Tuesday, January 31, 2006


The political elite of just about every country in Africa are obsessed with owning a car manufactured by Daimler-Chrysler. In other words, a Merc, or Benzi for short. They are so popular amongst government officials, some of them have several. Now, thanks to Sir Bob, sales are booming for the (still,) Stuttgart based firm.

However, after threatening their German staff with factory closures in 2004 and building more plants in South Africa, the workforce capitulated, agreed on an almost effective 30% wage cut and carry on making cars. The backlash is that Mercedes called back more cars because of faults in 2005 than they actually made in that year! Of course this makes no difference to African Despots and their hangers on. The ‘WaBenzi’ tribe, as they are popularly known, simply apply immediately for aid should a Merc not start and they are replaced with the latest model.

AC-DC, African Corruption and Daimler Chrysler have been hand in hand for decades, along as the customer was Black of course. I recall reading only a few years ago Zimbabwe police getting a whole lot of Mercs and the drivers were trained in Germany. Presumably to be part of President Mugabe’s motor convoy as he himself sits in…dig this..a £2 million pound armoured Mercedes capable of doing 5 miles to the gallon.

I brushed upon this theme a few years ago, even soliciting a response from customer service from Mercs H.Q. Basically, they said they sell vehicles to anyone and don’t mix in politics. This is more than obvious with the latest news coming out of Kenya this week. With the land recently praised for ousting out the last corrupt government, barely in power the new lot are even worse. How’s this from the Independent newspaper today,

Kenyans, who are bombarded daily with news of corruption and famine in their country, were outraged to learn that government ministers had spent £7m on vehicles including 57 Mercedes Benz and fleets of four-wheel drive cars in their first 18 months in office.

You think this is bad…here is the best bit,

The World Bank last week agreed to lend Kenya $120m (£70m) despite Mr Githongo's (former anti-corruption adviser,) revelations. President Kibaki has also appealed for $150m to feed the four million Kenyans who are facing food shortages caused by droughts.

So, if I understand this correctly. German car manufacturers are working harder for less, pay taxes that are donated to people who don’t work and want more Mercs, which then keeps the German plants still operative and covers director’s million Euro salaries.

I was reading an article in The Spectator, unfortunately the online version only allows the first few chapters for free, all about aid and Mercs in Africa. The best bit though…on the right hand side of the article was a ‘roll over’ advert for, guess who? Yup, Mercedes-Benz!

Still researching, I came across a brilliant piece of journalism on this theme. It effectively makes my comments pale in comparison, but backs my observations to the hilt.

But…Google, who have plunged in the ratings recently, both morally and financially (they lost 20 billion of their worth after the China censorship deal,) are totally losing the plot. They are so busy being clever, that some of their brilliance is hilarious. I thought about putting their adware system onto my blog. The idea is that their creepy crawler spiders work out the best related adverts to the themes posted on here. Thoughts of promoting the Sex Pistols newly released, Greatest Vomits album, or cheap Chinese toys from, Idiots ‘R’ U, seemed like a good way to make a few pence.

The brilliant plan being that people are so impressed with my Blog, they click on the related advert and whatever. Just the fact they click the link earns me some minimal amount. I worked out, I could pay a Zimbabwean asylum seeker 50 pence a day to sit and click on the advert non stop from the local councils library. Sadly, the installation gobbely gook was too complicated for me, so I didn’t bother.
So…where is this leading? Well if you go to the site I posted above, you get one of the best laughs of the day. The article takes Mercedes with its corrupt marketing procedures with African despots really to task. So what do the clever spiders from Google do? Promptly put up three adverts for buying Mercedes cars. Every time someone clicks the link, the advertiser pays Google. I wonder if,

Cheshire Classic Benz View our stock of 80s & 90s classic Coupe & Convertible Mercedes Cars www.cheshireclassicbenz.co.uk

knows they are being taken for a ride…hah hah hah. Or perhaps the article will actually promote sales. Nothing like a good slagging to increase interest. Rather a bad reputation than non at all. The banners change at each refresh to crazy hypocritical clashes. Next to one Merc promotion was this one,

Volunteer Teach in Africa Structured 3-12 week volunteer programs in Ghana & Tanzania.

Mmmm, might just apply, I wanna be a WaBenzi too!

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

A Quiet Saturday Evening at Home.

I knew trouble was impending the day ‘Rocky’ started walking the wrong way. His hair had also been recently cut and though he still had that idiotic grin on that perfect ‘doppelganger’ face, he had now definitely lost it.

Sylvester Stallone’s look-alike might not have packed the same muscle as the original ‘Italian Stallion’, but even I was impressed when he launched one of the Lion pubs beer garden tables through Barclays Bank huge pane glass window on the High Street. As the front disintegrated into a thousands pieces of glittering glass, the alarms screamed out their wailing alert of imminent illegal entry.

I watched enchanted from my perfectly positioned first floor front room window, perched above the High-Street, next to the Lion. Everyday I sit and write at my lap top, occasionally casting an idle glance out the large bay window as I guzzle another beer down my gullet. I had become fond of Rocky. I had grown accustomed to his wanderings as he went past three times a day, usually at two downed tins intervals. Always appearing into view from the right. The cocky swagger a little hindered by the heavy jacket he now had on against the cold. He would come into my line of sight at Barclays, stop at the bank front window, and would shadow box it a couple of times before moving on. Then past Discount World opposite me, their piles of cheap imported Chinese made toys spewing all over the side walk, eventually disappearing from my vision after passing the Salimar with its authentic New Age happy clapper crap. (Made in Pakistani sweat factories by seven year olds.)

When Rocky, Monday last, came from the other direction sporting a new haircut, I knew something was up. The town folk said he was an alcoholic nutter. That he had once glued up the front door of the local tattoo parlour was local gossip. It appeared that he had not been happy with the quality done on him. That I could believe. When in summer he went by in his shiny boxer shorts and muscle shirt, his arms, always flexed from his sides, sported a famous quote,

‘Rather a bottle in front of me’, was crudely tattooed on his entire left arm, the right also covered in script from shoulder to hand, informed the willing spectator the rest of the text,
‘Than a frontal lobotomy’. The problem laid not in the clarity of the letters, which were sharp enough to be read from over the street, but that it was all in reverse. As if only he wanted to read it, as he preened in the reflection of the Barclays Bank front window, or perhaps he never understood that what he saw, no one else could. Or even maybe because the font on one arm was Times New Roman and the other; Comic Sans.

It was just before closing time last Saturday night when Rocky appeared in his summer kit, the temperatures now hovering at sub-zero, his body steaming from sweat as he shadow boxed, dodged and weaved at his own image. Then before I could even react to this amazing spectacle, he had run across the road, heaved a large iron cast round table from the Lions front porch above his head, and accelerating back across the High-Street, launched it straight through the banks window.

The noise as the glass shattered, accompanied by the alarms being tripped, brought the drunkard clientele from the Lion out onto the street. The place, now being off season, was only frequented by the local intellectually brain-deads, immediately recognised the figure as it continued doing the ‘Mohamed Ali Shuffle’ whilst lashing out right arm uppercuts and left jabs to an imaginative combatant.

‘Go Rocky Go’,
called the drunken mob, urging him on. I cracked my eighth beer for the day from the half full Iceland plastic bag at my feet and informed the 73 year old paedophile I had been out of boredom chatting up in some perverts chat room, that I had to go. There was no way I was going to miss this action. Besides, the filthy bastard wanted to web cam himself masturbating! Charming to say the least.

I calculated Rocky had maybe five minutes before the local peace keepers turned up. Leaning out my window I managed to convey, with the assistance of sign language, to some yobbish obese 16 year old with her skirt hiked up to her ears, that the two tins of Carlbergs Special Brew 7.1% I was holding in my hand were to be given to Rocky. Giggling, flashing her hanging guts over the tight skirt, she complied and dashed across the road to a dancing Rocky. He acknowledged my gift by raising a tin in my direction and sank the first one in seconds, throwing the empty tin into the glass strewn floor of the banks entrance. Then the alarms were still, to be replaced with the yowl of the oncoming squad car and I quickly searched my MP3 data base for the theme from the movie Rocky 1, and boosting the volume to max on my massive Hi Fi connected to the lap top, opened all my windows and let rip.

This delighted the growing amount of spectators and they jeered as the three local ‘Bobbies’ spilled out the small police Fiesta to confront Rocky just as he finished downing the second tin of power juice and with expert aim bounced it off the nearest coppers head before he had time to put on his reversed flower pot shaped helmet. With the music blasting out, Rocky hopped from one foot to the other with arms aloft, saluting the boisterous crowds of well wishers and fans.

The first attempt to refrain him was attempted by the local, ‘hobby bobby’ Janet of notorious parking ticket fame. So when a well placed hook to her solar plexus dropped her like a stone on all fours, to vomit in wheezing gasps onto the street, the fans burst into spontaneous cheers and clapping. With the theme from Rocky 1 approaching the end, I smoothly switched over to
Eye of the Tiger by Survivor to keep our hero’s adrenalin well rushed. The response from the onlookers was ecstatic as prancing Rocky placed a few quick left jabs to the chin of the next ‘bobby’, dislodging his false teeth, and a well placed kick to the groin brought roars of laughter as the hapless law enforcer joined Janet on the pavement to mix his processed dinner with hers.

The last peace keeper retreated petrified and attempted to radio for reinforcements from the car, but was forced to stop as a deluge of beer glasses were thrown his way from the rapidly approaching riotous crowd of revellers, keen to participate in the fun. Rocky was obviously tiring now and whilst he still shadow boxed, it was obvious that the extreme cold was taking its toll, so locking on to the psyches of the flipped out excitable drunks, I starting playing the classic from the Bloodhound gang, The Roof is on Fire. This version though was pure trance with a sexual, primitive deep strong bass designed to make ovaries dance with desire.

Almost as if on cue, as the roaring 3 foot tall speakers, ably backed by 1500 watt Yamaha sub woofer belted out the lines, ‘We don’t need no water, let the mother fucker burn’, half empty bottles of rum and whisky were tossed into the open banks front, closely followed by wads of oil soaked fish and chip wrapping paper, now flaming copiously. As the mixed cocktails set the carpet and tacky veneered chipboard teller's cabin alight, a roar of satisfaction almost deafened the beat pounding from my flat.

With the crowds now in a real party move I switched over to the Sex Pistols, Anarchy in UK. One of my favourites. Reminded me of the time when I did impromptu ‘Karaoke’ deep in the bush during the Rhodesian war. The peasants had loved my boisterous singing as I torched their humble grass thatch huts and shot their livestock whilst singing,

'I am an antichrist
I am an anarchist
Don't know what i want
butI know how to get it
I wanna destroy the passer by
cos iI wanna be anarchy !'

With the fire now souring 50 feet or more into the dark sky, the heat more than adequate to keep Rocky and every one else warm, the two bobbies on the ground finally staggered up just as flaming molten plastics blobs flared down from the fiercely burning Barclays logo. As they legged it from the braying mob, I focused on the next track to keep the fun up. By now our antics had attracted the riff raff from the Drunks R Us pub a 100 feet further down the street,
I clicked on U2, Streets With No Name.

That did the trick, and as the Lions staff struggled gallantly to serve the teeming excited crowd screaming for alchopops and bottles of vodka, a small group charged towards the police Fiesta and easily flipped it into the middle of the road, followed by shoving flaming fragments from the banks impromptu bonfire through the open window. Fantastic stuff, this town hadn’t seen a spectacle like this since Armistice Day celebrations last November. (The town’s lifeboat had been torched to settle a drunken argument between two contestants both claiming to be the captain. The idea being no one could be captain now.)

One wit, staggering drunkenly around with a beer soaked shirt, exposing a sallow white tone in the flickering light of the inferno, coaxed his fellow inebriates to block the other end of the street with another vehicle. Whilst they themselves certainly lacked class, the vehicle that was duly rolled and ignited was. Mainly, a brand new Jaguar convertible. Shame it belonged to the owner of the Lion. Still, he was making a roaring trade. Hopefully the landlord was insured against arson.

With the flames now licking Discount World, the prying tongues desperate to taste the tons of Chinese plastic buckets, spades, Caucasian dolls and toy A.K sub machine guns stored two stories high, I rapidly scrolled my data bank and was greeted with roars of delight as Arthur Brown’s classic opening line thundered across the rioting hooligans,

I am the God of Hell fire, and I bring you…FIRE’.

The yobs were going ape-shit, popping ecstasy like Smarties, several now vomiting copiously over each other between slugs of pure spirits. This was what I admired about the British. No wonder they beat the dreaded Hun 5-1 in Munich.

The heat was extraordinary, the tar-mac started to blister and I even turned off my little electric fan next to my feet. I reckoned by the time this lot was put out, I had saved at least £1,34 pence in electricity, as well as contributing to saving energy and the environment.
The police were no where to be seen. Actually, as several tons of plastic imported crap caught fire, the black dense smoke pouring out of every glass exploded window in the building started to make visibility extremely difficult, along with breathing.

Several of the party revellers were hacking and coughing, including the overweight teenager, who was now retching on all fours exposing a rather skimpy pair of pink knickers. Trapped between the buildings on both sides, the superheated air created eddies and cyclones of thick, black, toxic soot. As the sounds of the approaching fire brigade and police reinforcements made themselves tangible over the dying notes of FIRE, I thought it prudent to call it a wrap. Just one last song for myself before I passed comatose to bed. A grand finale to a highly entertaining evening.

By now most of the choking and gagging crowd had dispersed, Rocky had cleverly boxed himself into the shadows, leaving me to close down on perhaps a softer note. So as I dropped the volume, shut my semi molten windows, closed the curtains and pretended that I had nothing to do with it all, I amused myself with Meatloaf. As the well known lines,

And like a Bat out Hell
When the morning comes
I’l be gone gone gone.,

called to me, I packed my few possessions. Time to find a new town to trash, because I am…Anarchy!

Monday, January 23, 2006

Cooking for Dummies.

Today we explore the culinary art of stuffing and eating a pig. Not an entire ‘porker’ of course, although the methods used could also work, providing you have enough stuffing.

As food and cooking is mentioned quite often in my book, I thought I would give you a quick insight as to how my expertise was taken from the Boy Scouts and on patrol in the Bush, to the kitchens of Germany. Due to sanctions being imposed after U.D.I., Rhodesians became world famed for entrepreneurial innovation, and here I show how to make a complicated, but tasty dish, with the minimum fuss and bother.

English/German Stuffed Schwein with Greek style potatoes.


600 gram’s of German schwein, neatly popped into an elastic band sock by your local German butcher.
Some potatoes.
1 box of Sage and Onion stuffing mix, one year over its final ‘use by’ date.
1 bag of Greek spices labelled ‘Mixed spices for lamb’.
1 small bottle of olive oil.
2 OXO cubes.

Weapons of mass consumption and other things you need.

1 return ticket to Crete.
1 return ticket to England.
1 dodgy oven pot, with a glass top that’s a bastard to clean.
1 plastic tube with long pointed end.
1 long wooden stick.
1 Hilti silicon gun, preferably new or clean.
4 splifs of good quality.
6 bottles of beer.

Preparation: Phase 1.

Fly to Crete and purchase a bag of 'mixed spices for lamb'.
Fly to England and buy a box of Sage and Onions stuffing mix and 2 OXO cubes from Sainsburys. Keep in cupboard for 18 months.

Phase 2:

Smoke first splif, wander into kitchen and place Bob Marly, ‘We don’t need no more trouble’, on CD player. Push repeat button.
Open bottle of beer and pour into a freshly rinsed glass, drink it.
Turn oven on and set to 200c.

Peel potato’s and chop into bits about 3cm by 3cm.
Put them in a glass bowl with a little water and shake ‘mixed spices for lamb’ liberally over them. Nuke the bastards for about 15 mins, whilst drinking next beer and light up next splif.

Take the schwein out the fridge and stare at it confusingly for the duration of the second splif, till you remember why you in the kitchen in the first place.

Take out box of Sage and Onions stuffing mix from the back of the cupboard, where its been ‘maturing’ for the last 18 months. Read the instructions on the back. Do it.

Rinse glass and pour another beer. Prod and poke the ‘Schwein in a sock’, till you have worked out where the end is.
Look at hot steaming stuffing mix in a bowel and then at the tight orifice of the Schwein.Smoke next splif and pour another beer.

Go to the workshop and return with Hilti silicon gun and plastic tube with long end.
Poke stuffing mix with a spoon into hollow plastic tube and insert this into Hilti silicon gun.

Place pointed end in the discovered orifice of schwein and inject. (Be careful not to pump too hard, otherwise the end comes out of the gun and the stuffing goes everywhere.) It’s advisable to have a partner hold the schwein down while your entering it, which leaves one hand free to tightly hold the end of your gun while your pumping.

Rinse hands and change CD to Peter Gabrial's greatest hits, play that one where he is a loser and wants to jump off a bridge.
Pour another beer.

Take potatoes out the bowl and dry them with some kitchen paper.
Add more ‘mixed spices for lamb’ to the hot water left over from the nuked potatoes and add a good dollop of olive oil.
Place stuffed schwein in dodgy oven pot and pour over the water/herb/oil mix, place in oven.

Clean up the mess and hang about for an hour.
Pour another beer and smoke next splif.
Open oven and poke schwein with stick.

Place the rest of the olive oil in a frying pan and add lots of ‘mixed herbs for lamb’ to it. Turn on the hot plate and when it starts to smoke and spit, chuck in the potatoes and jump back.
Poke potatoes with stick till crispy brown.

Turn on the grill if the schwein hasn’t got a crispy skin by now.
When crispy, take the schwein out of oven and dodgy pot.
Add some water and the OXO cubes to the funny goo in the dodgy pot, mix with stick.

Slice the schwein into slices, place on plate with Greek potatoes and cover the lot with the goo.


Saturday, January 21, 2006


As I am suffering a little bit of the old ‘writers block’, with regards to my highly entertaining biography, I channelled my creative energies into flogging some more of my possessions on Ebay. This was a two fold thing. Firstly, for a small fee I get to do some self-publicity, and secondly, hopefully it will help me fend off imminent starvation and freezing as the Siberian chill moves in.

At one point, I thought that I had been banned again, but after an eternity, my entry was finally up there. Whilst I haven’t actually received any bids yet, I thought it was a well written presentation. You can have look by entering this number into the search bar: 8375075235

I will sell on commission for anybody who has problems shifting things on Ebay. I recently had a hand in selling an anti – terrorist handy hand. I entitled it ‘Hands Off Terrorists’, and shifted it for a nice tidy sum. Here is a picture of the hand.

The previous owner, an outspoken Islamic cleric, is well pleased with the result, as you can see in the picture, taken at his court trial recently.

The recent oil crisis and articles in most major newspapers reminded me of something I had heard of quite some time ago. Mainly, there is a cheaper and eco-friendlier way to drive a car about by using plant oils.
Since I first came across this small, but growing industry, things have changed a lot. A little sniff about on the net brings up a wealth of information. In an excerpt from The Independent


besides having a rather alarming look at the state of oil reserves, and its influence in modern society, like handless terrorists,

'The SUV market share in the US was 2 per cent in 1975. By 2003 it was 24 per cent. In consequence, average US vehicle fuel efficiency fell between 1987 and 2001, from 26.2 to 24.4 miles per gallon. This at a time when other countries were producing cars capable of up to 60 miles per gallon.’

More wars for more Yank tanks?

I asked a few people over the years why they have never thought of running their diesel cars on plant oil.

They all seemed to say the same thing: If you are caught driving your car with the stuff, you will be prosecuted for taxation fraud!
So, the alternatives are there, but it all boils down to the same old thing:

‘Give us your money, and to hell with the world!’

http://www.rerorust.de/index_uk.html (English/German)

http://www.oilpress.com/drive_your_diesel.htm (English/Swedish) Here is a company that sells machines to press your own oil.

http://www.vegburner.co.uk/sources.htm (English) Very informative.

http://journeytoforever.org/biofuel_library/ro_rev.html (English, technical blurb with regards to health and environment.)

Changing the subject a little, I was told about a very interesting piece of reporting to do with the plane that crashed into the Pentagon on 9/11. After watching this, and they claim 500 million people have watched the clip, and reading more on the web site, I confirmed what I always thought, a Boeing 757 didn’t hit the Pentagon. Whilst some of the options proposed on the web site are pushing it a bit, it almost imposable to believe that it was a passenger aircraft that did the damage.
Well worth a look at:


The main site is at:


Finally, if you haven’t got Skype yet, do so. The latest version now has video and the sound quality is far better. Best of all…it’s still FREE.




Monday, January 16, 2006

Another One Bights the Dust.

Well I suppose it was inevitable. As the Zimbabwe ruling elite run out of things to steal so they can finance their lifestyles, what was an extremely well monitored and licensed big game hunting system is now a free for all. Sadly, it will not take long to wipe out all the remaining game whilst the money goes into corrupt pockets.

Still, the government did point out that they had replaced a group of wiped out animals with 70 odd poor homeless blacks, who now have a borehole at last. This was after waiting almost twenty five years. Progress at last!

The first picture shows some Yank tart after wasting a leopard. After paying all that money for a rare fur stole, I personally reckon that she is dressed to kill now. I just love the dried blood touch over her left tit. I can understand the animalistic desire to wander down Broadway with a stinking dead pussy around her neck, but what’s with the geyser and the giraffe? Besides the fact that shooting the thing doesn’t actually go into the category of, ‘Big Brave White Hunter’, since they are almost as easy to take out as a white farmer, what is the buffoon going to do with it now? It’s too big to shove up his dumb arse! You can find out how rich Yanks go ‘Boom Boom’ with big bucks passed to greasy white palms of both Caucasian and African origin, at:


BUT, as you can see from this excerpt from a Zim newspaper, contingency plans are under way by the government for an alternative for when the animals are all dead…

The Deputy Minister of Environment and Tourism, Andrew Langa, has appeared before a Gwanda magistrate accused of threatening to shoot an aspiring Member of Parliament in the run-up to the March 2005 parliamentary elections.

What a great idea!

Meanwhile…I have snickered in anticipation that a certain complete lunatic called, Van Hoogstraten, might have just calculated the exact time his life will be terminated, by blabbing about a certain 10 million pound loan he gave to Mr. Mugabe. In a ‘Times’ interview the other day, this deranged megalomaniac, convicted of murder in a civil court, may have opened his mouth a little too wide. My guess Bob and the boys will soon close it, along with all his large Zimbabwean assets accumulated whilst standing on people’s heads. More of this delightful insight of an unbalanced human being at:


or you can punch him in the head at:


As you may have noticed I have finally worked out how to put a counter up. Not exactly happy with the whole layout, but not being very IT clever, I was well pleased with myself. Also there is a chat room, but not sure how good it is.

The book is coming along well but still looking for a suitable replacement editor. I will put up another extract soon.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Seen it, Beat it, Stole the T-shirt.

No, that is not me. No idea who it is, found it on the net somewhere whilst doing some ‘research’, along with this delightful site at http://www.bob.co.za/. Here you can find out all about President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe. It is his own little site dedicated to a picturesque telling of his triumphs, his best friends and loves. From this admirable website one deduces that the man has been demonised by the west. Many of the photos, taken from his own family snapshot album, show the President to have a deep hearted intention towards his people and country.
Rape, pillage, murder and mass starvation just some of his goals for the next few years to drive Zimbabwe into complete anarchy whilst keeping a smile on every ones face.


Well, nothing really new here for the New Year, but I can not grumble when I think of all those poor people worse off than me. I will see if I can find a copie of ‘Dead Aids’ hit ‘ We Don’t Give A Shit At All’, at the local charity shop for 50 pence and send it to myself. Charity begins at home I say. I am still writing away about those days when I was a colonial war lord living the high life earned off the million backs of black ‘zwangsarbeiters’ toils. Ahh those were the days. Where was a policeman when you needed one then? Outside ‘Club Tomorrow’ of course, pulling drunken Troopies apart. Which reminds me, this place isn’t just for having a go at Mad Bob, but to promote my book called,

Last of the Rhodesians

This brilliant piece of literal genius, whilst still not finished, has received rave reviews from people all over the world, including some who could read and not just look at the dirty pictures. I have been sending selected chapters around and even had a very good critique from a Frenchman who described my life as a Colonial Anarchist:

’I have the impression that you were all spoilt and pampered little boys, who now spit their dummies out and throw all their toys out the cot whilst bawling, ‘when weeees, when weeeees’.

What do expect from a Frenchman?

Others have not been so kind, but it is all promising stuff indeed. So promising, my editor decided to jump ship a third into the book. It appeared some of the content aggravated the political correctness of the person, so I am now looking for a cheap editor who don’t give a shit.

Content contains violence, semi normal sex, drunken debauchery, homosexuality, racism, thieving, abuse of power and a cute story about my dead dog. In other words, not much different from your average trashy tabloid. However, far more effort has gone into the details of how we really lived in those days gone by. Almost 400 pages of the most unbelievable drivel about one nut cases driving ambition of self destruction whilst pissing everybody off. I am of course describing my life, not Mugabe’s, there are similar patterns, but he better at it. I achieved this and more before turning 22, at which point the book ends in December 1980. (Don’t panic, the sequel is well planned and is called Mein Krampf.)

So here is an extract from my forth coming biography: Contains mild violence.

Night Raid

Rhodesia, early 1970’s

We knew they were back.

The grinding war of attrition went on, year after year. In the dry season we normally had the upper hand. Our base was relatively new and our designated area for patrols seemed relatively free of this menace as daily our small unit pounded the now familiar routes, our ever weary eyes open.

The rainy season always changed the situation. It was almost as if both sides needed respite from the game of hide and seek, a status quo, an unspoken agreement between the antagonists. We hated to slog through soaked grass and increasingly foul mud. The incredible majestic force of tropical storms kept us at base. Few dared to go out when those bolts of lightning started.

The enemy were happy to take time out to reorganise their forces in the isolated oasis packed with dense foliage for them to hide in.

We used an observation point on the small hill overlooking their self- designated territory hoping to spot them, but had no luck. Team leader reckoned that we would succeed tonight. The Old man, as he was better known, was frustrated with the previous failures. The whole thing was getting on his nerves, and he was starting to take it personally.

Night was their weakness; their soft underbelly. They always seemed a bit chatty after dark, but now their incomprehensible mutterings would be loud enough to be heard at base whenever a storm started to approach. They had got away with it for so long that they were becoming arrogant. Surely it would give them away at last!

We set up the ambush brilliantly. The Old Man reckoned the two of us could handle the job. I felt honoured as I was still in my teens. We picked up our fully prepared weapons. They had all been checked over that day. The last thing we needed was a faulty weapon.

The timing had to be impeccable; there was still a hint of light from another stunning African sunset touching the edges of the gathering storm clouds with hues of orange, and in the distance bright flashes of lightning were followed by the soft growls of thunder. We needed to be in and out before the storm hit us. We moved quietly from tree to tree, freezing if we thought we had been spotted, crouching low and silent on aching knees, then breathing a sigh of relief as their short suspicious silence would again be broken as throwing caution to the rapidly picking up wind, they used the opportunity to call others before the heavens opened up, cutting communications dead for both sides.

The other three members of our team were back at camp. They would know sooner or later if we were successful or not. Team leader told them to leave a few lights on, and that way the enemy wouldn’t expect our surprise attack. For the first time in ages, the Old Man allowed those back at base to play the radio softly. A clever distraction. As we moved off nervously, I could hear the soft melody of the Paper Lace hit ‘Billy, Don’t be a Hero’. Somehow it helped to settle my nerves.

There was a watering hole below the small hill, and we knew they were using it. That’s where we headed.

Adrenaline pumped through my body, overcoming my fear. I had an overwhelming feeling that this time we would get them.

Just before we had reached our intended cover of a group of bulrushes, we heard a noise, about three feet to our right. In the gathering darkness, we had almost stumbled on top of them.

Shit, shit, shit! The Old Man, gave me the agreed sign, and I opened up with all I had; simultaneously, he armed his huge weapon in one smooth stroke and brought it, on instinct, into play. We were in trouble; our hearts were pumping, my hands shaking from the suppressed excitement; if the Old Man missed, we were fucked.

I turned on my torch, and caught the surprised common toad croaking away on a lily pad. Before it could draw its next breath and start that damn raucous din all over again or escape into the deeps, the Old Man brought the massive spade down flat from way over his head, and big mouth was airborne.

It must have risen six feet into the air; the shock wave pounded through the fishpond, the force powerful enough to create a miniature tsunami that broke over the concrete walls, splashing our feet, and it bellied up a few unsuspecting goldfish. It’s a hard knock life. A few innocent citizens, caught in the crossfire.

The exploded corpse, guts hanging out of a surprised mouth, came down and lay at the Old Man’s feet, spasmodically kicking like a flattened avocado pear with legs. With a deft swish, he scooped up the terminated toady and flicked it neatly over the hedge into the next door neighbours’ garden. They were a strange lot, didn’t mix in, so it was no problemo sending them a croaked croaker.

We went back to the house, celebrated our success, and were able to get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in days. Until the next lot turned up of course.

Later on, during further attacks, I would be in charge of the spade, and with practise I was able to hit the corpse on its down trip, whacking it smoothly over the border. This technique meant they travelled a good deal further into next door’s garden.

Toading season closed after the rains, but not before the fishpond was full of their offspring. Using a small net I would scoop them up and tip them onto the grass so David our garden-boy could hack them into tadpole porridge with the lawnmower. The sieved, dried, drawn and quartered bodies were scattered liberally as a deterrent to future reckless parents.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

“Organic Farming is The Future” declares a defiant Mugabe.

“Organic Farming is The Future” declares a defiant Mugabe.

From ‘The Daily Nutter’ reporter, Brainless Buttocks.

The President of Zimbabwe was quick to congratulate the new leader of the United Kingdom’s Conservative party, Dandy Camp-moron, for his vision of feeding the world only with products grown organically. The fresh faced leader had been quick to enrol the assistance of African expert, Sir Bob Git-doh, who’s forthcoming book, ‘If the Shitter is blocked, grow some potatoes in it’, which is already touted by literal experts, as the best quality toilet paper south of the Sahara.

The great liberator, Emperor Bob Mugabe, heaped praise on the head of the new U.K. opposition leader, but was quick to point out that Zimbabwe had spent the last six years converting their agricultural system into one that is wholly organic. Speaking recently at a conference in Malaysia, the President took the opportunity to ridicule the United States attempts to force his people to eat freely donated cloned maize.

“If I have one cob of grain, and if you spray it with chemicals, it becomes two cobs of grain, someone is trying to make a profit,” he roared at the small gathering of the press who were actually there to sleep off a large lunch of whale soup and roast giant albatross. He did admit early difficulties to convert the factory styled commercial farms originally under white ownership, into the African farming principle of, ‘One Man, One Meal, Once’,

“It took brave measures and hard work to finally rid our land of the white filth that forced our people to live on food that had been artificially grown with tractors, irrigation pipes and fertilizers, whilst these so called farmers drove around in fancy cars polluting the air.”

The man who is revered by millions as the greatest fighter for freedom since Genghis Kahn, went on to say,

“At last the rains have come and the sewers have finally burst to pump their years of carefully accumulated shit all over the place. My agricultural experts assure me there will be bumper crops as the nutrients eventually soak into the ground water,” he added. Looking relaxed and well fed, his hair freshly coloured with 'Nugget' shoe polish, the President replied to a question regarding the outbreak in Zimbabwe of Cholera and Armyworm reported in the western press.
Laughing delightfully he told the largely uninterested small group,

“For the worms we have the army and Cholera is a white mans disease. Once they are all gone we have nothing more to worry about. If you want to grow food successfully, you need bowels that produce fluid shit to spray on the vegetable plot that every black Zimbabwean now owns. By the end of 2006 we will be exporting to the rest of the world!”

The freely elected leader of Zimbabwe for the last 25 years, wasted no time to push for Mr Camp-Moron to rig the next election to over throw Tony Blair,

“Mr Blair is a lying gay spy of Mr Bush, The Baghdad Monster. I can work with Mr Camp-moron, he understands Zimbabwe and will force the millions of Zimbabweans working in Britain to send their income home or I will torture their families.”

With that, he let out a large fart, rolled his eyes and shat on a nearby potted miniature tomato plant, before retiring from the stage to be treated for chronic verbal diarrhoea.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

History of The Eternal Flame.

Once upon a time in a fairytale land far away in deepest Africa, the newly elected Emperor, who wore only new Seville Road clothes, lit an eternal flame at a grandiose ceremony to commemorate the Independence of Zimbabwe.

The Emperors subjects were relieved to hear that things can only get better, when he stated,

"Tomorrow we are born again." he said, "born again collectively as a nation of Zimbabweans. Our new mind must have a new vision and our hearts a new love and a new spirit that must unite and not divide" Some of his words were explicitly addressed to the country's 200,000 whites. "If yesterday I fought you as my enemy," he said, "to- day you have become a friend and ally with the same national interest."

A rather tacky bird bath shaped thing was popped onto the top of the ‘Kopie’, a small hill overlooking the newly renamed capital, Harare. Besides having a rather nice view, ‘The Kopie’, as it is locally called, was famed for being used as ‘the hill start’ by learner drivers. The bird bath was placed in the middle of a concrete and stone clearing at the very top of the kopie. A gas cylinder was attached and the ‘Eternal Flame’ burned away happily. In fact it was such a moving piece of artwork it was depicted on the back of the newly printed $10 notes, then worth about £15.

By the time I got to see it again in 1985, it was in a rather sorry state. The gas cylinder was gone and the rusting junk lay drunkenly against one of the low surrounding walls. Was this a sign of things to come? Who stole the gas?

Twenty more years go by and again the Emperor in his new clothes (now copies from Hong Kong,) celebrates twenty five years of freedom from the slavery bonds of white minority supremacy with another stirring speech to his adoring subjects,

“Tomorrow we will be nearly all dead,” he said, “dead again collectively as a nation of Zimbankruptians. Our minds are full of horror visions, our hearts a new hate and a crushed spirit will divide those that wish to unite.” Some of his words were explicitly addressed to the country’s last 20,000 whites. “If yesterday I fought you as my enemy,” he said, “to-day you have become nothing more than filth and gutter dogs and not in the national interest, so Fuck off back to Gay gangster Tony Blair’s mud hole and good riddance.”

A new $10 million note will shortly be printed. On the reverse it will depict the head of the last white farmer mounted on a spear. This new national emblem will replace the old one on the kopie and will be called ‘The Eternal Blame’.