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 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.

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