Thursday, March 06, 2014
A Rhodesian on the war path – further adventures of the Gokwe Kid...
I hate people who take the piss or are actually being paid not to do their job correctly (that excludes me of course).
The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of the dark side of the force when it comes to German proficiency.
Now, an annoyed modern Rhodesian Bush War fighter only takes so much before declaring WAR!
I have had it with the Bundespost, Landesbank Berlin and now the giant electrical chain by the name of MediaMarkt.
I have better things to do than spend my well donated money chasing clowns for a laugh. I want to see clowns - I just Skype my friend Tim Bell for free. Just looking at the state of him makes me pass a coil.
All I wanted was a smart phone that did simple tasks. The simplest task was listening to the salesgirl who had no idea what she was flogging me and sign on the dotted line.
As for the 'smart phone', it had problems thinking out of the box. Besides the fact it's ram couldn't service an ewe, it had a memory of a 2 year old chimpanzee – 4gig. Of course half of that was used up with Windows telling it how to think out the box once some fool bought it and plugged it in.
As soon as you download a couple of maps, the thing had enough space leftover to download 5 apps and three versions of 'Merry Xmas' by Slade. (That includes the techno version.') now, this is on top of being told that this Knockya 510 phone can take more sims than sums, but sadly this is not true.
Meanwhile, it struggles to connect up to my flat rate which made me flat irate, and, when I moaned on MediaMarkts FB, complete with my new designed logo for them, they deleted me in seconds!
Their official logo is 'I am not stupid.' I changed it to 'I am stupid.'
Balls and phones I say. I will be back chirping something rotten this Saturday...
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
Who are you! German style.
I think this malarkey must be approaching close on a month now. It appears that the Landesbank Berlin have a problem proving that I exist. This is bureaucratic nonsense gone crazy.
It all started with Amazon Germany. I was busy buying some presents and for the zillionth time they offered me 30 Euros for free if I signed up for their VISA card. So why not? That was when the world came to an end.
Now, remember I live in the 'sticks' of deepest darkest Bavaria. Some people even think it is really werewolves that patrol the streets at night looking for unsuspecting tourists – hence why we have none. (Nothing to do with the fact that no foreigner alive could trawl the internet for years and still not find one entry of things to see or do here. Okay, they do have a PENNY discount store on the outskirts but if you have been inside one, you have been inside them all.)
So, a good looking chick dressed like a canary (that is the uniform), pitches up at my door with my new Amazon VISA card issued by a bank in Berlin. Oddly, she happens to know who I am as she has delivered post (including a TV) to me for 18 months. However, all of a sudden – I have to prove it really is me.
It isn't quite like in WWII films where they stick a Schmeisser sub-machine gun into your groin and demand 'Pappieren – Schnell!' They have grown out of that now. So, all is cool until we get to the part on her paperwork – Austellungs Ort? This means, where was it issued? A very good question.
There is a little bit which contains the letters UKPA.
'OOKPAH? I not no zees place. Wer is dis?'
Well, considering I handed in my application for a new passport to a tiny post office stuck in a corner of a Pakistani corner shop somewhere in London many years ago – she had me.
'University of Karachi Pakistan Administration,' was my useful reply. Why not? Most complaints by phone in the UK land up there anyway. ('Hello, listen you, my Sky is not working' 'Your Sky is not woking. Maybe it because it is dark. Wait till sun come up tomorrow. Can I be of father incense for you?')
After a lot of humming and aahing, I just tell her to put in Liverpool. Job done...not.
A week later I get a nasty letter.
'Wee not no you because YOU TELL LIES about AUSTELLINGS ORT. Go to post office and proof you – schnell.'
WTF. Eish. What a pain. Buses later, I land up arriving when the clowns take 2 hours for lunch (Yes they do, everyday except Saturdays and Sundays because they are closed for most of the weekend. You can buy stamps from a machine, but the thieving thing doesn't give change. Hence if you do not read the instructions an 80 cent stamp can set you back 2 Euros.)
Sadly, the paperwork I had neglected to have a reference number. That meant the computer said NEIN! The helpless sap of an assistant now makes frantic phone calls. No one has a clue. I am missing the next bus and a huge queue of irate nasties with triggers on their Schmeisser machine guns are thinking of starting another holocaust.
In this modern world she reverts to pen and paper. It takes ten minutes to find a pen and another 20 to find the correct form (she thinks, but not really sure), photo copies my passport and promises all will be alles klar....ahhh.
5 days later... A knock on the door. I peer out the window and am astonished to see the farmer's field full of armoured cars and Schmeisser toting POLIZEI, along with a film crew from SKY TV, reporting that the police have surrounded a house where a possible Pakistani terrorist, that had been attempting under false ID to purchase weapons with a VISA card from Amazon, is holed up.
I had the news on at the time, hence I know that, but I was alarmed watching me put my hands up on the TV screen! I screamed out -
'Wait, I must clean the toilet before I let you in and don't shoot through the locked door just because you idiots don't have leg to stand on with this nonsense.'
The last thing I need is someone to tweet a picture of a dirty bowl. I would never live it down.
The pretty canary is back with more bits of paper. It seems HQ were not impressed with Liverpool and said it really should say UKPA. (United Kingdom Passport Authority.) Bingo. All done and dusted...Not.
Two days ago I receive a very, very nasty Email. Given the fact I refuse to prove I exist, they have blocked my card and under section such and such, paragraph blah blah, we will hang, draw and quarter you. I then phone the idiots in Berlin.
It now gets beyond belief. This can only happen to me. Let me see.
- I am a published author of two books on AMAZON selling nicely.
- I have had a blog for over 10 years.
- I have over half a million hits on my YouTubes.
- I am on FB with loads of 'friends' and even have my own fanclub.
- I am registered as from today on Twitter. (GokweKid)
- I am legally registered with the local council.
- I have just received my card entitling me to vote in the forthcoming local elections.
- I have two banks accounts and another VISA already.
- I am a legally employed person and have a medical insurance card.
- I have two legitimate German children that oddly enough are somewhere in a Bundesrepublik computer acknowledging them as the fruit of my loins.
And YOU lunatics say I do not exist!
It gets better (worse). After much 'Bitte warten, I look at your details,' which I am paying for as I listen to Handel's Dead March as background music, I eventually receive profound apologies that nothing has arrived in the post.
This very helpful person has of course identified me even though I do not exist. (HUH!)
What she tells me to do now is beyond belief. I must take my passport to my local bank, get them on their letterhead with rubber stamp to acknowledge that I am,I said and post it to Berlin.
Okayyyyyyyyyy. Today, I again had to use my time and bus fares to complete this task. What then transpired made a funny button click in my head and seriously think I should ask for a wagon to take strange people away in white jackets with strong brown straps.
I was told that legally only the Bundespost are able to confirm if I breathe or not. And, the woman at the bank was astonished that the woman at the Berlin bank had actually told me this bullshit. She suggested strongly I complain. Oh, I will complain, hence this posting.
Back in my pad I reread the threatening Email and decided to perhaps have a look at the attached PDF. Well, blow me down with a 9mm bullet from a Schmeisser machine gun – it contains more instructions for me to waste more time and bus fares wandering down to yet again the same post office but this time...Lo and behold, there are lots of clever reference numbers.
I will do this tomorrow. Meanwhile, I insist on at least 50 Euros compensation and that certain members of the Bundespost and Landesbank Berlin do a little 'refresher' course in how to do their jobs.
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
Not sure about all of this. Spent loads of money I don't have splashing out on things that are called 'very clever-clever.' The idea being it was time to enter the Digi age big bytes time.
One problem though. It is all well and good but I remember when you just popped a tape in a machine and pressed 'play'. When you were tired you pressed 'I am tired, goodnight and catch ya in the same spot tomorrow'.
Now you need a degree in rocket science just to fathom all the buttons on the remote of your really fab Blu Ray 5.1 player with all the snap, crackle and pops etc. I did work out where to plug it in...
Meanwhile, after returning from a 18 day cruise of my Manchester roots (loads of pics and stories),
I also got one of those phones. Well, I gather it is a mini computer and occasionally someone phones you. If I am lucky I can also phone out for FREE for 100 minutes, in Germany, as long as I pay 25 Euros a month. Plus, I can surf with it, but it is a bit small and I gather salt water is not good for them.
But, the stupid thing that was flogged to me isn't up to much cop and I really should moan about it.
No point. I can't be arsed with the hassle.
However, since I am doing my brains in with this all, check out this! Cool hey. And I am now going to set up a chirpy account thing. Not sure why but people say it is a good idea...
Friday, February 14, 2014
Sorry hey. Really.
BA (Hons) Open (Open)
Dip LCW (Open)
Cert Hum (Open)
But – here is a start.
I have so much to do I am not really know where to start. First stop, clean up the flat including the dirty plates and pots and pans etc. After my recent experience in the UK, noting the local's attitude for keeping the country tidy, I had two choices. Flood the joint and hope the crap pours away down the stairs into the cellar and I can blame it on severe weather - or simply heave the lot out the window into the farmer's field.
I could kick in the door and tell my Boss a bad man broke in and stole my entire stock of food making and eating on porcelain stuff etc..etc, and can I claim on the insurance?
Weirdly, with everything Made in China these days, I was puzzled by some cups that were labelled 'Bone China'. I concluded that those Chinese that are too bone idle to make iPhones and are paid half a penny a day to make cups.
Whilst over there where it rains a lot, I purchased a massive amount of paper in a bag called 'Sunday Guardian'. I like the Guardian, great Tories bashers, not that I like Labour or those half wits, Liberals, but inside was enough free crap to open up your own paper recycling joint.
This one was called 'ShortList'. It sort of tells you about latest films, PlayStation games, music, books, theatre and fashion etc.
Laugh, I nearly passed a fart on the 112 bus between Blackley and Piccadilly.
Can you imagine at the height of the Bush War, having an advert like this as a reason for joining the armed forces...
So, it goes like this -
Prime minister, Great Bwana Smithy is being briefed by Walls.
“Walls, we are running out of white fodder. What shall we do?”
The walls look blankly back and a crack appears just above his own portrait.
Turning one droopy eye to a short bloke lolling in chair, he shrugs helplessly.
LootGenerally, Pete Walls, head of all Jocks, sniggers into his can of Castle.
“We call up the Morphs. I can send a battalion into the Botanical Gardens and round up at least a 1000 fairies. A bayonet up the bum will make them change their mind about doing there fairy bit.”
The Great Bwana Smithy is appalled.
“Bugger that. We can't go around sticking it. Besides they might like it. You, there, what is your input?. His one good eye swivels to the form of the Foreign Minister, P.K Van full of Vile, who his cleaning his nails.
“I believe, with my experience from visiting places outside Rhodesia (South Africa), I have plan.” Explains the dandy as he brushes a bit of dandruff from his Sav-vile Road suit pre WW2 fashion.
“We must make the morphs HAPPY to get killed. In a stick of five or seven, they could bring up the rear. I suggest a campaign that will bring them out the bush, dress them as trees and send them back again. With luck, the gooks, having a tradition of hating bummers, will run a click or two.”
The Great Bwana Smithy nodded his head.
“Agreed, start the campaign, call it 'Operation Valentino', as this is is the 14th of February.
Well, the rest is history, and they nearly all died.
Pure satire by -
BA (Hons) Open (Open)
Dip LCW (Open)
Cert Hum (Open)
Author of the cult classics – Last of the Rhodesians - Chronicles of an African Anarchist
The Gokwe Kid and Simply the Pest
(Available worldwide on Amazon)
Thursday, November 07, 2013
So – not quite sure when this all kicked off – but I had fun with a scanner and rewrote some Rhodesian history. Actually, all I did was satirically tell the truth. It seems some hard core Rhodies just didn’t get it.
Man, have I had some abuse. So here are some pictures I played with -
The last ten odd days have not been pleasant for me. I think I had at least 30 injections. First it was the scrape around bit. That took four days. They use these horrible pointy things and really go to town.
I had just recovered from that torture when they pulled four teeth out. This is besides the fact that the health insurance is kicking up something rotten and no one is sure who is picking up the tab. Going into exile in Zimbabwe will be cheaper.
So I have been feeling really sorry for myself and popping these little pills called Citalopram. Now I don’t half feel a little different. No idea what is happening but I am certainly not walking around with some maniacal grin on my face. How would that be possible with half your jawbone missing?
And then today – that was all too much. I thought I was just going for a look see if the amputation of some my knashers were healing okay. I hoped so as I had stopped taking the anti-biotics as they were making me feel even weirder.
But - lo and behold. After an inspection and ruled fit for purpose, the woman surprises me out of the blue with –
‘Ah, whilst you are still in the chair, I whip out those other two I always fancied setting free.’
I tried to leap up but she actually pushed me down and started loading up the injections. I was a nervous wreck, panting in short breaths, heart racing and sweat pouring off me. I need this like I need a whole in my head and that is exactly what happened half an hour later. Two more holes.
I least I have peace for a while. Then once we find out where the dosh is coming from, the fun and games begin with bridges and stuff. Still, I least I now have a nice bright and clean smile.
Now, as for a pain in the neck – I was having some fun and games with some old pics I came across. Unfortunately, quite a few people on a Rhodesian Facebook site went a little mental when I posted them and accused me of all sorts of bad things. You should have heard the hullabaloo – anyone would think I was a mass murder.
I will put up the ‘offensive’ pictures in another posting.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Ah - I am so naughty -
So I was thinking – this is always a bad sign. I was thinking about that bloke who kicked it and Jesus brought him back again. (Well, he was dead, but is now alive sort of thing.)
Lanzarote was his name or something like that. I think the dago Spanish named an island after him (island – as in - a load of worthless volcanic rock, flogging duty free whisky to piss heads. I rather like the place).
Erm.. so any way.. . according to what I remember. (Quick recall, Jesus never actually published any books, Amazon was not around when he was hanging around on some pole. Not a cross. That is urban legend.)
Where am I…
Oh yes, so according to the most well sold flogged book, this Jew boy called Jesus wakes his china up. I am not sure why - what for? The fucker is dead. Leave him in peace and no matter what you read in ‘The book full of holes’, I do no recall that Jesus and Lanzarote had a merry old time as chinas.
Look – all of you – you know the bullshit about bringing him back to life, but maybe he was happy being dead. I mean – fuck me – I gather the bloke had some coin. The Romans must have taxed him to death. Hence, he dies, and Jesus Jewboy brings him back to life - to pay more taxes! Eish.
I just love religion.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
And – lo and behold –Thursday, 14.45 hrs– the tooth fairy did arrive and pronounce my fate…
Go back 45 minutes. There I was getting the butcher treatment. Loads of injections and this nice young lady with a cute Russian/German accent is happily pulling out most of my upper and lower jaw fragments that seem to have stopped bothering holding my teeth in.
In walks the Mother – not from hell. She is actually the mother of the young lady who has just completed disintegrating my jaw.
“Herr Greenberg,” she announces proudly. “I have Sehr Gute news for you.”
Me thinks – Do you know (besides some weird freak), that actually believes a dentist when they say they have ‘Good News’. That is like…guess what, we amputated your leg, all is okay, but I am afraid your heart packed in from the stress, so - Auf Wiedersehen .
Which has to be the dumbest goodbye in any language. ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ means – ‘Till I see you again’. How is that possible when you are buried almost two meters under some rocky, glacier rubble what they here call earth?
I ask you.
Meanwhile. Lying there semi-comatose and unable to speak, I get the good news…
“Herr Greenberg, as you lie there semi-comatose and unable to speak, we will now rip out loads of your teeth because…”
Of course, I am semi-comatose and unable to speak, but they hold me down in the chair…
“We have your temporary replacements. Do not they look beautiful? Much better than those we now pull out your skull.”
Considering they have injected me with enough gear that I could be shot gunned in the mouth and still stand up grinning; I wasn’t exactly in a position to argue.
Besides, by this time I couldn’t feel half my head after another six injections.
Still, after I watched my life’s blood sucked out of a tube and my mouth stuffed with cotton wool, and this strange contraption introduced into my body - I thought the ‘Vorsprung durch Technik’, rather impressive.
I think I will get drunk tonight… Saying that, the part time choppers look rather cool!
Monday, October 21, 2013
To hell with it all I say. And I do say it. My PC kicked up something rotten a few days ago and I couldn’t access my own blog!
Okay – this is a long way from perfect – but who cares? There is a snippet from the BBC out there but I recorded the whole thing ‘live’ in 1976. The end of our world – except we landed up plucking lemons from a tree –
The plumbs of course gapped it with loads of dosh and left the kids to fight the retreat. Yeah – Rhodesia was Super.
What you will now listen to is history – Nothing is so far away as yesterday. Smith, for all his mistakes, knew perfectly well when he called for ‘responsible government’; he/we, didn’t have a bloody chance if Mugabe and Co took over.
Ah – who gives a shit about a land the size of Texas in the piss-pot continent of Africa???
Just when things were getting serious low and I stagger into my flat with my mouth semi-numb, stuffed with blood soaked newspaper (er, cottonwool), in terrible shock from having 20 odd needles penetrate my gums – I realised I had forgotten to stop by the local DIY for a DIY hanging rope.
(Did you know they actually sell them only to over 18s and carry a health warning? A bit like fag packets. ‘Hanging yourself could lead to terminal death and blisters around your neck.’
Best bit is the small print. ‘Please dispose of the plastic bag this hanging rope is supplied in before you freely and voluntary stand on a bucket before kicking it over leaving you kicking it - as small children could suffocate on it.’
Charming. Mother comes home; Daddy is swinging and junior is blue in the face.
All beside the point because…guess who just turned up via Email? Yup the long awaited guardian angel. Eish, why the hell she leaves it so long?
Well, this HUGE bit of news is for all of you that fancy doing some writing. I don’t peddle snake oil - this is for real and this is for free. Regardless that I have my DPL LCW after my name – I was instantly hooked. I enrolled immediately and signed up to be ABastard. (Oops, spelling mistake – Ambassador.)
The course ’The Future Of Storytelling’ runs for eight weeks and is in English by Fachhochschule Potsdam, Germany.
No exams, 30 mins a week of material and maybe 2-3 hours a week of your input.
Now if lots and lots of you join via this link
I might get a free mini Ipad and also a once a week blog. So – help me out and at the same time get some great ideas and tips about how to write. Be quick hey – the course starts on the 25th. Enrolment is simply your name and Email address.
THIS is all FREE and not spam.
Love ya all and GO FOR IT.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Skippy – The Bush Kangaroo
How many of you remember ‘Skippy the Bush Kangaroo’?
We loved it as kids. Such a clever animal. It could work the radio and say ‘tut-tut’ and do all sorts of smart stuff and was always at hand to rescue Sunny (what a stupid fucking name), from some dumb arse tragedy or whatever.
It was without doubt Australia’s ultimate disaster in television that can only be equalled by ‘Flipper’ the dolphin that was so clever he could ‘eek eek’ his way onto a TV talk host show.
The thing is - bored out my skull, I did some research about our beloved Skippy. Even Flipper would be stunned with the results. Firstly – kangaroos are thicker than sheep. As in – beyond stupid. A Welsh border collie would rather tear their throats out than try to herd them.
Next – remember the scene when you see Skippy’s cute little forearms using the radio? Yeah, it turns out those were taxidermist bits of some long dead Kangaroo shoved onto two sticks. Wait - it gets better –
Remember the ‘tut-tut’ noise our brilliant jumping thing made? Turns out, they don’t do that at all. Wait – this gets worse –
The Skippy we saw was in fact loads of them. The dumb animal was stashed with a load of its compatriots in a pen, all shitting and pissing and stinking something rotten, and when it was time to film some daft scene, they simply let the lot out and the Aussies filmed frantically the stupid things jumping around in the vain hope some footage could be cut well enough to con the audience. There were so many of these jumpers (not a cardigan), that most promptly disappeared into the outback.
Luckily, the Aussies have shit loads of the things. And that is where this story ends – In a deep freeze of Germany’s Netto discount supermarket at Euro 4.49 for 300 grams.
I tell you this for free – only Rhodesian Aberdeen Angus tastes better. Although - there is one small problem.. The meat tends to try to jump out the frying pan, so you have to keep hitting it with a big stick whilst saying ‘tut-tut’.
Saturday, October 05, 2013
Rhodesian insanity – Simply the Pest at his Best! Spoiler Alert
I was supposed to go to the Oktoberfest today and meet up with eldest son. Rhodie glad rags all prepared on the bed, showered and shaved, taxi booked to take me to the train station – and then. Boom! David informs me it is lashing down , all tents have reached over capacity and more chance of getting a seat in an electric chair in Texas for murder; than a spot on a bench for a mass krug in Munich.
Talk about ‘pissed off!' (Get it?)
A tad annoyed, I decided to check out my back up discs for photos of when I climbed the sand dunes of the Sossusvlei. That’s the place in Namibia where the locals have nothing in there vocabulary that describes ‘rain’. Even trying to explain that water in other places on this planet falls from the sky in such quantities they drown in the stuff just wandering down to the local McDonalds; sends them into psychotic shock.
And then I came across some Open University stuff. I discovered a radio play I once wrote. Now, when I did 18 months of Creative Writing and Advanced Creative Writing (nearly getting kicked off both courses for being an obnoxious pest), I was taught loads of stuff. For example – how to place your name at the top of an exam paper…tra-la-la.
Well, I used the course to systematically take examples from The Gokwe Kid and Simply the Pest, get feedback, and learn to create the books that many people have read – all six of them!
So I had a bit of problem (still have), but in this case I had to adapt one story into some kind of stage play or radio play. Ah – there was trouble ahead. Please bear, bare, beer with me because what I did nearly caused a riot. (As usual.)
This is a bit of a long posting but worth the laugh if you are also suffering from a grey Saturday afternoon when should be at ‘Beers are Us’ in Munich. Now, after being a clever-clever and sent in an adapted version of ‘Going down in blaze of glorious vomit’ (Chapter Ten in StP), I suddenly realised I was going to have one heck of a problem adapting it.
The solution was not simple. I decided on a radio adaption. First big mistake is that I used BBC formatting and lost points because I should have used OU style and ‘Why do you not obey the rules and regulations?’, comment from tutor. Dumb question - it is like asking a Rhodie ‘Why did you fight to the bitter end?’
Ignore and glide over the technical stuff of a written radio play. The only thing you need to know is if you read this outside of the United Kingdom (that’s an oxymoron), is the personality called Jonathon Ross. I wrote this just as he was in total disgrace with the BBC. He was BBC/is ITV, a chat show presenter. Totally full of himself, obnoxious as hell - and the only difference between us is our bank account statements. His insane looking wife made the film ‘Kick Ass’, which I personally thought was brilliant. But – forget all that.
Here it is. Perhaps a spoiler alert, but those that have read that chapter will delight in this adaption, and those that have not; may decide – no thanks…you are clinically insane…
(PS - Ignore some obvious formatting errors - the Google and word.doc are not exactly 'chinas', no matter how you mess with it...)
BE PREPARED: GET A TV and RADIO LICENCE
By Karl Greenberg
NR BBC Newsreader
JR Jonathon Ross -
Risqué British television and radio presenter
KG Karl Greenberg –
Author of Last of the Rhodesians
BROADCAST: 25th December 2008
STUDIO: BBC Radio Theater, Broadcasting House, London
PRODUCER: Jonathon Ross
NR: And that is the end of the BBC News. Now on Radio 7, it is our monthly date with the classic BBC comedy series, ‘I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again’. (PAUSE) I'm sorry; I will read that again. It appears someone has leaked the tape to the press, so instead; we will now switch over to Radio 4’s Bookclub, presented by Jonathan Ross.
Those listeners well practiced in complaining, know whom to contact, (SARCASTIC) the rest shouldn’t bother.
GRAMS "ODE TO JOY" BEETHOVEN'S Symphony No. 9. EST. AND FADE. (FX AND MUSIC CD TK1)
JR: Hallo, I am Jonathon Ross and welcome to Bookclub and a memoir, ‘Last of the Rhodesians; Chronicles of a Colonial Anarchist’, that is sure to overtake mine in the bestseller list. As most listeners will know, the only reason I am presenting this today is because my lawyers threatened to bankrupt the BBC, unless I was allowed to return to the air and offer you first class entertainment. (SARCASTIC) This, as we know, has been severely lacking since I was suspended.
FX AUDIENCE LAUGHTER (FX CD tk2)
JR: Anyway, enough about me. The memoir is situated in Southern Africa, Rhodesia to be exact, in the ’60s and 70s and is about some white kid having a ball, before the government was replaced by black men wearing Savile Row suits, in what is now Zimbabwe.
JR: Now I would like to welcome the author of this forthcoming memoir, Karl Greenberg.
KG: Thank you Jonathan for inviting me here today. I must say, that was an interesting choice of opening music score, Beethoven’s 9th, the ‘Ode to Joy’.
JR: I thought you might appreciate that. Listeners will be amazed to know that the Rhodesian white supremacist government of the time used it as their national anthem. Looking at the state of Zimbabwe these days, I wouldn’t be surprised if their anthem was a couple of numbers less.
KG: I presume you mean Beethoven’s 7th, second movement, ‘The Death March’?
JR; (TRIUMPHANT) That would be perfect, considering the state the place is in now.
FX AUDIENCE LAUGHTER (FX CD tk2)
KG: (ANNOYED) May I ask you what that terrible noise is?
JR: You mean this one?
FX AUDIENCE LAUGHTER (FX CD tk2)
JR: That is the audience laughing at our witty banter. It’s called canned laughter.
KG: (AMAZED) Canned laughter? The only laughter I know of that comes in cans, is called beer. Too much of that also gets tedious after a while as well.
JR: I agree, I can’t be arsed with it either. It’s not as if I exactly get paid more for making cans laugh. (LAUGHS) Now, talking about drinking, it seems to be quite prominent in the only chapter of your memoir I have read, so let’s discuss that.
KG: That will be the chapter called, ‘Be Prepared’
JR: That’s the one, what exactly is it about?
KG: Well Jonathan, it is a sort of riot of passion –
JR: ‘Right of passage’ is what I think you mean.
KG: Same thing really. It is about the night I turned from being a wimpy 16 year old Boy Scout, learning to tie knots, into a real ‘Rhodie’ macho man.
JR: (sarcastic) At 16 you were still learning to tie knots?
KG: That is true Jonathan. I was too old. By the time of the evening for the Scouts annual general meeting in 1974, I had had enough of the whole thing.
JR: You write that the Scout Troop you were a member of was only for white kids. Was this due to the apartheid practiced by the Rhodesian government?
KG: That is a very good question. I didn’t have a clue why we were segregated. I simply took it for granted. However, there were all black Boy Scout troops, as well. In fact, I had a run in with them a couple of times.
JR: Listeners may find this interesting, as here in Britain we had no official segregation, just poor bastards and rich people; like me. (LAUGHS) So what happened when you had a run in with the black Boy Scouts ?
KG: Well, at a Scout Rally in ‘72, I reprimanded a large black Boy Scout for using the obstacle course after dusk -
JR: (SNEER) And you being white, you obviously thought you used your authority wisely. How did the young man respond?
KG: (PAINED) He punched me in my right eye and I fell down. He then ran off into the surrounding bush and -
JR: (SARCASTIC) Perhaps this was the start of the bush war that was to end Rhodesian rule?
KG: Without a doubt. It still pains me. Then a year later, at a Scout cooking competition, I had reported to the organisers that a group of black contestants were being illegally coached by their Scoutmaster.
JR: And were they disqualified?
KG: (DISGUST) On the contrary, the cheating bastards went on to win first prize in their group. The stupid white organisers had brushed off my complaints with, ‘They don’t stand a chance, so don’t worry’. (SERIOUS) At that point, I instinctively knew that we whites would lose the war.
JR: (SURPRISED) That is definitely a new approach as to the reasons of the decline of Rhodesia. We will continue with this saga after a short break.
FX TV/RADIO LICENCE SKETCH 01
JINGLE BELLS MUSIC. EST. AND FADE. (FX AND MUSIC CD
CHILD: (PITYINGLY) I hope Santa has left me lots of presents Mummy. I wish Daddy was here instead of that stupid Pakistan.
WOMAN: (UPBEAT) It’s Afghanistan my dear, and you know Daddy is fighting bad people to make our home safe. Come – let’s see what Santa has left for you.
CHILD: (HORRIFIED) Mummy, Mummy, there is nothing under the tree (CRYING) and Santa has stolen our television (SOBS) and the DVD player.
WOMAN: (DISTRESSED) Oh my God!
CHILD: (HOPEFUL) Look Mummy, Santa left us a card.
WOMAN: (OPENS ENVELOPE) It’s not from Santa darling, it is from the television and radio licensing office. It says, ‘We took your Tele because you have not renewed your license and the presents will be auctioned off to cover the costs. Have a Merry Christmas.’
JINGLE BELLS EST. CHILD CRYING.
MAN: (MERRILY) Ho Ho Ho, remember, we know where you live. (SINISTERLY) No one is exempt from buying a license.
JINGLE BELLS AND FADE
KG: (DISGUST) That’s not very nice, is it?
JR: (LAUGHS) Serves them bloody well right, the BBC has my wages to pay, at least a thousand journalists worth. Anyway, so Karl, on that very special night, you said that you couldn’t be bothered attending the ceremonies, but instead took refuge in the quartermaster store with a Chinaman.
KG: I wouldn’t put it quite like that. Chinamen were also banned from our Scout troop… Come to think of it, I can’t recall ever seeing any Chinese outside of the Mandarin Restaurant in downtown Salisbury either. No, ‘China’ was a term we used for a friend; it still is. I had been telling my china my recent sexual experimentation with the opposite sex.
JR: (SNIGGERS) Well, we won’t beat around the bush, and move on. So after the ceremonies ended, you went in to help serve cheese and wine for all the adults and visiting dignitaries. I gather your own parents were not there.
KG: Thankfully not. They had never been fans of my scouting. Besides, Mother was still occupied mourning the fact that a few months previously Father had seen his last morning.
JR: (JOKINGLY) Was the Prime Minister Ian Smith there?
KG: (SARCASTIC) Hardly, at that point he was too busy with other problems; like stopping hordes of black people with assault rifles taking over the entire land; never mind 8th Mount Pleasant Scout troop. (LAUGHS) Well, I knew the parents of several ‘chinas’ and the Chief Scout of Mashonaland Province was quite recognisable, since he was dressed up like a Christmas tree; less the lights. That was due to sanctions of course, imposed by Great Britain.
JR: Ahh sanctions, the supposed curse of Zimbabwe now. In your memoir you say that because of sanctions the adults were forced to drink locally manufactured, er, grown, wine. According to your own writings, it tasted like piss and vinegar.
KG: That is true. Bloody awful stuff. (MYSTERIOUS) I really think it was refined brake fluid. (CHEERFUL) Still, after a few sneaky glasses for my-self, I didn’t care what the shit tasted like. (TRIUMPHANT) I just knew it was the best thing that could happen to me since when I fondled some bird’s breasts at a party. It was amazing. The more wine I drank, the more I thought of breasts.
JR: So you could say you were well pissed by now. (SMUTLY) Nothing like binge-drinking and lustful thinking. A very popular pastime here.
KG: After I had dropped the third wine glass and poured almost a pint of the stuff over someone’s outstretched arm, reaching for a cheese biscuit, I was sacked as head waiter. (LAUGHS) So, now filled with the alcohol fueled thoughts that I was the next Casanova, I wandered around the packed hall making myself acquainted with several of the mothers. I had never realised how attractive older women could be, till then.
JR: (LAUGHS) This is getting good. We will be right back after this break.
FX TV/RADIO LICENCE SKETCH 02.
JINGLE BELLS MUSIC. EST. AND FADE. DOOR BELL CHIMES (FX AND MUSIC. CD TK 3)
CHILD: (HOPEFUL) Oh Mummy, who could that be? Is it maybe Santa because he is too fat to come down the chimney?
WOMAN: (DISTRESSED) God help us! It is the bailiffs with a repossession order on the house. We have not paid the TV license. We will be sleeping on the streets tonight.
CHILD: (WEEPING. HYSTERICAL) But Mummy, you said Daddy is fighting in Afghanistan to keep our home safe.
WOMAN: Yes, but from the Taliban, darling, not the BBC.
JINGLE BELLS EST.
MAN: (MERRILY) Remember, not paying your TV license will mean we will take your house and throw you on the street. Merry Christmas. Ho Ho Ho.
JINGLE BELLS FADE.
JR: (LAUGHS) I just love these jingles. Put the fear of God in the public… So did you enjoy being intoxicated?
KG: Well, I had never been drunk before, so I just presumed I was quite fine. In fact, more than just fine. I was feeling a little excited for some strange reason, almost superhuman, except for problems with my balance and most definitely my eyes were suffering. Everything seemed to be out of phase and I desperately needed to empty my bowls, but couldn’t remember where the toilet was.
JR: Is that when people started to complain about your conduct? Did you not think that there could be some consequences resulting from your rather strange way of setting an example? (LAUGHS)
KG: Hark, look who is talking. You’re not exactly a perfect role model yourself. And you get paid for your anti-social behavior. For my pains, I was unceremoniously kicked out the hall and left to my own devices. Unfortunately for me, about thirty-odd, juvenile delinquents were hanging around, bored out their tiny cretin heads, and just waiting to start trouble.
JR: (INQUIRING) Those were the Cub Scouts, the Rhodesian version of a pre-teen ‘Hoodie’?
KG: Well you have to imagine that I was in a rather bad way, both physically and mentally. Those little devils swarmed all over me like starving locusts and dragged me to the garden tap where they promptly hosed me down, whilst laughing like a pack of demented hyenas.
JR: (LAUGHS) I am sure many of our listeners will think this is a Colonial version of ‘Happy-Slapping’.
KG: Then, if that was not enough, they found a nice puddle of red mud and rolled me around in it, complete in my Che Guevara type beret, blue and white neckerchief and khaki shirt adorned with my badges of proficiency in swimming, stamp collecting, skin diving -
JR: (INQUISITIVE) Binge-drinking? (LAUGHS)
KG: (LAUGHS) Well, I was certainly doing the test for it -
JR: And well on the way to passing it, or passing out.
KG: Anyway, in that state the little bastards threw me back inside the scout hall, me now resembling an intoxicated swamp monster participating in ‘Strictly Come Staggering’.
JR: (LAUGHS) Aah, the piss-artist’s ‘one step forward and two back tango’.
KG: That’s for sure. I think I had wet myself by then and the hall erupted in turmoil as I staggered around bouncing off everyone, splashing mud all over the place. (LAUGHS) I vaguely recall some miserable adults moaning about the condition I was in, but I didn’t give a Boy Scout salute about what they thought. I just wanted another drink, but they wouldn’t let me near the table.
JR: That was when the night’s entertainment came to an abrupt end?
KG: (SAD) Sadly, yes. Everyone was leaving, including me. Problem was, even though I had been forced to do a ‘walkabout’ around the hall and was force-fed cups of vile coffee, I was too legless to ride my bicycle home.
JR: So how did you get home?
KG: A parent drove me home, propped up between two other older, rather annoyed scouts. They weren’t too friendly about it. Not knowing I had a key, and me not remembering I had one, they awoke my Mother.
JR: (LAUGHS) That I gather was not such a good idea.
KG: That’s for sure. Can you imagine what an apparition I made on the front door step; suspended between two Boy Scouts, pissed out my skull, dribbling incoherent words onto my filthy soaked uniform. I will never forget the comment from my teetotaling, very conservative school teacher Mother -
JR: (CROWS) Thank God his father is not alive to see this! (LAUGHS)
KG: (LAUGHS) That’s for bloody sure. He would have flayed me alive. The thing was though; I did receive punishment of sorts. Mainly by vomiting so profusely, I painted my bedroom walls red and landed up sleeping in a puddle of stinking diced carrots.
JR: (SNIGGER) Always the puzzle where the carrots come from. So when you went to fetch your bicycle the next day, you were to receive yet another shock to your system?
KG: (HAPPY) I was informed that I was a disgrace and until I showed more responsibility I wouldn’t be allowed to take any more proficiency awards, even though I had just passed with top marks the last one.
JR: (INNOCENT) Which was?
KG: (PROUD) I was now a fully fledged ‘Rhodie’ macho man, at last. I decided there and then, Fuck the Boy Scouts; no more tying knots and scrubbing camp pots. It was booze, bird's breasts and the gutter for me.
FX CHEERING APPLAUSE. FADE OUT
(FX AND MUSIC CD TK 4)
JR: And on that triumphant note we end today’s program and wish Karl well.
KG: Thank you very much Jonathon, and may I say one last word to your listeners?
JR: As long as it‘s not rude. (LAUGHS)
KG: (SERIOUS) Make sure you get a TV and radio licence.
GRAMS “DEATH MARCH" BEETHOVEN'S SYMPHONY No. 7- 2nd MOVEMENT. EST. AND FADE. (FX AND MUSIC CD TK 5)