Tuesday, February 28, 2006



No I don’t take the stuff. Tried a pill a few years ago, but I didn’t pull any chicks at the disco, so gave it up as a bummer. Maybe the fact that I was twice the age of the fat little darlings, sweating copiously to mad Jiggy-Jig music, might have something to do with it never entered my head.

Several things have happened to me the last few days. First off, the agony column. My poverty has reached destitute levels. I even had the audacity to go across the road to the Chinese Junk shop and moan about three of the six fag lighters I had purchased 2 weeks ago for a pound. They no longer work, and even though half the gas had been used before they spat their little flints out, I agreed to a refund of one replacement. I was very pleased.

Then I had a problem with my lap top. One of my best chinas is off to Australia for a wedding next week and he wanted some nostalgic ‘70s stuff and he sent me a list. He has a job and is too exhausted when he comes home to download music and as I am now certified as being very sick, could I do some ditties for him from those places on the web where for some strange reason you can download vibes for free, along with enough viruses to create your own epidemic? He duly sent me a list and I was duly shocked at his taste. Steve Millar band! Gawd. Still there were enough musically sick people up there who freely allowed me to ‘borrow’ their music.

Then when I tried to burn it, all shit broke out. My expensive designer lap top, manufactured by some clowns whose name should be MUSH, started screaming like a throttled last Zimbabwean chicken. It took two days before I finally took control again. I had bought from the market ages ago for a pound, a so called DVD lens cleaner, which actually is just some tooth brush bristles stuck on a disc. I fired that in as the last desperate measure after doing enough diagnostics on the fucker that my key board collapsed, and hitting the lap top with my fist made it scream even louder. Funny coincidence that the guarantee ran out just a while ago. Any way, that seemed to have sorted the bastard out, and it seems to be burning and brumming away…quietly.

Then, I had a backstab to my self esteem that shocked me to the last of my tins of Carlsberg. I got fucked over by a spoof!
Me, the greatest Bush detective of all time, capturer of the infamous fraudster Raimond, Ebay spoof supremo, got caught with his pants down. I was so full of myself, that I failed to spot the perfectly instigated letter claiming to come from EBay, congratulating me on being offered power seller status, even though I had only a miserable 36 feedbacks, as a fake. Blind and drunk on my own self esteem, I followed the prompts and happily confirmed my PIN numbers.
Imagine my confusion when I opened my email the next morning, to find out I had with immediate effect been terminated as a customer for fraudulently trying to sell 2 Chevrolet Chevelles, 1Cadillac Eldorado and a Mercury Cougar!
It took a while to sort that out, resulting in me having to change my pins, which really gave me the needle, and if I ever catch those bastards, I will arrange for them to get a visit from Mugabe’s anti-corruption goons. And, to add insult to injury, I won’t be getting my power seller status.

On the ecstasy side of life, I am pleased to announce that I have finally a new editor for my master piece. So things should kick start again and we will see how fast the whole shabam gets wrapped up.
Meanwhile my satirical article, Zimbabwe breaks all Guinness book of records, etc (see below,) was accepted by the Deadbrain, and the Zimbabwean Situation web sites. The latter being the number 1 source for information regarding the daily prevailing anarchy down there, has over 5 million hits to its credit. I think my article was most probably the first time a piece of satire has been put up there, so I am well chuffed. I have supplied links to these two sites.

My Ebay spoofs produced some amazing results. Mrs Smut's cane was paid for and duly sent to Arkansas. The iPod, which was non existent, never sold but garnered 4327 hits. The Mugabe TURD sold for an amazing amount of £51, but I’m still waiting for the money. Should it come, I will reinvest in another spoof, guaranteed to make you throw up in horror…lol

Also please check out the link Lekker Wear as the owner has sent me a free hat and T-shirt as a bribe.

Many thanks for the Emails, more the merrier, but cool it on the death threats. I can only die once and if this continues, I will put my life up for auction to the highest bidder soon. I wouldn’t like to miss out on making a profit. I can even arrange a discount for some rope if the winning bidder wants to hang me.

Ciao, till later…Lore.

Friday, February 24, 2006


I used to live next door to Lore when I was a kid in Rhodesia. We had a very correct upbringing. If we heard the call ‘man down’, I would be one of the first to rush over and put the boot in, no matter what reason. Such was our discipline, it made us hard and that is how I treat my beloved ex. Door neighbour I mean.

Whilst I hadn’t seen the old tosser for some time, he managed to interfere in my life once again recently. and after I allowed him to grovel at my feet for a few days, in awe that I have a published book, (its called, The Looking Glass, sweethearts, if you must know, but I published under my fancy name Susan Della Roccia, which is still Number 1 , darlings, when you Google me,) I agreed to read a trifle of his insane drunken gibbering for comment, provided I starred in a chapter.

I must admit, I was rather impressed with the result, but only after I insisted on 14 rewrites to make me more attractive. I have little time for foolish Rhodesians who believe if they can take a pencil out of their ears, where it has been busy dragging accumulated wax out, scratch some lines on a beer mat and then believe they have become literal geniuses. However, I do make exceptions for the weak minded and perused my expert eye over his latest offal he calls an introduction to his memoirs.

The previous offering had been far too philosophical and not even I understood what it was about. In fact, I thought he had used a random search machine to assemble all words over seven letters long into chains of thirteen, with a full stop on the end. When it comes to mind enhancing reading, I humbly recommend you read my work before you progress to Freud and Nietzsche. The second attempt was pure unadulterated waffle. Complete crap!

So I told him so last night. I wonder how the next attempt comes out like? Speak to you all soon, I have a flight to catch…

Love Susan.

Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of a Colonial Anarchist.

In the Beginning. (Attempt No.3)

Where does one begin when writing ones memoirs? Supposedly, on the first day, in the Bible, God said, ‘let there be light’, and there was light. Before that it was obviously night. That would mean it was rather dark, a bit like being trapped in a womb waiting to see the light.

In my case, when I popped out on to the scene and saw the light for the first time and screamed incoherently, ‘Fuck me, that hurt you bastard’, as some paedophile sadistic doctor attempted to get me to cough up galleons of embryonic fluid, by beating me half to death across my shrivelled arse, it was nearly lights out permanently as according to lore, I was dropped onto my head on the way to the incubator. Now I actually think I should have been on the way to the incinerator. Certainly wouldn’t change world history. When it comes to the small cogs that help make the great machine of humanity go around, I didn’t fit and had several teeth missing.

Of course I don’t remember this. I only start remembering things in sharp recall as I sit in abject poverty, almost five decades later, on a beach in some backstreet tourist hole, North Wales and muse who can I blame? Surely not myself, I never was a believer in shaping ones own destiny. If this was true, why am I freezing to death and struggling to find money for another ‘buy four, get four tins free’, of Carlsberg beer from Iceland?
Someone, or actually quite a few bastards, stabbed me in the back so often, that a coroner upon signing my death certificate will write, ‘worst case of suicide I have seen since Leon Trotsky stuck an ice pick in his head to alleviate a raging headache’, so I now have the time to seek them out, by going back into time and flush the rats out.

I will expose these criminals to the world, point my finger at them and accompanied with self pitying yowling, accuse them of heinous crimes against my humanity. Mainly to the effect they stole my money and my home. Twice!

Top of this list is his Excellency, the President of Zimbabwe, Robert Gabriel Mugabe, known affectionally around the world as ‘that mad old fucker Bob’. Next in the line of fire, in order of seniority, is unquestionably one of the biggest idiots ever to enjoy a position of Supreme Cheater of a western nation, and its not dead brain George. Wanker Bush, (for it is not his fault he was born with no brain stem cells,) but Gerhard Schroeder of Germany. However his place in my downfall comes much later in my life as a carpet. Is it my fault, that along with hundreds of thousands of Rhodesians, persecuted and hounded to this day, scream out their own U.D.I., (U Did It), to any one bored enough to listen?

To compare my life to a badly treated carpet is a perfect simile. There is the father who beat it, the mother who discarded it, the ‘friends’ who walked all over it, employees who stole most of the pile from it, the teachers who scraped the muck off their shoes on it. and finally the wife that lost it. So now threadbare, unloved and unwanted, ready to be tossed in to a landfill, this old carpet, before it is rolled away for ever, will take you for a magic ride, first stop, Colonial Africa.

Mummy and Daddy, as I presume they were called by myself as soon as I managed to string two words together, dragged me off to the savages of central Africa when I was still at the tender age of two. This would have been 1960, and luckily for me, British Imperialism had temporally put a halt to the local indigenous habits of wearing bones through their noses and popping white boys into boiling cauldrons of vegetable soup to make a tasty relish. This had all been done under the guise of turning the heathen savages into law abiding Christians within a short time scale with the assistance of the Maxim machine gun, if whacking their woolly heads with a heavy Bible didn’t work.

It was a nice piece of ‘spin’ that sadly would come back and kick her majesty’s government severely in the teeth a few years down the line, as the locals went mental, trashed about all that constituted ‘white mans magic’, basically anything more advanced than a stone axe, and the leaders of these various tribal sects said, ‘thanks for the Mercs, now Fuck Off’.

My Daddy didn’t leave the filthy, drizzly cold grey working class dump of Salford, United Kingdom, and emigrate to Nyasaland because he fancied teaching ‘Schwarzers’ a better way of life, whilst living the great White Bwana myth in a sunny climate. In fact, he was a 39 year old failed Jew-boy on the run for being rather a tad naughty. Africa in those days was a great hole to disappear down. Still is come to think of it. Disused mine shafts being a favourite. The millions of bones found around Africa these days are simply shrugged off as discarded pre- colonial nose jewellery, replaced with Congo diamonds for those than can afford to steal them.

I have always had a theory; that one becomes aware shortly of ones self, after being finally toilet trained. RenĂ© Descartes knew this when he stated, ‘I think, therefore I am’. Prior to that exact moment of heavy self assessment, had his contribution to world enlightenment been, ‘I stink, therefore change my diapers’ that of course would have never received the same philosophical accolade.

So at some point I came to realise who I was, but not ‘where the hell am I?’ Most of the first few years, between finally stopping crapping myself in the humid climate of the African rift Valley, where the temperatures attracted the flies to your behind faster than a log deposited by the dog on the front lawn of my old mans house in Lilongwe, and landing up cuddling little girl boarders in their beds of Chisipte Girls Junior school in Salisbury, Rhodesia, I wasn’t sure if I was coming or going.

I think I spent more time in an aeroplane, travelling backwards and forwards between the United Kingdom and Central Africa, than I did learning to read and write. By the time it was ‘official’, that I was to be educated in Africa for my own good, the parents had split up, Father was booted out the newly independent Malawi in 1964, and whilst I didn’t understand the written word ‘arsonist’ by the tender age of six, I was rather good at it.

Every thing I do past and present has to be spectacular and draw attention to my miserable plight, and even at that age, setting things on fire got me plenty. Whilst normal children received birthday presents like cricket bats, or Thunderbird models, part of being a lonely white kid in Nyasaland meant I received a bus. Not a little red London double-decker, to push happily around the living room, going ‘broom broom’, but a real bus. A huge shell of a thing, that had just been decommissioned. I had that thing in lights within a short time. Perhaps Father thought this would be a cheap alternative to a children’s ‘Jungle Jim’, but this miniature hell’s angel had the thing blazing into a towering inferno that took most of Lilongwe fire department to put out, before it went on to torch most of the country side all the way to the lake shore some 80 miles away.

One tends to remember the good things in life rather than the bad, so I still recall with delight the huge flames and pallor of smoke as the old bus shot heavenwards and the sounds of the fire engines and screams of terrified fireman desperately trying hold back a national catastrophe, that could scorch the earth leaving millions to starve for generations. (er…I am just wondering right now, if they really DID put that fire out?) How hard I was thrashed for my little game with matches, I can’t remember, but it obviously hadn’t made too much of a traumatic impression as I would have another go at some grandiose fire works from hell, a short time later.

Any celebrity, no matter in what trade, from a Princess whose last thing that entered her mind was a Mercedes Benz C.D. player dislodged from the dash board at high speed in a French tunnel, to a white man that voluntarily starves himself whilst naked in a glass box suspended over London bridge, that you never pull the same stunt in the same place twice. No matter how often the press clamour for a repeat. So this time I chose Salford in the U.K. as being the perfect place to introduce the local working class riff raff to an example of African scorched earth as means to an end. I must of thought it quite symbolic, as several acres of the local heath became a place of satin worshippers for a short time, as it was the British who had introduced this to Afrikaners during the Boer war when they got a bit uppity.

With all this coming and going, my ability to use a pencil was definitely not directed to literal genius, but that by rubbing two of them together you could create fire. This wasn’t necessary as I had another talent. The unknown ability to mimic accents, and whilst not sure, ‘ooh don’t ‘e talk posh’, meant, it sure helped in purchasing matches to speak so elegantly, ‘oh I say, dear Lady, I require a box of matches for my mother’, from the corner store. Although sadly, not even my acquired swarmy Colonial accent worked after I had so artfully highlighted Salford’s skyline, because they stopped selling me any more. I hadn’t been caught but there were rumours.

During these intermittent stays, I would have my first forays into racialism and my own personal leftist leanings, as whilst my reading ability had been severely handicapped as my separating parents made me the most frequent flyer in the’ under six year old’ category in African aviation history, I had garnered enough knowledge to know that Enid Blyton had it wrong with the Gollys being always the bad guys. At that point of course, I had no conception of a bad black person like Robert Mugabe. I know there was a Golly called Robert from Robertson Jams, but he was a nice collectable. For I all knew, Mugabe, could have been getting enlightenment in Baghdad whilst I was still in Dad’s bag, but years later this would all change.

By the time I turned six. my destiny for the near future was settled. I would be brought up in Rhodesia. I would become a Rhodesian, one of the last. These are my chronicles from that period and some of the aftermath.

Written today in 8.5 hours.(unedited) Total words, including Susan, 2220.

Appreciate all comments.

Thursday, February 23, 2006


Well, I am completely gobbed smacked for a change. When I decided to start my own PR for a book that still needs editing, I never thought my efforts could do so well.

With the possibility of snatching a main stream publisher and getting well shafted in the process looking bleak, the idea of self publishing seemed a good alternative. Main draw back: no advertising muscle. So I started a D.I.Y. self promotion project.

Slowly but surely I am getting around. With the Blog web counter only recently installed. traffic is picking up fast. The chat room is also slowly gaining a reputation for intellectual philosophical bull shit.

On the Ebay side, I fell a fraction short of entering the top ten visited sites with my Zimbabwean iPod spoof. At 4327 hits for something that wasn’t actually for sale, I was well pleased.

Today, Mrs Smuts cane reached the # 1 spot at


I was so chuffed, I put their really snazzy link here for you to enjoy.

Also, Ebay wrote to me to say I have reached Power Seller stasis. Considering I only have 36 feed backs, it must be based on the amount of hits I have been accumulating. However, the lazy bastards said it could take up to two weeks to get my PS logo next to my name.

AND, I applied for a job. Preferably selling shit to the Germans. It’s a long story. If I get a nice reply I will put a link up. If not, I won’t strain any harder. I got the idea as I watched my TURD hit over £10.

Lots of fan mail. All appreciated. Keep it coming.

Keep popping in, I hope to have something new to read soon, and try and catch me in my chat room. Best after 9.00 pm GMT.

P.S. Still need an editor. I am even offering sub contracting single chapters out for nothing more than a promise of acknowledgement and maybe a free signed copy. So if you bored, and reckon you can edit a chapter of a masterpiece, Email me.

Monday, February 20, 2006


See what he means, for a limited time, by clicking/cut and paste this link:


or put this number into Ebay buyers search bar.


you will be well rewarded…

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Zimbabwe breaks all ‘Guinness Book of Records’ entries.

A spoke person for the famed annual, Guinness Book of Records, confirmed that the 2007 edition will have Zimbabwe and its President, Robert Mugabe, listed in every category of the world famous publication. That alone, being a new record.

‘A stunning achievement, for such a small land,’ Lord Pint, the Guinness press secretary, went on,
‘Look anywhere in the book, you will find an entry. We can hardly keep up with the amount of records the place is setting.’

Showing off the first draft of the 2007 edition, Lord Pint of Guinness pointed out some of the entries.

‘Look at this shit man,’ he excitedly showed the large group of reporters, infiltrated with members of Mugabe’s feared C.I.O. secret police, carefully camouflaged in Gucci suits and mirror sunglasses,
‘most worthless currency, worlds highest inflation, Mugabe voted into worlds top three Dictators,’ flicking the pages, he went on,
‘stunning, see how he wiped out an entire commercial farming system in SIX years, now the place a basket case instead of a bread basket. It goes on and on. We have sent teams of record proofers to Zimbabwe, but they all disappeared down some mine shafts.’ Lord Pint of Guinness added.

‘We promise however, to have all claims verified before publishing. There are still ‘grey’ areas that need to be checked by experts.’ Asked what he meant, the head of Guinness PR, explained.

‘Well, it is difficult to work out if they have the highest incident of AIDS in percent of the population. The people die even as we count them. The statistics just don’t seem to stand up. Then there is the debate how many refugees crossing the Limpopo river into South Africa were actually eaten by crocodiles. How many people were struck by lightning or were actually fried stealing copper wire from transformers, therefore cheating the rules? Also, was Mugabe’s ‘Operation Clean out filth’, that made three quarter of a million people homeless in two weeks, really that fast?’

Again and again, no matter what part of the book he opened, an entry appeared.

Fastest disappearance of a test playing cricket side.
Most expensive birthday party for 82 year olds.
Aviation history by flying exactly 1 passenger 6000 miles by a national carrier.
Fastest economical meltdown experienced by a country not at war.

Shutting the huge book, Lord Pint of Guinness, promised,

‘If we have too, we will put an entire sub section for Zimbabwe and Robert Mugabe. They really are world record breakers.’

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Learning Afrikaans

Along with Ebay sale No. 8384642082

Learning Afrikaans

Extracts from my acceptance speech for the
Pull-it-to-bits Prize for Bullshit

This prize is for my upcoming novel about Rhodesian values and superior way of life against all odds, which includes you bastard Brits who stabbed ‘Good Ol’ Smithy’ in the back. When I have finished giving my speech, I will start to write the book.

I have just pointed out to the rapturous, enthusiastic crowds that the disgraceful attitude of semi-illiterate children in Britain is due to the lowering classification of top grade marijuana, the abundance of alcho-pops and PlayStations, school teachers being stabbed to death and a complete breakdown in discipline by smoking, binge drinking teenage parents on the dole, who will happily post their offspring’s ASBOs on the worldwide web to achieve superior rankings of hooliganism.

Picture the scenario. Standing on the stage of the Albert Hall, I have the trophy in one hand and the Coutts guaranteed cheque in the other. The Rt. Hon. Tony Blier stands two paces behind me, and is shouting, along with the Minister of African Poverty and Corruption, Sir Bog Jellyhead, ‘Bravo! Bravo and it’s Xmas time, give money!’

I look out over my ecstatic audience, and say, with a knowing smile, and perhaps a glint of moisture in my eye,

‘Let me share with you tonight a little example of the kind of proper schooling I received. It still brings tears to my eyes.’

Allan Wilson Technical High School, Salisbury, Rhodesia 1971-72.

My Afrikaans teacher was called Mrs Smuts. Oh my, what a fucking terror! Almost as wide as tall, but built like a Russian kick boxer; grey haired and uglier than a bicycle beaten into the back of a bus, she had a voice like gravel and a hand of steel. Sunny boy me, a sweet faced innocent and extremely unwilling lad of twelve and a half, was getting on her indeterminate mound of tits within seconds. Her acceptance speech for the task ahead would be the start of an eighteen month bitter, and sometimes bloody, campaign. There would be no medals for heroics, but both combatants would emerge psychologically scarred forever.

Her first words to the nervous class were,

‘I hate boys!’

She turned her ferocious gaze on to every one of us.

‘I hate little boys the most!’

She had our full attention.

‘If it weren’t for the fact that my useless husband doesn’t earn enough money, I would not be here at all. I would not be forced to teach little boys Afrikaans. But, that is my job, and if I have to beat it into you, I will.’

This was heavy stuff. I began to entertain fears of a second Holocaust; maybe she knew I was a half-fake Jew! (The only half I ever found was my docked dick, but unfortunately that wasn’t faked.) Time to lighten the scenario, I thought. I put my hand up.

‘Ma’am, why don’t you teach at a girls’ school then?’

Half the class, the dafter ones, snickered. The smart ones knew I had signed my own death warrant. Fifteen seconds later I was hauled out of my chair by the hair growing in that excruciatingly tender area next to my left ear.

‘And clever little boys like you, I hate most of all!’

The Game was on!

It was a long and tedious war. Every day we were given woordeskat (vocabulary) to learn at home, and every day I didn’t bother. Lessons always began with the same routine: a five minute oral test of the previous day’s assignment. At first, Ouma Smuts asked random boys for the answers, and beat them with the heavy cane she always carried if they were wrong. It didn’t take her long to clock that I flatly refused to learn the shit.

We were given a choice of two foreign languages to learn: Afrikaans or French. French was for ‘Morfs’ (Gays), the rugby playing macho boys said. Plus ‘Afriks’ had the advantage it was supposed to be relatively easy to learn. Why didn’t they teach us something useful, like Shona, the Black Rhodesian’s most spoken language? Then I could tell the Garden-boy to stop taking the piss by pretending he didn’t understand English just because I asked him to wash my bicycle. Not as if I would ever try it; my Father would flay me alive if he caught me fobbing my chores onto our domestics. It would sure come in handy though. I had no intention of going to live in a land that hacks people’s heads off with giant weighted triangle razor blades or of living ‘Down South’ where the Afrikaners still swore revenge against the ‘Rooinekke’ after losing the Boer war.

I started this war of attrition slowly, achieving sixth from bottom of the class and a result of 29% in my first end of term exam. Beatings were restricted to two cuts of the cane three times a week. I definitely needed to put in some extra effort to enter the bottom five.

I improved my tactics by looking out the window while the mad cow screeched Afrikaans at the front of the class. Six months later I managed fifth from bottom, with 21%.

Meanwhile I took to wearing extra underpants and also allowed my delighted Father to have my hair sheared till not even a koeksister (a sickly sweet delicacy designed to give Afrikaner women large behinds, judging from Mrs. Smuts), would have stuck to it. That would eliminate one of her favourite tortures.

Not to be outdone, the Marquis de Sade’s Boer counterpart switched tactics too. Beatings were increased to every lesson. I was no longer asked if I had learnt my woordeskat, I simply presented myself and complied with the only word that she had managed to beat into me: the word buig (which means bend)!

Buig! Buig! Buig!’ the mull (mad) thing would scream, then she let rip with the cane. And now, as an added treat, she twisted my ear every time she passed my table and saw me gazing at a blank piece of paper.

I fought back hard. I filled my exercise book with alien emblems, and scattered here and there a few real Afrikaner words I had somehow retained, like pen, which meant pen, or bobbejaan, which meant Mrs Smuts in her hairy wool skirt and jumper. Even she was fucking shell-shocked when I finally cracked it. Bottom of the class, with 8%! A triumph of gentle mind over violent body.

That was the sign of her uselessness, I was only 10% lower than the class average and her crazed mind snapped. When the results came out, she decided on revenge. She couldn’t beat me to death in front of the class on my own, so she thought up a very ingenious way to murder me.

‘I have decided to call each one of you out to the front of the class in order of your exam results. Each boy’s mistakes will be read out, and for every mistake you made you will receive one cut with my cane.’

At that point an image leapt into my brain: one of her sporting a small black toothbrush moustache instead of the thin grey one she had cultivated above her sneering mouth. For a few seconds the Afrikaans class became the maths room. I wasn’t that good at maths, but I soon added up my total, and I wasn’t sure if I could survive 92 cuts.

This was it! The end was nigh. Would they take my dismembered corpse and parade it around on the end of a teacher’s cane like pieces of drying biltong down Oom Paul Kruger Street in Bloemfontein to the chorus of ‘We are marching to Pretoria’?

She started with her favourites, giving them a light smack on the arse. Full of bullshit this bit, but by the time she had reached those with less than 60% she was in full flow. Norman, my mate, and a big bloke, was wilting after 13 cuts. Then she went on to Johnson, a tough, wiry, farmer’s kid. He was a school border and had won the under 14s arm-wrestling competition. At 20 lashes he was crying; she stopped at 26 lashes, when the bell went.

‘I’ll deal with jou liefde tomorrow,’ the red-faced, sweating cow hissed at me as I filed out with the rest of my physically and mentally tortured classmates. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I had the feeling there was scant love towards me.

Being of logical nature, I knew it wouldn’t actually be me the next day. There was still half the class to abuse, and even if she speeded up the beatings to 30 a minute she wasn’t going to fit me in. Just as a precaution, I wore three pairs of underpants the next day. Afriks was first on the class agenda; if my time had really come, at least I would be shot at dawn under a glorious fresh morning Rhodesian sky, my last breath filling my nostrils with her perspiring odour.

I decided I would refuse to be blindfolded, and I would have my last cigarette. Forget the fact I didn’t smoke. Stiff upper lip and squeezed buttocks. Don’t fart. Remember the school was named after the leader of the brave pioneer members of the slaughtered Shangani Patrol. They were ‘Men of Men’; we were ‘Men of Men, and we had the remaining bits of them after the massacre in glass cabinets to prove it!

Actually, I was full of shit, and was about to have it beaten out of me. Sure beats laxative.

What followed was a total anti-climax!

Mrs Smuts stood meekly at the front of class and, as we took our places, told us to open our textbooks. I wasn’t even sure I had one! ‘What’s going on here?’ I thought. ‘Have I been reprieved?’ Thoughts of switching from a phoney Jew to a phoney Christian entered my head.

Apparently the deranged woman had gone too far in her attempt to kill me. Not even Bruce Lee could systematically beat up half of our class without eventually meeting some serious resistance.

It was the borders that told us day boys what had happened; Johnson was too proud to say anything. It turned out he had phoned his folks at the end of lessons the previous day. In doing this, he broke the golden unspoken rule. ‘You don’t go crying to Mummy and Daddy’, but this time he had the backing of the other boys.

His folks didn’t mess around; they drove over 200 kilometres to the school, and threatened the Headmaster with a law suit if that lunatic Boer woman’s head wasn’t served on a plate and given to a pack of Rhodesian ridgebacks to eat.

Some nosy boarders, with jack shit else to do but hang around the Head’s office, eavesdropping, reported that the meeting later between the head and Ouma Smuts must have been a really dramatic session and as she stormed out the head’s office an angry voice followed her,

‘Touch another pupil again, Mrs. Smuts, I will fire you.’ And she knew he meant it.

Game over.

I won! With a little help from my friends. One day, Johnson, I’ll find you and buy you a beer.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

The Rhodie braai gift set.

proudly present the ULTIMATE cooking set.

This amazing packet is a cert of a present, ek-se!
This small portable set will make a Rhodie feel at home at a braai anywhere.

The kit consist of.

1. A brand new Knock’ya’ 7.650 combination semi-automatic pistol-mobile phone. Developed by the world renowned company for African conditions, it is now possible to shoot something to put on a braai and then immediately phone your ‘Chinas’ to come to the instant party. Complete with lead tipped dum-dum bullets designed to degut the food on impact, therefore saving considerable time preparing your tasty dish.

2. A book to tear up and use to start your fire called, ‘Braai the Beloved Country’.

3. A half jack of methylated spirits to chuck on fire or drink.

4. A Spar Supermartket portable grill with 'Hot Wheels'.

5. Popular braai songs on DVD. These selected tracks have been rewritten and covered by the Lady Smith Mazams Girls School Choir. Some of the titles are:

Braaing in the rain.
I believe I can braai.
I saw you braaing in the chapel.
Braai oh braai Delilah.
Big boys don’t braai.
Rocky mountain braai.
Don’t braai for me Argentina.
Braaing in the arms of Mary.
Braaing over you.
The braaing game.

6. Finally, in this superb gift set, is the evening video. This popular Zimbabwean comedy has been remastered and newly titled ‘Braai Freedom’. Starring Robert Mugabe as the baddy and Koffee Have Non as the main manne who looses the plot. This family entertainment provides hilarious real live footage of happy hordes of war veterans having a ball and can be fast forwarded in 12 minutes.

Costing a mere 19.7 trillion Zimbabwe dollars, the packet is financially reachable for most ZANU party hierarchy.

Order now to avoid disappointment.

Thursday, February 02, 2006


Reported by Jesus Mohammed for the Daily Nutter.

Incensed mobs of machine gun touting Christians, Luger pistol carrying members of the Vienna Boys Choir and vibrator armed Gays attempted to ‘Donner und Blitzen’, (i.e. beat every one up, then torch the joint,) Zimbabwean embassies in every major Western city today in an unprecedented back lash to the Mohammed cartoon fiasco.

It did not take long for the infamous web site, www.castrate-cartoonists.doh, to put up more derogative cartoons of religious theme after the massive success of their Prophet Mohammed publications. Really stirring up the shit, they nailed Zimbabwean national Tony Namate, winner of the coveted Cartoonists Rights Network's annual award for Courage in Editorial Cartooning and demanded he be burnt at the stake.

The jerk-legged reaction has been appalling. The U.S.A., where President Bush has a red phone line direct to god knows who, called for a military strike against Zimbabwe. In a hastily convened press conference, Mr. Bush was at pains to point out,

‘Choir boys must sometimes sing for their supper, but that doesn’t make all Catholic priests collectors of buggerigars’.

Tony Blair in the United Kingdom, whose wife has a hot line to her hairdressers, appealed for calm,

‘A couple of priests having a quite snog is not a cause for alarm,’ he said, and added,
‘besides you have to be member of their club.’

A spokesperson for the Zimbabwean Embassy, contacted by cell phone, agreed to speak to me providing they stayed drunk.

‘Mr Mugabe has agreed to have all the remaining Whites in Zimbabwe shot one by one, until this filthy desecrater, Tony Namate, is unearthed, tortured and fed to the dogs. He has also given us explicit orders to shoot all Gays who enter the embassy and if possible send Peter Tatchell’s head back in the next diplomatic pouch.’

A broadcasted tape, sent to the Arab news station Al JESUS by a little known movement calling themselves, Islamic Nutters, portrayed a murky scorched figure sitting on a cloud, surrounded by loads of second hand virgins, swore to assist the embattled President Mugabe.
Loosely translated, the group called for,

‘Immediate halt to all loans supporting the slaughter of Sperm by Norway and
no more imports of Danish Bacon.’

They then ominously called upon Iran to back their demands with military muscle.

‘We call upon Iran to nuke the Falkland Islands, a secret breeding place of nuns.’

Actually, they are penguins but easily confused. Plus I think they meant Sperm Whales.

The well known bible bashing bigot, Jim Baker, has pledged Zimbabwe $500,000 (about US $2.50 at the mo..er 2.40, er 2.30, I cant keep up with 800% inflation,) to obtain exclusive footage of the award winning cartoonist being burnt alive. However, he did grumble when interviewed,

‘Burnt at the stake is old fashioned and has been done thousands of times. Even Hollywood can’t be arsed filming it anymore. I have made this offer only on the condition that Tony is ‘Necklaced’.’

A referral to a popular South African voting incentive method.

Jim went on to say,

‘If done properly, my investment would triple if correctly marketed on my, ‘I am God’, cable channel.’

At the time of writing, Tony Namate is hiding in a small lean to made from Made in Rhodesia fertilizer bags at the Arundel dam on Norfolk Road between Quorn and Golden Stairs road, Mount Dump, Harare, but refuses to expose his exact present where abouts for fear of being mobbed by UN emergency relief food parcels.

AND… to wrap the lot up, all the cartoons causing riots can be seen at


for people with a Mac computer, this should be worth a laugh…sadly the game is not yet available for Windows.


till next time…


Email: Lore3000@aol.com