Tuesday, July 29, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rouge Rhodie on a Roller : Part 6

Day Three - Monday 28th July

After a great night sitting like some pervert outside the ladies' toilet for 3 hours getting more and more totally inebriated, I was accosted by the Frenchman and a pretty Dutch girl. The reason why I was listening (not) to French girl students empty their bowls, was because it was the only place where you could pick up the WiFi signal.

The two joined my FB but the girl used my notebook and the damn starting page is now in Dutch!
So I went off to bed and slept like the drunken dog I am. Next morning brought some sunshine and it took a mere two hours to load up. This was due to the fact that it appears I had packed rather badly and hence could not find anything and thus the tent was completely full.

This lesson is just one of many I am now re -learning. It is a long time since the PATU days.
With the scooter with no name, moaning and screaming under the weight, I hit the road heading towards the next town call Bud something or other. It was only about 5 clicks later that I passed an amazing site on the opposite side of the road.

I hesitated about turning around with the heavy scooter and some serious traffic. But I thought it may be of interest and something told me I would not regret it. Finding a chance a few meters down the drag I went back. It was a decision that would change most of this trip.



The shop was empty of customers and I got a cup-of-china from another stunning, multi-lingual Czech babe. There was a young bloke messing about in a back room unpacking stuff. Well, it didn't take two secs when we were the best chinas for ever. Jan, the owner, is a Czech but his Dad has a farm in SA bordering Zimbabwe. He spends time down there and got the idea to open up this shop. It is only a year old. You can imagine the bucks involved.




For over an hour we chatted and I told him I will promise as best as I can to promote his place. Already I see flaws (web site only in Chesky – www.original-afrika.eu) but it will take time. The stuff, from Tanzania, Malawi, Zim (he has brilliant contacts with the former ambassador of Zim who is a famous African photographer (Liba Taylor), is mega top gear. All is above board. No ivory and the animals and skins are all officially imported. Remember, this country is part of the EU and a fully developed place.



He was rather stunned about the stunt I was pulling, and when I told him of my proposed route to get to Auschwitz, he looked at my map, and showed me where to go. Stay away from all the cities. No point unless you want to check out a museum or two (not). Stay on tiny roads. Less traffic and next to no police. He warned that they are very arrogant (that means they always wear shades), and are not friendly (what!) as the German police.



I knew I had to get a small elephant for the ex. When I tried to pay – it was a gift! He printed out the route to get me to the next place and as he knew his land very well, explained all the places I should be going to but still in the right direction. One bit was through a forest where the only things that live there are called bears and... WOLVES. Holy shit. I hope the wolves don't run faster than my roller (45 kmh down hill, 35 on the flat, 20 up hill). I can't even swing at the savage things with my heavy anti-theft chain because if you take one hand off the handle bars, the front wheel shakes something rotten in fear of an imminent crash, and imagine if I was attacked from the right - if I took that hand off, the scooter would stop!

Suddenly I miss my leather anti-dog savaging leggings that I had hated so much as part of my police uniform.

After uploading via his free WiFi pics and video exclusively for my Facebook, The Gokwe Kid (TGK) members, (you can all join for FREE), after 2 hours and 61 kms, I arrived at a large camping site in the town of Teflon. It is famous for inventing a paint for men's underpants to stop sweaty eggs sticking to them. Okay, it is actually called Trebon and it is known for its carp fish.


Since I had no intention of going anywhere, I slipped a nice ice cold, big glass of brilliant golden amber down an appreciative gullet, and before I got into the swings, found a spot, and this time, well organised, I had a neat and tidy tent.



Then it was up to the bar (after removing the flag (thieves), and leaving plenty of warning to them), where I then proceeded to have a great time chirping away with my TGK fans. Many have sponsored me on this trip, and thus get their names in lights. Unfortunately the stickers on the bike have nearly all become un-indelible (is that a word? Who cares?), despite being covered with sticky tape, they have started to badly run.


Up at the bar with my notebook and amusing the TGK groupies - the bloody heavens opened up reminiscent of a real Rhodie shumbas and flatdogs storm. I didn't give a monkeys because I was getting nice and drunk, was inside the pub, plugged into the mains and free WiFi. Then it took a tad turn for the worse – as reported on FB (last night) -


Oooh. It has stopped raining. Better see if everything is still there and get myself a sweat shirt. Back in a mo. I am all yours for some time.

Okayyyyy. not clever. Lazy Sixpence forgot to tie up the side ventilation windows and make strings EXTRA tight. Now Bwana must shout, as there was a small child's paddling pool inside his tent, and the sleeping bag is not very dry.

Bwana made his stupid Sixpence mop it out with the very wet towels the bloody fool had left out and made Sixpence promise to wake up a bit and stay off the Chibuku until his Bwana's Safari tent is No 1 and not Number bloody 2000.

This of course led to some rather amusing and cruel comments. Whilst chirping I decided to sort out my kangaroo money pouch because I was sick to death of euros and kroners all mixed up. Then...

But Sixpence has redeemed himself, luckily. because, to get the frying pan into the pannier at the back, he had unscrewed the handle.
Bwana ask him, "Where have you put the screw?" Sixpence look up into the sky for help.
"I put it in a safe, secret place - so no know to find it." Sixpence replied whilst smiling sickly.


"So tell me, where is this secret place my oh so clever Sixpence, because I know you too well and I bet you hid it whilst on the Chibuku."
Sixpence put on his best offended face and body language-
"Bwana, why you not listen to me? I tell you, the place is so secret, no one will find it, and that includes me."
The all forgiving Bwana thought about this for a few moments -
"I hope your hands are made of asbestos for when you fry my dinner, you total idiot."
I found the screw in the front part of the pouch. I then proceed to drown my woes before drowning in a soggy sleeping bag, by mixing the beer with some local schnapps - it was not a good idea. The stuff tasted of super glue and was pure rocket fuel. All paid for by various sponsors along with a very nice dinner.

At 11 pm I was thrown out and I wandered to the toilet - for I busting. Coming out, I got lost and spent 20 minutes wandering about with a sailors gait , tacking and tripping over stupid tent ropes (which leads to a lot of foul language in a foreign tongue),until I fell over my roller. Job done. Home sweet soaking home. I recall vaguely a few hours later of opening the flap and pass water. This time my sandals and trainers were inside the tent... - which leads us to
Day Four – Tuesday 29th July
Ah, not feeling to good Tony. The plan was to go into town and check out the fag shop for some rolling tobacco but the weather is still crap and drizzle now and then and I don't think I could pass a breathalyser test.
I was awoken to the sounds of hissing that I thought might be my mattress, and that perhaps in a drunken frenzy must have thought it was a giant python and had stabbed it with my Swiss army knife. Looking out the flap I saw it was a family of swans.
It was a good thing I brought wipe towels because I can't have a shower due to the fact the towels are still soaking wet. Brilliant!They are lying in the tent with some vain hope they sort of dry out.
The place doesn't have the ambiance of the last camp site, but has great views plus food and beer is cheap. Mostly used by Czechs, some Germans and Austrians, but oddly enough, no Dutch. I think they are smart campers and stick to little places. The entire area has loads of little lakes and I reckon 70% of the campers have bicycles and there are plenty of designated touring routes. I can't be arsed with that malarkey. Far to much effort. Even going to the toilet leaves me with shaking pins.
And that is more or less all to report. Tomorrow I pack up and head for a town called malice. Erm no, it is Trebic. I will have to fill up first before loading the roller as it is about 120 clicks, almost at the limit of the tank. It also means I will be up to four hours on the road. Quite a task for us both.
The rest of the day I will mess about on FB and drink nice beer. Early bed though and hopefully I can get a shower in the morning.

Catch ya all later -




Sunday, July 27, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rouge Rhodie on a Roller : Part 5


Saturday 27th July - Day 1

Well, amazingly I arrived at the first destination in one piece. We left just after 8.00 am and with the roller and luggage in a VW Caddy, it was a four drive via Passau and a bit of Austria. My driver threw me out a few paces into the Czech Republic in the parking area of the cheap fags and booze shop (used by the Austrians and Germans).

It took a while to replace the rear box and mirrors and then pack all the crap. You can imagine the looks I was getting from all the rich folks with fancy campers. But I am hardcore, none of them would have the testicles (especially not the women), to do what I was intending. Come to think of it, looking at what appeared to be a tramp on noisy wheels, only an insane person would bother to have nightmares about this trip.



Still, no pain no gain, and I realised that as I revved the poor things guts out, its front wheel went into some kind of shaking shock and I has a terrible feeling I wasn't going to gain one meter and was about to receive some serious pain. Luckily, due to the screaming of 50cc of pure two stroke power at full whack and the heavily muffled helmet, I could only vaguely hear the watching idiot's peels of laughter as, with small wobbly 'tacking', I reached the end of the car park and completely crapping myself - vomited on the inside of my visor.

Since I could not see a damn thing and the stench made me heave again, I thought this would be a good place for a quick mop out and fag. I had done well – at least 50 meters. Unfortunately, in my fear and confusion I was going the wrong way. The delay would cost me at least 30 seconds.


Finally, with much gritting of teeth and foul language, the buckling machine hit the road. Me, and a roller with no name, headed into the dessert of lower Bohemia. Actually it was rather stunning. Lots of hills with forests and the road followed a river, or vice versa - I suppose it depends who got their first.


I soon realised by the first click, one could not take the eyes off the road, nor remove a hand from the badly vibrating handlebars. That meant I would be unprepared for a sideways ambush from man eating bears and roaming robbing Rumanian Romers (Gippos. Erm, and not the ones from Egypt)


My first destination was a camping site where I had reserved a booking, just outside the town of Cesky Krumlov. I had chosen this place as my Boss had sent me brochures about it. Now, if he had recommended Tripoli, I would gone there also. Not that I have the faintest desire to visit the flea and rat infested war zone, but you don't argue with the Boss.


It didn’t take long to clock I was not alone. Traffic wasn't too much stress and I was only overtaken twice by fitness nuts on racing bicycles. But the river was chockers with screamers – some showing plenty of flesh for fantasy. It turns out this is the most important river in the Czech Republic (CR), the Vltava. Thousands of groups, families, all on rented rafts or in canoes, cruising along and having a ball.

Jotted along the riverbanks, were stop off joints offering drinks and a barbecued meat and fish. I soon thought I had perhaps made a bit of a gaff as I passed one beautifully laid out camp site after another. The sun was giving it the gears full time and the very atmosphere was one known as 'holiday – yeah'.



Now I was thinking perhaps I had been a little too hasty booking, but it had been panic and inexperience of where I was going. I passed the town and on the road to Budweisser (my next destination), I clocked a huge shopping centre straight out of Germany. Lidl, Penny, Kaufmarkt - they were all there. That meant no sweat when time to get some cheeky golden amber.

A couple of clicks later I turn off the main drag and immediately thought I was back traversing Tsavo National Park in Kenya. My immediate mental response, as the poor roller was now reacting rather badly in the loose rocks and potholes - `If the camp site is as well maintained as this road – it have serious doubts it can live up to its name - Camping Paradijis,' which, I hazard a guess, means Paradise Camping.

It was spot on. Cheap, clean, and direct on the river. After unpacking, setting up the tent and throwing all my crap into it, I popped out my chair and prepared to chill a bit with an ice cold beer before zipping up to the shops for some graze. The place has plenty beer, but no food. Imagine my horror when I was refused! The manageress, a drop dead gorgeous babe called Jana Jakesova, Dipl.-Kffr. Ing. (seems they need half a dozen degrees to run something like this), told me -

“Here in CR, no tolerance, zero alcohol in blood when you are driving. You try, the police beat you so hard you will be unable to lift a beer to your mouth for at least six months whilst recovering in hospital during your driving ban.”

Ah. Now that changed everything. So with roller with no name rather enlightened along with its driver, we soon shopped for essentials. It was whilst trying to type up the first report that in a little area outside reception I was soon engrossed in intercourse. The social kind. You, know – it is called chatting, in plain speech.



A young Dutch pair (many here), and a rather weird Frenchman called Pascal. Married to a Peruvian woman, he lives mostly in Atlanta. 30 years he has toured the eastern European countries and buys old pianos from the peasants. Ships them to America, renovates them, and flogs them for a fortune to the Chinese! Cool beans! Importantly – this chat did wonders for me. For the first time in ages – interactivity with friendly, charming, well spoken folk.

The ablution facilities are clean and adequate. The recreation room supplies a cooker, fridges, and power to charge all your gadgets. Also pots, pans, plates and cups. The washing up basins are also stocked with all that you need. People leave their laptops and smartphones charging. No fear of theft! All in all – 5 stars out of 5.

I made a big fat, juicy baguette with salami, lettuce, tomato, spring onions, and peppers. Drank a glass of wine, and exhausted, but feeling absolutely exhilarated – crawled into my fart sack and slept like a man who needs to wake up at 3.00 am because the stupid pills I take still stir the bowls somewhat.


Total distance driven – 57 kms. 1443 to go.

Sunday 27th July - Day 2.

I awoke to the snores and passing of abdominal gas from nearby fellow campers. I gave them a swift kick through the walls of the tent whilst shouting “Stop contributing to climate change. Your bum holes need a carbon tax.” I then ran away.

After a breakfast of fags and instant cup o' china, I rolled down to this famous town – the third most visited in CR. A really lovely place. I would hate to know what the rent of a pad there costs. Loads of Chinese with cameras as big as their heads. I kept thinking they were kowtowing the whole time, but actually it was the weight of the tech gear around their necks!



Thank goodness no Brits or Irish. I think they are blocked at the border. Loads of cute little knick knack shops set amongst stunning medieval architecture. All on a peninsula with the river full of rafts and canoes. Nice – very. I wasn't bothered to check out any of the dozen of museums. They charge - plus it isn't the same alone. I was happy to just wander around and dream of golden amber awaiting me at my new home from home.


Lunch was grand affair. I treated myself – along with a …. ginger ale! And just as I finished my fried carp with freedom fries, it started to rain. Typical. As a clever, former disgraced Boy Scout, I JUST happened to have a light weight rain poncho in my daypack. Actually, it is just a giant plastic bag with three holes in it. Does the job though – makes you sweat like a pig. The only logic I could suss out was that my rucksack stayed dry, because the outside was soaked in rain and inside I was soaked in last nights recycled beer!



So back at Camping Paradise – I write up my report. WiFi is free here. No wonder - as there is next to none. So hopefully tomorrow I will find a spot to upload. Postings will be constant - if a little out of synch with my actual travels.

Stay tuned and keep sponsoring. If you want to send loads and loads of money – don't bother clicking on the right. Just PayPal to lore-data@hotmail.com

I upload other exclusive pics for TGK FB members – so join!


Friday, July 25, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rogue Rhodie on a Roller (Part 4)

Tomorrow has arrived a day early. Next posting  - who knows, perhaps, maybe? And from where?




Thursday, July 24, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rogue Rhodie on a Roller (Part 3)

When I was a little boy, I joined the St John's ambulance brigade in Salisbury. I was forced to leave in disgrace after I attempted to see if the mouth to mouth resuscitation dummy might be capable of a few other tricks.





This is of course besides the point. One thing they did teach me was that when you come across an accident and there appears to be absolute gallons of rapidly congealing blood – do not panic. Drag the incident away and wait a bit. Then try to guess how much has oozed out. This you do by looking at the incredible red mess all over the drag. And you reckon – Eish, easily 20 pints.

Wrong, so wrong. You are actually referring to what you drank last night – not the bloodbath zone. Now, you wait a bit more till the grunge is nice and stiff and sweep it up into a pile. Pick out the twigs, granite gravel and car parts and ….amazingly, you could put the lot in a large Coca-Cola bottle.

This is because it is all an illusion. Smoke and mirrors. Now when you look at the pictures of all I am taking, you may just think – 'he is mad'. You are correct, but just like that pool of congealed blood, pack it right - all will be perfect to write about.

 Before that – a small word from my sponsors -

Thanks Paul Cullin, Dublin, who has now a sticker of the pub he works for on the roller.


Thanks, Chris Whitehead, the owner and publisher of Rhodesians Worldwide. (You get loads of promo china.)

I have not forgotten others. They will pop up in pictures as I go along.

Okay – here is the roller, washed and decked out with stickers yesterday.





 
Here is the roller today...





AND – all that stuff was easily packed and I even threw in a few more socks and jocks.

Tomorrow I concentrate on Hi-Tech (the Notebook is new with Windows 8 and I have not a clue), and photo copy all important documents - including a blank death certificate.

Sponsorship is still open.




Tuesday, July 22, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rogue Rhodie on a Roller (Part 2)

Hi all. As promised. The latest update.

Well, time is ticking down on the clock (unless you own a digital one, in which case you hear nothing, until it screams its stupid head off with those nerve racking beeps that tell you to go to work with totally frayed nerves).

Sadly, I have been forced to work a bit this week. Luckily, it rained today, so - knocked off early.
Getting home, rather bedraggled and steaming a strange musty cloud, I had a look in the Old Paper recycling bin.


Yes, yes. I had a delivery. Ah, you might say, but I had missed a couple because I had to work hard for my money (not). So they leave a card. On the back you tell them where to deliver. Neighbour or a secret place. Well, as I live in a Cul de Sac and the only dodgy person I have ever seen around here is me when I shave, it was logical.

What mad thief would look in the paper bin?

So, I am only missing the 12volt charger for the notebook. That is coming from the UK. (Panic.)

Meanwhile, back in the land of lunacy, my sponsors are cropping up thick and thin. Thin as not many, and thick because they are coughing up some nice dosh. Therefore, yet again, thanks to Sue Duffy and Charm Smillie. But it was this touch I loved – Rainer and Ali Obergrussberger want this sticker on my roller – so CUTE.



Now – here are pictures of my trusty roller (not sure about that, it wouldn't start yesterday, until I gave it a kick), before it is washed and full of promotion and sponsor stickers.


Then I mused over how I am going to pack everything. In these pictures, I have a bad feeling that this will not work.





Finally. Here is all that I plan to take. Yes.... (and if some dimwit says 'where is the kitchen sink', I will defriend them). Soooooo. It looks like a lot. BUT, as a Rhodie... I have a plan. I can always reduce by one pair of socks and underpants.

To wrap up. Why are underpants called a 'pair' when it is just one object with three holes?

Ah, hang on - I have a great idea. I could sort of  'sit' on the sit... 


Eish!

Sunday, July 20, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rogue Rhodie on a Roller (Part 1)

Starting on Saturday 26th July and lasting approximately one month, an old lunatic will attempt a pointless mission of going there and back just to see how far it really is. To do this he has decided to take an extremely modern form of transport - a tiny two stroke roller.

If this sounds insane, it gets even more absurd because the penniless bum intends to go camping the whole way. This means that he is likely to be picked up very quickly by the police as they watch amazed, as a huge pile of plastic bags of rubbish are apparently moving on their own accord, tied to a noisy thing on two wheels.

The person who will attempt this mission impossible is none other than me – The infamous Gokwe Kid.

So – here is the planned trip. It is about 1500 km. 

 
Cities intending to check out in the Czech Republic and Poland (going up) – Cesky Krumlov, Brno, Ostrava. Katowice, Krakow, Warsaw and (going down), Lodz, Wroclaw, Prague, Pilzen.

I will use as many minor roads as possible. Several reasons. It makes no difference as far as speed is concerned. I can only go a maximum of 45 kmh. So in theory - I actually can make more direct routes.

There will be less traffic, hence the odds of getting killed are slightly better.

Then, all the little villages will be full of friendly peasants, and there will be plenty of cheap places to eat and make loads of friends, who will fill me up on wicked schnapps and ice cold beer, accommodate me for free, and let me sleep with their wives and or daughters, sheep, goats and chickens.

Alternatively, the place could be crawling with rampant, rabid, robbing Rhodie rapists, and my buggered corpse, shrouded in the green and white, will be dumped as a warning to the dangers of going where no Rhodie has gone before.


Due to a budget close on a small overdraft, I have and will lobby for donations and sponsors.
So what do you get in exchange ? -

Ah, there is plenty.

I will be posting on a regular basis (presuming some of the hovels I zip through even know what free WiFi is), and you will giggle at my antics (even if I do get run over).

You can sponsor me a beer or two. For that you get your name up here and on a picture/video with your name stuck to the glass/bottle.

You can sponsor a stretch of the trip. A photo will be taken of the entrance sign of some joint with me holding up your name and another picture as I arrive at the next kaff.

You can ask for a postcard from a particular place (limited to major cities). There I will take a photo, have it printed, and send it as a card. (Address needed obviously.)

You can design your own sticker, send it to me and it will be on the roller. Or, I will do it as a transfer on a T-shirt.

I am open to more ideas.

On the right is a PayPal link. The sums are small. (Use multiple donations if necessary.) Please use your discretion. 50 Pence will not, for an example, get you a postcard.

Sponsors/donations so far -

Irena Schartz of Töging, Germany.
Free tent and sleeping bag (brand new), and the use of her SatNav.

Family Obergrussberger of Pleisskirchern, Germany.
Bits and bobs and technical help.

Kat Hall, Worcester, UK.
Gas cooker, camping chair, rucksack.

Sue Duffy, Bristol, UK.
Sponsors, the drive, Wroclaw to Prague.


Please leave comments here and on Facebook. Comments here may take a bit of time to check.

Contact me is the same as in my books -


I will start to use twitter on this trip. Details soon.

Next posting will be about preparations, along with hilarious pictures. Catch ya all soon.



Wednesday, July 02, 2014

The great PPC advertising debacle

By 1967, Premier Portland Cement (Pvt) Ltd of Rhodesia (PPC), was inundated with complaints. Not for the quality of the product but the fact as soon as a bag was picked up it promptly split it seams or simply tore in half.

This resulted in many a Baas cuffing his faithful servant for 'Mekkin a bludda mess of my car boot and vellies, hey!'

With sanctions hitting hard, the Prime Minister was personally involved when a similar incident caused him to throw away an almost brand new safari suit. Threatening the PPC management with
several months of touring Gokwe Tribal Trusts lands on foot, naked except for a split bag on their heads to cover their shame, they raised the price and invested the new income on a sturdier bag.

Unquestionably, there was a huge improvement but when the PPC decided on an advertising campaign demonstrating the strength with the slogan 'Not even a grown man can punch his way out of our paper bags', that things were to go seriously wrong.

An extra large bag was specially made for the occasion and the advert would be filmed by self-employed camera man, Paddy Murphy, who had recently been extradited from Pakistan and he offered special rates. An amateur boxer from a Salisbury gym was given the unenviable job to attempt the task for $12,75 ($10 after deductions).

To stop the bag and its struggling combatant from falling over, it was quarter filled with quick setting powdered cement. The idea being that when he was eventually cut out of the bag, covered in a fine coat of grey, all would cheer as he gave a despondent smile of defeat. Well...that was the plan.

The boxer (no one remembers his name), was duly popped in and under a blazing midday sun was soon punching away amid the sounds of coughing reminiscent to a really bad morning smoker. After about 30 mins, the management and camera man wandered off for a two hour lunch break and left the hapless man pounding away in terrible desperation.

Returning (less Paddy Murphy, who had mysteriously disappeared along with the the senior management's BMW), the paper bag was rather still and made no sounds even when spoken to.
To much hilarity, the bag was cut open, and to everyone’s surprise, instead of a tired boxer sitting down, there was one standing, still punching, but perfectly encrusted in 2 inches of quick setting cement that obviously been created by his sweat.

A quick debate broke out. Ad hoc plans were scribbled on the back of a fag box. The disappearance of the boxer would be covered up as MIA (Missing In Action) whilst fighting, which was close to the truth. The body would be dispossessed in such a fashion that no one would raise an eyebrow should it be spotted and that would be that.
The picture shows a man walking past the boxer without raising an eyebrow.

Friday, June 13, 2014

The Legend of the Gokwe Kid and the Witchdoctor.

A story for children 8-12 years of age.

Now, gather around the camp fire children for Uncle Karl will tell you a nice goodnight story.

Once upon a time, deep in the bush of the badlands of Gokwe, the great Kid was on another goddamn patrol. Feeling a tad dizzy from a stinking hot yellow ball cooking his head, he heard a right ruckus coming from a patch of dry elephant grass.

Such a screaming and roaring did pound his ears in time with his boiling blood and mindful of his police pledge to help the innocent, he rushed over to the scene. What a sight to behold, for lo, a big black mane lion was having a merry old time chewing off the leg of a witchdoctor. The poor old man was howling a ballyhoo fit to burst a gut.

Now the Kid was in a bit of a pickle and as he watched the grey soil change colour into a deep shade of red, suitable to grow great mealies, he scratched at his sweaty, itchy hole in a desperate bid to switch his brain on. You see, there could be evil gooks lurking around and filling the lion with hot lead could alert them to his presence. Not only that, he might miss and accidentally kill the man and get charged for murder!

“Bass, Bass, pliss hilp me pliss,” the terribly injured man pleaded in barely comprehensible English, as his uninjured leg thrashed about looking for a bucket to kick.

“Never fear, Shamwari, for the Kid is here, I will save you,” he explained and placed his trusty rusty bayonet on the end of his FN assault rifle.

Grabbing the giant pussy cat’s tail, he lifted it up to expose his target and with one arm, powered by adrenalin, neatly freed the lion's sweetbreads from its body. Well, as you can imagine, that took the now enraged beast by surprise and with bulging eyeballs released the witchdoctor’s leg and throwing its huge head back, let out a mighty roar... Except it sounded more like a bog standard moggy ally cat tom, down at the vets and getting neutered without anaesthetic.

It was of a such high decibel range that the Kid's sunglasses were shattered. Half blind and realising that the lion would soon conclude it wouldn't be doing much cub making anymore, and decide on revenge, he thrust with all his strength the bayonet all the way up to the magazine in the lion's brown eye – killing it instantly.

Quickly finding his first aid kit, the Kid found his spare shoelaces and in a jiffy had stopped the
witchdoctor’s bleeding.

“Dank U Baas, dank U. I great witchdoctor and grant you one wish for safing me.”

The exhausted Kid collapsed and without thinking - “I want a 12 inch penis.”

And so children, as the picture shows, the Kid didn't quite get what he wanted but he still has it and shows it off now and then. The End. Any questions?

“Yes,” said a little girl of ten, “this is so cute, I want one also.”

“I'm afraid you will have to wait till your at least 16.”

“How did you get your rifle out the lion?” asked an observant 9 year old boy.

“That is a very sticky question because rigor mortis had set in. So throwing caution to the wind, the Kid emptied the entire magazine, blasting the lion's head all over the trees and then, after removing the magazine, thrust his arm down its exposed throat, and pulled the rifle out, lock, stock and smoking barrel.”


Thursday, June 12, 2014

Rhodesians Worldwide Magazine







Hah, how about this hey! Cool beans or what. This is the latest RWW magazine. Great little rag and well worth subscribing to. I will certainly continue and place more adds.

On the back cover is (top right) Dave Parrington. He is mentioned in a chapter of StP. We went to the same school, Mount Pleasant High, Salisbury, Rhodesia and the same swimming club. Dave (as you know), went onto represent Zimbabwe in the 1980 Olympics as a diver.

I never could work out what made people walk a plank freely, hop around on it like some semi-naked crazed druggie, leap high into the air and then perform terrible contortions of writhing pain, before piling 30 feet, head first, into the bottom of a 15 foot deep pit full of ice water. Madness!
Now he is a top notch head coach in America. (And a member of FB TGK.)

Bottom left – the one and only The Gokwe Kid, chillaxing with the last copy of RWW in Mühldorf am Inn, Bavaria, Germany. As for my aquatic career with MP swimming club. I hated every moment of it. All those beefy lads with shoulders the same as Arnold Schwarzenegger, and legs that could kick start a jumbo jet, would with gleeful shouts leap into the water and swim faster than a starving shoal of piranhas.

Me, with my half starved, skinny form shivering in fear, would hesitatingly put an emaciated large toe in the water and screech as I immediately received frostbite. At this point some bastard usually pushed me in. Even the piranhas didn't bother wasting energy stripping a bit of shrivelled flesh from my bones.

Two years I put up with this torture. (I did love the trips to Beira though.) My Daddy had wanted me to become a champion. But I finally quit after entering the 4 by 100 metres individual madly, at the annual 'let's race each other' competition. It was supposed to last only a day but dragged on for another two as people screamed enthusiastically at me to hurry up.

I recall, treading water, whilst having a breather on the second lap, shouting back -

“What is all the fuss about? There is no one behind me!”

Monday, June 09, 2014

The Gokwe Kid and the Mystery of the Plastic Meat.

Sometimes even I worry about me. That is because no one else does. No one phones, no one pops around, no one invites me out. T
hat is because they think I am a weird. Even my own children avoid me. The people I work for placed me in an apartment at the end of a cull in a sack on the outskirts of town, to rot away without causing too much chaos to their idyllic, peaceful life.

Well, last night, whilst cooking the pork belly, I noticed a funny smell. A bit like burning plastic and then BOOM, everything went off, plunging me into a shaft of light from the dying sun, via the loft window.

For a moment, in my panic, I thought maybe I had bought ornamental meat. I recalled when I nearly died in Rhodesia whilst visiting a china. Starving as usual, I spotted some fruit in a bowl. Grabbing a shiny, rosy apple, I took a huge bight and masticated like a an Ethiopian getting some Band Aid.
Suddenly, whilst my china stared in wonder, I noticed that it tasted rather odd. The nearest I can describe the waxy goo was when in one of my 'strange thoughts in my head', I wondered what a candle tasted like.

Anyway. With all the lights off, along with everything else, I found my torch by standing on it barefoot, nearly breaking a metatarsal, and went back to the hob to investigate. (I am not the greatest Bush detective for nothing hey!) To my horror, I realised I could have DIED. Some complete idiot, had turned on the wrong ring, and instead of frying the pork belly, the back ring was frying the kettle's electric wire!

Totally traumatised, (I unplugged it, reset the fuses), cooked the pork belly, and still shaking with adrenalin, went early to bed...only to hear the fixed phone ring! I was already half asleep and in my delirium sort of listened with half an ear and brain as TGK member, Petra Thynne's, husband droned on the answering machine that he sadly can not meet up today because they are obligated as members of a Norwegian ex-pat club in Munich, that they must help in some ritual of seal pups clubbing down at the zoo.

And – just as I was using my own version of counting sheep (I pretend that I stole a nuclear submarine and loaded with missiles, I bomb places like Mecca and the Vatican), one of my mobile phones rings! Eish. I looked this morning. A Munich number. Very dodgy...