’t even have to wish for it.

Is she perhaps poisoning her child??? One would not know.

The water crisis in South Africa is but one example. I mean if you go by the media, some alleged ‘racist’ incident at a high school in a provincial town is of much greater importance than say… the fact that we may soon not be able to drink our water… or irrigate our crops with it. Priorities people!

As this is already a bit of a rambling post I might as well ramble further by telling you of a black lady named ‘K’ last night went on a complete rant about her tax-funded employers who bankrupted the canteen of the organisation she works for by “eating chicken” an activity that has come to characterise the people running this country. Correction: They did not bankrupt the canteen by “eating chicken”. They bankrupted it by not paying for the chicken they ate so copiously.

Anyway, for many people getting government jobs that seems to be Nirvana. The ability to eat lots of chicken while sitting behind a desk… while eating chicken and doing not much else. Water is kind of important and it is being almost criminally neglected by the chicken eaters elected so faithfully by the poor who are suffering the most from that neglect.  I sigh and piss on the lawn… to save water if nothing else.

The way things happen…

The French have a rather mindless game they play in bars, especially in the south. It is called ‘Deux cent trois’ (302) and consists of two players throwing dice to reach 302 first. When pronounced it can easily be interpreted as ‘deux sans trois’ meaning ‘two without three’ hence they also have a saying that goes ‘Jamais deux sans trois’, translating to ‘never two without three’. This is to indicate that things tend to happen in threes. This is something about which I have my doubts as you will see at the end of this missive. (A reader pointed out that it is actually ‘trois cent deux’ which is wholly correct but I refuse to correct my initial mistake.)

When I was there during my misspent youth, I frowned on the complete and utter mindlessness of 302. The game requires no skill apart from being able to do the most basic arithmetic or to be able to count to 302 in French, which most of the French can do with ease. I just didn’t ‘get it’.

I was reminded of playing 302 by participating in an equally mindless pursuit namely a sports prediction game called ‘Superbru’. As a Superbru participant one is required to predict the winning margin of a number of sports but in our case we stick to rugby and specifically Super Rugby.

I am doing rather poorly in Superbru in my first year of active participation because I insist on backing my beloved Cheetahs despite them doing rather poorly consistently. They have an uncanny knack of losing games in which they led throughout in the last minute. These days I’m convinced that it’s better for them to trail by halftime than to lead at that point, but I digress.

My friends have been playing Superbru since 2009 already but I refused the invitation to join them because I just didn’t get it. Now suddenly I get both 302 and Superbru. Both games were designed to give bored men something to talk about in bars. I can’t believe I was so slow in getting it but it dawned on me yesterday when Jan, Pottie and I were sitting in the Xai just looking at the sky with not much to say to each other apart from discussing our Superbru predictions, having previously exhausted the entirely riveting issue of what wonderful weather we have been having lately.

I’m also sharing this mindless post with you to while away a sunny Sunday in South Africa.  I’m also sharing this mindless post with you as a challenge to myself that I can write about 500 words without having a single smattering of a thought in my head and make you read it up to here. If I succeeded in doing that, I can say ‘voila, mission accomplished’ and depart for lunch at Pottie’s place where we will doubtlessly discuss our Superbru performances of the weekend.

Just by the way, I don’t believe that things happen in threes. My experience of the past five months would rather suggest that things don’t happen at all.

What I learned from the ants…

I was sitting on the stoep watching the ants scurrying about seemingly aimlessly but with great urgency and industry. I was doing this in accordance with the scriptural advice to ‘go to the ants study their ways and become wise’.

I was still studying their ways but none the wiser when my landlady came out bearing poison which she scattered about the stoep liberally. Although I’m ‘green’ and thus against liberal usage of poison, I agreed with the landlady that something had to be done lest the ants eat the very foundations of the house.

Now this was a ‘smart poison’ and from its workings I learned many a fascinating thing. The ants think it is food and not any kind of food but the very best. They went for it as if it was a long yearned-for godsend. They immediately organised themselves into working squadrons and started carrying the stuff into there colonies walking straight past the mince that I put down there as control experiment.

Thus I learned that the scurrying multitude I studied before came not from one colony but from no less than five. I learned this by observing that a specific ant would carry his loot past one hole and make the proverbial beeline for another. Apparently the poison has a delayed reaction that will only manifest itself once safely inside the nest.

I also noticed that one colony’s ants were much more organised than the others and surmised that it was the ‘main’ colony on the stoep. No sooner did the poison land or they had formed an almost unbroken line shoving the shit down their colonial home. The other colonies appeared to adopt a more individualistic and random approach and clearly got less of the poison. There is a lesson in that somewhere but it escapes me now.

Anyway, just as my poor readers begin to wonder what the purpose of this post could possibly be, I can assure them that I am wondering about the same thing.

*Sits staring at ceiling for 10 minutes wondering*

Ah yes! There it is again! Somehow the ants reminded me ever so much of our very beloved ANC government. If they’re not scurrying about aimlessly to cover up their failures as a government, they purposefully carry poison into the nest. I’m referring to poisonous legislation like the ‘Protection of Information (about my dodgy dealings) Bill’ and the possible appointment of one Richard Mdluli as National Police Chief. Unfortunately, to say the least, here in SA we only have one colony and the poison pervades everything and all the time. It is even slower than the ant poison but will kill all activity soon enough.

Bad poison...

Now this guy has a rap sheet longer than an orangutan’s arm, ranging from mere trifles such as being involved in murdering his wife’s lover to more serious stuff like plundering state resources and yet he is likely to get appointed anyway. Poison in the nest and if there is a pesky prosecutor who does not want to give these matters a rest, the solution is simply to suspend her and shoot at her car every now and again. Seems legit.

If my landlady’s poison didn’t kill all the ants, I probably would have gone back to studying them but alas they’re gone and I remain none the wiser for all my sins.

Mark Twain saves the day…

“Why is it that people rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? Because they are not the person involved.” Mark Twain.

I was feeling a bit down on my luck. In fact I was feeling a lot down on my luck. I was feeling so much down on my luck that I wished to die but not in a suicidal way. I just hoped for something simple like a sudden heart attack and when I woke up I had a promising pain in my chest I fueled it by chain smoking several cigarettes, but as I said, with my luck the promising pain soon dissipated.

Mark Twain

So it was back to Mark Twain and then I stumbled on this passage that I wish to share with you:

“For two months my sole occupation was avoiding acquaintances; for during that time I did not earn a penny, or buy an article of any kind, or pay my board. I became very adept at ‘slinking’. I slunk from back street to back street, I slunk away from approaching faces that looked familiar, I slunk to my meals, ate them humbly with a mute apology for every mouthful I robbed my generous landlady of, and at midnight, after wanderings that were but slinkings away from cheerfulness and light, I slunk to my bed. I felt meaner, and lowlier and more despicable than the worms. During all this time I had but one piece of money – a silver ten cent piece – and I held on to it and would not spend it on any account, lest the consciousness coming strongly upon me that I was entirely penniless, might suggest suicide. I had pawned everything but the clothes I had on; so I clung to my dime desperately, till it was smooth with handling.

Ah the lot of the unemployed writer! However after reading that piece I realised my position was comparatively better and took heart again. My ‘silver dime’ is some Sanlam shares and I’m hanging on to them with the same desperation as Twain did to his silver ten cent piece, but I’m afraid that this week they’ll have to go. Ah the lot of the unemployed writer!

The good news is that we have successfully traversed the dreadful month of April with all its damn public holidays. They only serve to depress me even further for their lack of promise and possibility.

I sigh and remind myself that we have seen worse and will probably see yet worse again. Myself nods and thinks of drinking a beer. I sigh anew and think of the same and the I quote Gerhard Manly Hopkins to myself:

Not, I’ll not carrion comfort

Not untwist, slack they may be

These last strands of man in me              

Scotty explains the Hip within The Hip Replacements

Scotty,aka Allan Lusk is a member in good standing and one of the lead singers of The Hip Replacements consisting of Bert aka Mark Bennet, Harvey Roberts, Andrew and James Donaldson and the drummer whom I do not know personally called Ivan. I asked Scott to introduce the YouTube video above that Chuck M and Trouble shot of them. I just want to assure you that the playback of that video is fine and very much unlike the previous efforts I posted there, so give it a look. There’s even a cameo of me a la Hitchcock.  

As you may have noticed there is a tiny cinema screen at the top of this fine blog page. Some of my dearest friends and I can be found, condensed, within.

This is our band, The Hip Replacements performing at The Radium Beerhall which is a regular spot for us, in fact we hold the record for the biggest attendance at the venue and it’s owner, Manny, has told us in no uncertain terms that “you ous get the Radium!”

High praise indeed from a man who had Sir Bob Geldof dine at his establishment. When Manny found out who he was, he asked how he should address Sir Bob, to which he was told “you can call me c#&t if you like”.

Manny was taken aback at the idea of a man with a title not being given due respect and proceeded to call him Sir C#&t for the rest of the evening.

But back to the band, The Hips are not a hard working band but The Hip works hard in us.

We delicately craft each of our songs into a flowing soundscape that tugs at the heartstrings of the listener, well to be honest we practice twice a week, mostly, and we drink beer in order to oil the creative juices and get the vocal chords moving along nicely.

The Hip is in all of us to lessor or greater degree, my own percentage is particularly high. Personally, I blame the man upstairs for The Hip.

No not him, the man with the baby grand piano in the apartment above my bedroom in early 60’s Glasgow, the man who practised most nights after I was put down.

Lying in the dark underneath heavy blankets the anonymous notes would nurse me into slumber.

Mind you, it could have been the triangle I played in the primary school band, the inclusive instrument for thickies, “it makes them feel like they are part of the band, you know”.

The Hip evolved into Radio Luxemburg, becoming my bedtime lullaby in the 70’s, how did they get so many bands in their studio every night?

This was before there was the family record player I hasten to add.

A séance in a mates bedroom revealed that The Hip would have me playing bass after my arrival in South Africa and by some strange twist of fret I met the right guy at the right time and we strutted our stuff on (and off) the high school stage.

So now The Hip has us practicing in Melville and pre practising at the Xai Xai.

I want to thank you Hip for taking us to so many nice places over the years, giving us a ton of memories and introducing us to so many wonderful people.