Friday, December 09, 2005

ZIMBABWE: Another African ‘White Hole’, says U.N. envoy.

Anti racism laws were enforced in the United Kingdom recently when Scientists and Star Trek producers were banned, with immediate effect, from referring to a cosmic collapse of a giant sun being called a ‘Black Hole’. This phenomenon which produces such dense gravity as to suck all around it into oblivion, similar to the economic forces of Robert Mugabe, has been deemed as a derogative term and must now be referred to as a ‘White Hole’. Failure to comply carries a minimum sentence of ten weeks in the reality television show, ‘Give Us Your Fucking Money, I Got A Despot To Support.’
Here are some rare pictures of the worst ‘White Holes’ known at the moment, taken by the spaced out Bubble Gum telescope.

I don’t like Banks. I used to have an account with the Naff Bent, but closed it after I got sick of their thieving and abusive tones after lending me money I was not authorised to have. Dunno how that works. Still the letters keep rolling in. as if someone hasn’t noticed the account has been closed for weeks. Tough Titty hey!

Still, I have found a new bank that seems to have no problem writing off debts for people from my ex homeland, so I must see if I can get a loan.

Some snippets from the press this week:

STANDARD Chartered said yesterday it was effectively writing off the value of its banking operations in Zimbabwe after a sharp downturn in economic conditions. Inflation of more than 400 per cent at the end of last month was blamed for the move, but Standard insisted it had no plans to quit Zimbabwe, where it has been trading since 1892.The Zimbabwean dollar has plunged from 9,900 against the US dollar in June to 69,000 five months later, Standard said. The London-based bank said it would write-down its assets in Zimbabwe by US$40m (£23.1m) based on the current situation.

This bit from the Zambian press has just got to be the laugh of the week. The former President of Zambia, whose only claim to fame was to promote his ‘Don King’ style haircut on millions of useless bank notes…

DR Kaunda is today expected to leave for Zimbabwe to meet President Robert Mugabe over the economic and political situation in that country.And Dr Kaunda has started his sign language lessons to improve his communication skills with persons with disabilities.

‘DOH’, I got a bad feeling the reporter slipped up here…The good Doc. then went on to say:

"Is Comrade Mugabe paying for keeping alive Ian Douglas Smith and other criminals? Something is wrong somewhere," he said.

I could not agree more. Last I heard Ian Smith was thrown off his farm, his pension, if he gets one, is about £1 a month.

When a reporter from the ‘DAILY NUTTER’ attempted to interview Mr Smith, he was handed a signed Christmas card to give to Dr. Kaunda with kind regards for asking about his health.

As for other criminals, perhaps we should remind ourselves about a certain Mengistu Haile Miriam.

In 1974 he personally throttled Haile Selassie of Ethiopia, then had a ball trashing the place even more, but by 1991 Mengistu found himself with a discontented population, frequent famine, war in Eritrea, Ogaden and Tigray and noisy Irish pop songs. Finally, when the rebel forces were about to seize Addis, Mengistu hastily left the country for Zimbabwe, where he has been on holiday ever since. Latest sightings indicate he is Tiger fishing at Lake Kariba.

But it looks like the place is itching for more aggro…

A new conflict would make little sense for Eritrea, which gained independence from Ethiopia in 1993 after a 30-year guerrilla war. Desperately poor and with a population of only 3.6 million, it would stand little chance against sub-Saharan Africa’s second most populous country. But there is a mutual enmity between the two countries’ leaders that could override any logic.

Obviously Sir Bob G and the lads have been very successful feeding the starving here. They so fit, now they can have a great time killing each other again. Pass the begging bowl around please…all Kalashnikov machine guns much appreciated.
Perhaps he should do what John Lennon did and hand back his trinkets. I like John’s style in the accompanying letter…

“Your Majesty, I am returning my MBE as a protest against Britain’s involvement in the Nigeria-Biafra thing, against our support of America in Vietnam and against Cold Turkey slipping down the charts. With Love, John Lennon.”

Last, but not least…

The political struggle is over in Zimbabwe and President Robert Mugabe has won.

Any visions of a popular uprising sweeping Mr Mugabe away are pipe-dreams. Instead, he is free to plan his future.

A deferential dauphin has already emerged. Mr Mugabe's successor will, in all likelihood, be Joyce Mujuru, the new vice-president. No dictator could possibly hand over to a more pliant, loyal and malleable figure.

Her only distinction is that during the war against white Rhodesia in the 1970s, Mrs Mujuru was known as "Comrade Spill Blood".

Even Britain, once his leading critic, has fallen silent. Christopher Dell, the US ambassador in Harare, regularly exposes the regime's excesses.But nothing is heard from Rod Pullen, the British ambassador. He probably calculates that any public criticism would allow Mr Mugabe to play the anti-colonial card.But the old tyrant does this anyway - and Britain's failure to speak out amounts to a surrender to intimidation.

Thursday, December 08, 2005


Further embarrassment to the embattled national carrier was revealed today when a spokesperson confirmed the rumours.

‘Yes, it did happen,’ the outgoing director, Truthwill Fuckwit, told a news reporter from the Government fun and chains weekly, ‘The Daily Nutter’.

‘The plane ran out of fuel just as it flew over the ruins. It is very embarrassing for us all. However no one was injured,’ the well groomed figure in a brand new Gucci suit, went on,

‘There were no tourists visiting Zimbabwe Ruins any more to crash on. The pilot had claimed political asylum when he landed the plane in Dubai to let the only passenger off,’ the composed Fuckwit went on to reply to our reporters question regarding who flew the plane back to Zimbabwe.

‘The police have confirmed a Mr. Automaniac Pilot was at the control, but he must have been sleeping when the aircraft overshot Harare and then running out of fuel. They have not found the culprit yet and it is feared he has absconded.’

Asked who would clear the mess up, Mr. Fuckwit appeared surprised with the question.

‘We allowed the benefactors of our Presidents recent ‘clean out trash’ program to use the bits as shelter after their homes were bulldozed. The pieces have all been used’

Referring to a criticism made by the recently departing Jan Egeland, the United Nations emergency relief coordinator, that the President had refused the donation of thousands of tents for the homeless, Mr Fuckwit reiterated what was said by President Mugabe to the UN envoy that:

"We are not a tents people... We believe in living in the arse end of a crashed ZANU (PF) machine."

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

And Mad Bob preached to his people- ‘Eat my words and fill your bellies.’

I suppose if this wasn’t so tragic, we could sit in our adopted lands and laugh about it whilst having a few beers…

After making 700,000 people homeless recently,

Zimbabwe's Minister of Security, Dydimus Mutasa, reacting to critical reports on the clean-up campaign, told IRIN recently, "They [clean-up campaigns] happen everywhere in the world - whether it is London and even in South Africa. Things have become better, people are able to sleep peacefully now."

I am very glad to hear it. Much better to sleep under the stars…like the good old days hey!

Power cuts Tuesday blacked out much of President Robert Mugabe's state of the nation address, during which he promised to address Zimbabwe's chronic electricity shortages.
But Mugabe claimed Zimbabwe was winning back regional and international confidence.

"We have shown immense progress in the face of daunting challenges,"

I couldn’t agree more, it is a record. Never has a sovereign, land not at war, had an economy implode so fast. Guinness Book of Records is the only place Bob is missing his name in.

The government has seized a farm used by SOS Children's Villages Association of Zimbabwe to grow food for children at its various orphanages across the country. Arcadia farm near Bindura town, about 60km north of Harare, was also used as a training school for orphans and abandoned children where they were taught various self-help skills they could use to earn a living on leaving the care of SOS.There are about 14 tenant farmers at the farm all of them once orphaned or abandoned children who were raised by the SOS and taught how to farm. They have no alternative land if evicted from the 573.45-hectare farm.

I thought there was now plenty of land for everyone? I dunno, I find this all very confusing…

Monday, December 05, 2005


I am exhausted. Three days I have been at it almost non stop rearranging and adding to the Gokwe story. With luck it is 90% finished tomorrow evening. Then comes the forgotten bits and bobs and the editing and all that stuff. I have this very instant received an email from my ex Boss from those days. So I hope to iron out some details.

Last nights Quiz at the Taliban Hotel was a disaster. My team were all Talibans and had just returned from a staff dinner at the Indian. Completely pissed the lot of them. Never mind having difficulty with the quiz questions, most them couldn’t answer a simple one, like, ‘What is your Name?’.

I notice the seagulls have finally eaten the vomit left outside the Lion pub/hotel next door to me. I gather there was some Kung Fu fun on Saturday, but I was most probably playing my stereo so loud I didn’t notice.

I had time to sniff about our little planet via the plug in the wall this morning as I supped on a coffee. Cut and taped a few little bits that took my fancy…

Samuel Mboro, an unemployed printer, lives with 20 members of his family in a tiny, four-room house on the outskirts of Harare. "I can't describe how difficult life is here," he said."No one in our family is working, so we are surviving on Red Cross handouts. I am surprised that the government is saying that there is enough food. That's not true. Those who don't get handouts are starving. People are dying of hunger."

White pensioners are also suffering. Len Huxley, 84, who was born in Britain and served as a Royal Marine during the Second World War, has spent the past 40 years in Zimbabwe. He survives in his small flat on handouts from volunteers.

"I have a jar of coffee which I haven't dared use," he said. "I just sit and look at it. I haven't had a piece of bacon for four years. If I'm feeling generous I might buy some bananas and have them on toast."

John Sheppard, the co-ordinator for Meals on Wheels, said many cases were heartbreaking:

"One man we know, who's 80, is forced to work as an electrician, climbing into roofs and up pylons. His wife is 87, almost totally blind and crippled with arthritis. Because of inflation, their pension is worth just 20,000 Zimbabwe dollars a month (10 pence). Their daughter, who lives with them, has Down's syndrome. If they weren't helped, they'd die. We know of a gentleman who starved to death in a caravan. He probably lost the urge to live.We know of a woman who lives in a cowshed wearing clothes made out of plastic. It's staggering what hyper-inflation really does."

Campaigning at a rally for last weekend's senate elections, President Robert Mugabe told ITV News that his international critics could learn from him.

"They should look at how we are practising our democracy, especially the Americans."

Air Zimbabwe has long since exhausted the good credit it began with 25 years ago as the successor to Air Rhodesia; even Nigerian spammers aren't sending email to Air Zimbabwe’s offices any more.

Zimbabwe postal service has introduced a new stamp with a picture of Robert Mugabe in honour of his achievements.

In daily use it has been shown that the stamp is not sticking to envelopes.

This has enraged the president who demanded a full investigation.

After a month of testing a special presidential commission has come out with the following findings:

1. The stamp is in perfect order.
2. There is nothing wrong with the applied adhesive.
3. People are just spitting on the wrong side.

That will do for a bit. Catch ya soon…

Saturday, December 03, 2005


I have worked so hard today. Reorganizing the amazing Gokwe story. I can’t be arsed writing about today, because all I did was wake up, drink coffee, write, then drink beer, write, smoke joints, drink beer and open the window to shout at the postman to ask where my Giro was.

So, I decided to let you all have a little sneak at the past. This bit hasn’t been edited yet…it is 1977 and We are Men of Men.


I then spent the next few weeks at Gokwe police station. Now I was doing my own thing. I had my own desk and went out constantly on one day general enquiries. Well, one weekend, I was free. Steve, my room mate, was duty Patrol Office. Then a call comes through from Simchembu - the old RioTinto prospecting camp on the Mapungola hills overlooking the Sengwa river and basin - real Batonka country. Gokwe village and the camps almost equal altitude made UHF communications rather good. They needed some supplies and Steve Doe was to go out in a Landy and sort them out.

It was Saturday, brilliant sunshine and I had nothing to do. Steve assured me we would be there and back the same day. Just a short 230 mile return trip down a rutted and potholed dirt ‘road’, through a tsetse fly zone, a national park, insurgent’s tourist resort and back in time so I can have a vodka, lime and lemonade at the local Gokwe ‘Alcoholics ‘R’ Us’, White members only ‘Sports’ Club. (I was still a Coke and Crunchie geek in those days. This would change dramatically soon.)

I wasn’t too sure about all this, but I felt a bit sorry for him. The other Patrol Officers hated the hapless twat and regularly worked him over after the obligatory consumption of weekend beer and fired up testosterone levels.
So I went along. We would take one of the open backed ‘Landys’ and 2 Constables. They sat in the back. Of course, should we run over a landmine we may stand a chance in the cab, due to the reinforcement. Anyone in the rear would become flying biltong.

There was a constant transport problem. Most of our Landys had number plates starting with 13. Landy 1313 was used for local rounds only. This was due to the fact that it had only 2 forward gears. First and fourth. This meant you shot off at an alarming rate and when your ear tuned into the fact the engine was about to explode, you shoved it into 4th. By that time you had to reach the bit of down hill road below the police station before the jolting Kangaroo jerks of the near stalling engine made you sea sick! I would be taken for a ride as assistant gear stick. Reverse only worked if someone held it in place with some degree of force. My Boss had of course sent 1313 in for repairs to our local overworked mechanic, but parts were refused till we were down to 1 gear. I suppose turning up at investigations in reverse would make a hella of a figure of true Rhodie entrepreneurial skill.

There was one special Landy. Number plate 873 had a white top and was okay till Steve got hold of it. Steve was the opposite of King Midas. All Steve touched, turned to crap.

So there we are, brumming along, cicadas chirping away, friendly, happy, smiling, waving natives as weaved erratically in the soft dust layer. Steve playing happily with the yellow knob for the best 4 by 4 by far we had. Me sipping close to boiling point Coca Cola, (still only 5 cents a bottle) feet up on the dashboard to avoid the heat from the engine. Rifle well jammed between door and seat. Ready in minutes should we come under fire. No need for any supplies. Lunch at Simchembu and back for dinner.

We must have been about 7 miles into Chizarira, one of the remotest and unknown national parks when trouble started. I got a feeling that Steve might have been blind and was too vain to wear glasses. For the next thing I know, we are in a deep ditch and I nearly choked on a Coke bottle. The poor saps in the back managed to stay in as we ploughed to a stuttering halt.

AND now? Steve went into one of those wailing whinging apologies that had made him so popular as a rugby ball. Seems he was keeping his eye so well on the heat gauge, that he hadn’t noticed we were about to go into Titanic mode. Plus, we were overheating.

Was I scared?

Not at all. The place where we ‘pranged’ was as safe as Fort Knox. Nature had supplied the best Anti Insurgent weapons in the world. Man eating lions and the fastest winged giant injector of ‘Sleepy Bye Bye’ disease. What had ten minutes before had been,

‘Gee, check out that pride of ‘Shumbas’ man, and those poor bastards in the back are getting well bitten’ was now,

‘We well fucked!’

Of course I didn’t know if they really were man eating lions. I knew they smelt fear stirring bowels for miles and homed in on it like white sharks.

The two Constables correctly and freely volunteered to walk back to the nearest village and accost assistance. Sounded good to me. No desire to walk in 34c blazing sunshine playing hide and seek with some overgrown hungry pussy cats. Besides, neither of us P.O.s could speak the local lingo!


We suffered. To keep those evil Tsetse flies off our blood we sat in the cab with closed windows till the Cokes exploded. Just as we reached the stage to qualify for the health warning ‘More than 5 hours in a Sauna is bad for your health’, help arrived.

A span of ‘Mombe’s’ appeared. At least 6 cows. They had wooden handmade yokes and ropes weaved from bark. In a few moments the Landy was back on the road. I am not sure if Steve gave them any money for that. I didn’t. It was my day off and not my fault we now 5 hours behind schedule.

Do you remember that song,

‘Things…can only get better’?

Try, ‘Things can only get worse’. They did.

Blind Steve sets off again and after a short while informs me that she on heat. For once he wasn’t referring ad nauseum to his 15 year old girl friend in Que Que. Nope, 873 was on heat, we 50 miles from Simchembu and in ‘badlands’. The Landy had to be stopped to cool down and we needed to report in.

UHF radio was useless here, so I had set up the TR48. These heavy things bounced serious radio waves of the stratosphere. I know they real ‘heavy waves’ because it was standard Rhodie radio initiation torture to get the new recruit to hold the antenna whilst sending. This resulted in 2nd degree burns, a short burst of urine and the hilarity from the in doctored superiors. The antenna tended to be useless, so it was stretch out the wire aerial time.

After reaching 608 (Gokwe) to pass on that we would be late, there was a short debate as how to get the aerial down after I had tied stones to the ends and expertly threw them over very high trees?

The wire was strong. The trees were strong. The lions were even stronger and we had no wire cutters. In fact; we had nothing really. No Coke, no food, and in 3 hours no sunlight. Taking cue from the great Frederick Courtney Selous, eyesight loaded with adrenalin, (as maybe I was the only one with even the slightest notion of our predicament,) I shot the stones with 2 shots. Nearly blinded a Constable with splinters but, we on the move.

By now I’m singing, ‘Things can only get Worser’ and they did.

873 was in a bad way. We couldn’t dare open the radiator cap and what for! We had no water, never mind the machine! Light fading fast and there is an abandoned Bedford supply truck stuck on the only bridge, blocking the way up the escarpment. I am supposed to be at ‘Alcoholics ‘R’ Us’, supposedly having a really good time by now.

What happens next is a true account of the rape and pillage of a 4 cylinder Leyland land rover engine named 873.

It was the dry season; the temp gauge is in the serious red zone. The Constables in the back are threatening mutiny. I want to shoot Steve and know I would be acquitted in a military tribunal. This is the really ‘badlands’, people die here! Copper coated lead instant air conditioning projectiles spring to mind.

Custer’s last stand? Alan Wilson and the Shangani patrol? Can I think of any more examples of idiots getting their free ticket to the after life?

Steve shoved the screaming dying Landy into low gear drive, put her into first, and tore its guts out, first through the river bed, then all the way up that escarpment. Freedom fighters as far away as Lusaka in Zambia could hear the din as we; the dust encircling the dying African sun, the last bit of steam pouring out the bonnet, turned up at base camp.

The occupants were really backward. They didn’t understand that I was just a hitch hiker and stuffing up 873 wasn’t my idea. It is not my fault the Bedford truck broke down. Seems some over zealous driver thought riding the clutch down hill till it hit the bridge is good for its plates. Wrong. They seized.

‘That means we are sending a ‘stick’ of 5 men to protect it.’ This announcement came from Inspector Drey.

He had an office at Gokwe police station. The man was rarely seen. Smoked a pipe like Sherlock Holmes. A bachelor, over 30 and his demeanour was really scary. Big ‘main manne’ of Special Branch.

Not to worry, all this meant due to lack of available ‘eyes’ I had to do guard duty for 2 hours between 2 and 4 in the morning.

Er.. sorry, but, this is supposed to be my weekend off! This is definitely the last time I am going out for a little ‘pleasure’ drive in the bush and not getting paid for it!

No impression of course, but dinner was a treat. Very rare actually considering it was categorized as Royal game, the stunningly beautiful Sable antelope. The saviours of the realm and protectors of the law were short of a fresh joint, and a Sable walked across the scopes. Very nice! The huge piece of roasted meat was extremely dark coloured and strong tasting. (Of guilt?) Still, I should be grateful for small mercies. A rather alarmed voice had just reported over the radio that a pride of lions had decided to take up camp under the Bedford for the night. Hah hah hah. It’s a hard knock life!

It was quite a large camp. Well set out. A good old Rhodie 44 galleon drum boiler supplying hot water, shower much appreciated. Sand bags encircled the place and at 2.00 am I sagged over them. By 3.00 am I have serious hallucinations fever and seeing aliens with glowing red eyes from the direction of the pitch black bush.

Sunday broke. Another hot and lovely day. A perfect time to do a Mazoe patrol stunt and fight our way back to H.Q. Only difference, the 1896 pioneers had horses, we got a cracked cylinder head.

We had taken enough water to get us to the base of the Charama plateau before 873 gave up. Feeding her tortured radiator constantly before she blew her top, it worked. At the base of the last obstacle was a water tower with a huge hose.

Then Steve did a strange thing. Leaving the engine running, lifting he bonnet he whacked the radiator cap off with a lump of wood and proceeded to give the steaming dying beast a bath.
The hose end was designed to feed water trailers, not radiators. Anyway, loads of steam later, we stagger back home.

We get debriefed by the Boss. I still protest it was my weekend off.
There’s a problem with responsibility for killing 873.

I get asked a simple question.

‘Did P.O. Doe leave the engine running at Charama when he refilled the radiator?’

My mechanical abilities were undoing a girl’s bra one handed whilst snogging. What kind of question was this. I lied, thinking I save Doe’s ass.


In the ensuing yowling from Steve, I realised I hadn’t been the perfect witness and tried to change my story. But, the damage was done.


The amazing story of the Mazoe Patrol you can find here:

The slaughter of Major Allan Wilson and the Shangani Patrol, see:

The massacre at Little Big Horn, Custers last stand, see the historical archives under: White Colonial American Fuck Ups, Volume 2057.

The pictures: aged 19 in both. That’s me on the left of 873 and the other is me perched at the edge of Charama plateau.

Friday, December 02, 2005

We Have Run Out of the Alphabet, Not Money.

Nothing much really to report from the world today. I had a look about but there was nothing really to catch my interest. Whatever Tony Blair says is rubbish any way and if Boy George Bush manages to string three words together that anyone can understand, we all run for cover in case he starts another Custer’s last stand anywhere that has a barrel of oil hidden under its soil.

So as usual I read up to see how progress, or lack of, is in my ex-homeland. Pages and pages I went through today. If everyone in Zimbabwe read the crap that is being spouted by the miss-ruling party, they must be extremely relieved that as soon as they chase the last Colonial thieves out the place, every one will have a house and plenty to eat. I find this a little puzzling. When I used to live there and when I visited on numerous occasions in the 80’s and 90’s, I never saw homeless or starving people. So where had all the filthy non humans, (these are white people by the way) hide all the destitute?

I watched via broadband this report.

This well worth watching. Best is for last with a well dressed representative of Mr. Mugabe’s government blaming all the countries woes on the rain and Great Britain. I am a bit confused about this new housing scheme they have started. Would it not be prudent first to build the new houses before bulldozing 700,000 people’s homes? Still, the rain being a problem is correct. Of the few homes that have been put together, a substantial amount of them have started to melt! Unlike the logic of trying to build an Igloo in the Sahara, here was a simple case of not reading the instructions on the cement packet. Lets all burst into a song from Mary Poppins…

‘Just a spoon full of cement helps the house melt down,
the house melt down…’

The governor of the reserve bank of Zimbabwe, an erstwhile individual with the name Gono, whose name will soon be changed to Gonow, is musing the idea of starting a new currency. Why? That’s because they are running out of words in the alphabet. If you can have an overdraft in billions, then a budget in trillions, that will soon move into zillions and then? What comes next? That’s the problem. The poor man is at a loss for words!

I was a good boy yesterday. I compressed three chapter stories from my book into one and chucked out a thousand words. It was all about a garment factory in what was then called Salisbury. I have an uneasy feeling that the firm no longer exists as my email to the place remains unanswered. Maybe it was intercepted and deemed dangerous? Not sure what I fancy writing today. The Gokwe story needs to be finished, it is the largest bit running at almost 40 thousands words. Amazing, I only spent 15 months there. What a place. Here is an old map. If you look carefully I have sketched the borders out. Just one of the tiny scraps of land bits allocated to Blacks only under Ian Smith. I was a teenage policeman there. Made me a bit queasy doing some Google research. Prior to one election the opposition party’s candidate was found bathing in the river. He had very little to say for himself and never will anymore. This is during Mugabe’s reign.

Today is number 4. This is very important day. It means my four plates and four coffee cups are dirty. It also means I get to have a bath. My boiler doesn’t have a timing gadget to set on and off, so to save electricity it goes on when I run out of crockery. It is quite a performance, believe me. After waiting a couple of hours after throwing the switch, I put the heater from the front room into the kitchen for half an hour. The door is so swollen with moisture it no longer closes properly. Once the kitchen is defrosted, I can venture in to clean up.
Then, the heater goes into the bathroom and sod the health and safety laws. I would rather be electrocuted than freeze to death. The door doesn’t close properly either.

They have started to put the Christmas decorations down the high street. Part of this consists of real trees stuck into holders on building fronts. This was done yesterday. Unfortunately the one attached to the Barclays bank fell off in the wind, complete with brightly lit coloured bulbs. If it had landed on someone they would have received a real shock for Christmas…hah hah hah.

Well that should do it for now. Must get on with some things.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Suffer the little Beer tin, for you will Inherit the Floor.


A warning, please take heed.

Terrible accident today… I nearly died of fright. No wonder there are so many fatalities in the home when things like this happen.

I have thought of so many ways to save on electricity. It is expensive heating the atmosphere via my non-insulated flat. The irony of it. My donation to global warming via the electricity meter could contribute to my own drowning by the rising sea levels. I await the day when I look out my window and conclude I must swim to the Co-op.

With all known electric eaters now confined to the front room, I still thought the amount of times I have to keep feeding the black machine with £5 worth’s of electric vouchers to be still excessive and thought maybe something, somewhere, in my flat was stealing juice. I blamed the fridge.

I think the light doesn’t go out when I shut the door.

You may wonder why, if it is so bitterly cold beyond my front room door, do I keep my fridge on. That’s because it is a heater! It keeps my beers at the right temperature. If I just leave them lying around they become so chilled it hurts the chipped off pieces of my teeth. I remember once reading, as a drunkenly stoned Warlord of the building sites in Germany, which seems eons ago, a Viz magazine on the toilet. There was a handy tips section and the one about the fridge possibly fucking you over caught my attention between gasps of release.

The writer had cleverly suggested drilling a hole through the door, so as to be able to peek inside to see if the light really had gone off, or if this was a conspiracy between the fridge manufacturers and the thieving electricity board only interested in making profits for their off shore share holders. I decided to find out. I needed at least three fat joints to get my own central heating going, but after wandering around dazedly in the sub artic temperatures of the back of the flat for a while, I remembered where I had put the drill and turned on the lights before I fell down the staircase.

Everything went to plan till I withdrew the drill bit from the door. As I attempted to have a look, feeling a bit like a peeping tom, the hole began to foam and spurt brown liquid all over the place. Like it was dying! I had killed its life force. Panic stricken I ran confusedly around in the mounting puddle of brown slop, which now started to smell amazingly similar to Carling 4.1% which coats the carpet of the Lion pub next door. After what seems ages, the fridge gave a final frothy dribble and was still.

My heart was racing badly now, and I almost swooned, clutching my breast, as if I had put the drill into my own pasty white skin. I staggered in shock to my refuge to gain courage but when I got there, the Dutch bit was empty and I knew I had to return to the kitchen to get another beer from the fridge.

I suddenly had this bad feeling of ‘destinos stupidinos’, recalling that prior to getting stoned, I had been to Iceland and fetched beer and upon my return stumbling rather badly on the chip fat smeared staircase, resulting in a couple of tins falling out the bag and bouncing quite some way to the entrance door. I also, now very reluctantly, recalled I had put the well shook up tins separate in the fridge door. Give them extra time to settle down, I thought, before I pulled the ring out of ‘em.

What a beery mess. I had to get my torch to see exactly the damage done, as the seriously pressurised spraying tin had managed to short circuit the light, so now it will never go on.

Ahhh, bollocks. I clean the mess tomorrow. At least I can sleep with the knowledge that my fridge isn’t stealing anymore.



(So please refrain from your 9 year old or your Grandmother reading this.)

Greetings fellow Homo-sapiens and a special warm welcome to all the filthy non humans scattered around our little ball except for Nicholas Hoogstraten and Billy Rautenbach.

I used to have a diary/blog somewhere else on WWW, but sadly Gremlins saw fit to wipe it out. I have concluded I was targeted by Robert Mugabe’s CIO gooks for saying bad things about the great liberator of obesity in Africa.

With one in four people in Zimbabwe suffering from HIV and approximately the same amount facing imminent starvation, we should actually be relieved that the only the ruling elite of ZANU (PF) are likely to succumb from the west’s number one reason for dying; mainly over eating. Before that Mugabes’ pals tended to terminate themselves by driving drunkenly into trees in their new Mercedes but this dying habit has been severely curtailed along with the availability of petrol in the country.

Sadly another white farmer in Zimbabwe was murdered the other day. I hope that the 68 year old had expired from being throttled with an electric cable before being covered with mattresses and doused with his own horde of petrol before the perpetrators turned the house into a funeral pyre. By my own reckoning, that’s 4600 white farmers dead or kicked off their farms with 300 odd to go.

My kidneys hurt me this morning. I thought at first it was the beer but I didn’t have that much last night. Where I live it is not too hot. I can see the Gulf Stream from my front room window getting colder and with no central heating I have dragged my futon bed into the only room I can keep warm with a tiny electric wall heater at night. The cold permeates from the shop below though. My ‘birdcage’, the bay window overlooking the Highstreet of this tiny tourist town has no double glazing. Some of the glass is cracked and the rain leaks in when it lashes from the Atlantic. Rather often as late. I wonder if my chain smoking is contributing to global warming. Actually, maybe my capillaries are so clogged with muck my alcohol diffused blood can not keep me warm anymore. A couple of fat joints helps bring the blood to the surface for a while giving me a warm glow.

As usual in the morning I like my Nescafe with evaporated milk. A habit I picked up from two decades living in Bavaria. Then I like to read the news on-line. I shy away from Britain’s biggest selling daily, as I have little interest in people with more money than sense sniffing cocaine whilst stuffing their chests and lips with silicon. I like to keep up with the eccentricities of the planet via the Independent and the Times with special attention to,

which has reached a stunning 4.4 million hits so far. Besides the usual mayhem, political hysteria, starvation reports, anarchy and chaos, there is always some gem of a story to make your mouth drop open in amazement. Today there is news heading…

It's just a bank overdraft, says $430bn fraud suspect.

A negligible sum according to the defendant. I have a bank account overdrawn. They send threatening letters with charges. Dunno why. I closed the account with a plus and transferred all stop orders before hand. It is not my problem that it appears no one has noticed. My guess they all too busy scratching their holes whilst preparing for massive Christmas parties with the proceeds from shafting millions of poor fuckers like me.

Their days are numbered though. Some very clever people are putting the stick right up the arrogant bank’s bung holes…see

Good luck I say to them.

That’s nice…just heard on BBC Radio 2 I must boil my water along with the rest of North Wales or I will get some stomach bug. I only drink coffee till 11 am and then I switch to beer on offer at the Co-Op. Perhaps I should clean my teeth in Carling 4.1%. That way I have an excuse for smelling like a brewery.

It is a bit of a crying shame that I have to reintroduce all my favourite characters that wander past my window but I am sure I can integrate them along the way. I do like the ability to put up pictures though. That’s really cool, so I will have some fun.

Well I suppose I better get back to work on my book, The Last of the Rhodesians, almost ready to send some of it to a publisher. I hate editing but it has to be done. A couple of months and I reckon it’s a wrap.

Howling gale out there now. I hope I find some socks with no holes in them…

Lore…Galactic warrior for free speech.