Do blonde former Rhodesian police officers really have more fun?

As readers of Simply the Pest and the Gokwe Kid will have noticed - it is that I seem to have a strange ability to do things with absolute no thought of the consequences.

As previously mentioned on my blog, I had attempted to sort of make my usual salt and pepper hair more - salty. I had thought that after two self inflicted doses of chemicals and two more at the local one horse town (less the horse) hair salon, that the problem had been fixed. Little did I know…

On Saturday I had arranged with a female companion to check out an art gallery in Munich. Perhaps sub-consciously I anticipated trouble and strategically wore my favourite PATU (Police Anti Terrorist Unit) polo shirt.

I arranged to be picked up by taxi to bring me to the train station from where I would travel an hour in a first class coach to the Hauptbahnhof of Munich. Alarmingly, the female driver (a Canadian oddly enough), started to weave dangerously all over the drag because of instead of keeping her eyes on the road she was looking at my artistic masterpiece whilst giggling herself stupid. I should have charged her for the ride after we arrived without crashing into a tree.

Whilst my female companion had been warned in advance that I wasn’t looking my usual self … I was greeted by a snarling lioness who bundled me at an alarming rate onto the train. Luckily I had remembered my Boy Scout motto – ‘Be Prepared’ and had a couple of chilled mini bottles of sparkling wine in my rucksack.

So off we rumble, smooth as silk, through the countryside and attempt to chillax a bit. Half way through the journey she is sort of seeing the funny side of my Chicken Little look and I demonstrate one of the tactics that kept me alive during the Rhodesian Bush War. It is called the ‘camp’ strategy. A brilliant military manoeuvre created by a couple of cowboys in the 1960’s whilst herding sheep and camping together.

Being a natural born actor, I showed her the special way one has to patrol through the bush keeping an eye out for gooks. In the photo you can see how I use the brilliant ‘limp wrist’ action of the left hand. The rest of my stick liked to keep theirs on the stock of their FN rifles and right hand around the trigger grip – I used the other hand to show off my new hairdo. It would be at this point that my stick leader would wisely put me at point rather than bring up the rear. I wise decision as the gooks ran for miles.

Anyway – by the time we get into Munich the bubbles have evaporated and I am dragged, giggling like a heyena that has just drunk a couple of beers on an empty stomach, and marched pronto to the nearest hair salon. I am forced to walk rapidly as behind us is a strange mixture of men following us. These included brutes with tattoos and shaved heads and baseball bats, members of the Muslim Brotherhood and men in tights staggering on high heels.

At the first salon the advice was not very professional and it was suggested turning myself into a Neo-Nazi with a quick buzz over with an electric razor. I protested I was half-Jewish and had no desire to look once again like a police recruit from Morris Depot.

Luckily, the city was busy and we managed to shake my weird entourage off. After wandering around a bit I suggested a snack. I recommended this cool place in the cellar of a posh department store. It is a ‘fein schemker’ food place and has all these little bars and stuff where you can try out fancy grub and wines. Costs a bloody fortune but I had tuned that I was in serious trouble.

Whilst we awaited a week’s bush patrol’s pay for a bit of grilled fish and lightly panned vegetables, I received another blonde bombshell –

‘I do not know how people percept you when you speak your motherless tongue, but I will tell you something that may come as a shock. I am amazed that after all those years you have been in Germany; that you have neither noticed nor been told…’

Me thinks – oh-oh…now what?

‘That - with your Rhodesian/English dialect mixed with Bavarian slang, manipulation of the German language into your own fantasy form of speech; it makes weirdoes zone onto you like wasps to honey. And another thing, it is no wonder you only scored 58% in your last German exam.’

Just as I am trying to absorb this amazing piece of information, a wasp heads straight to the seat next to me and starts buzzing like he has just spotted a gay Pooh Bear.

She isn’t finished with me yet –

‘I like my men ‘natural’ like, erm, fishermen, for example. Rough, natural etc, not poncing around like something from a planet that no one has heard of yet.’

Well, that really kicks me off in my chemical grilled mind. ‘A fisherman, rugged, macho, natural – she must be thinking of Nigel Triggs, my nemesis from ‘The Gokwe Kid’ – hah hah.’

After the wasp gave up, and we have completed the fancy stuff you would only find in the Queen’s ration packs, I am delivered an ultimatum.

‘I am going to try and sort you out. If your boss sees you like this… you will be on a fucking boat alright, and it will be called Titanic Two.’

Now with a glass of fine dry white wine mixing with all sorts in my head, I am now totally off it. It turns out there is a hair salon on the third floor. To get there you pass women’s lingerie – I decide to linger and really start my X-Factor. Grabbing some pink tops and knickers, lisping, limp wristing, hip waddling, I call out loudly in my weirdo German –

‘Oooh, do you think I will look good in these?’

Then grabbing a bright red bra, size 44 c –

‘Will my bum fit into these cups? Do I wear the straps over my shoulders?’

All hell is breaking out. But I am starting to feel a little woozy. Too much adrenalin – still; I haven’t had so much fun since I did Interface during the war.

Being now very quiet – (for once my tongue has given up catching up with my egg scrambled brain waves), a heated discussion had broken out between she who likes them rough and the staff. The options are again limited. When it was explained that I had actually tried to cure my problem with toilet bleach, one panicked employee wanted to phone the people who arrive with white jackets for lunatics like me.

By now I am surrounded by ALL the staff, pulling and poking at my head of hair wondering amazingly that I still have either. Meanwhile, all the customers are observing this whilst laughing their stupid heads off. I am beyond caring. I only reacted when some smart alec shouted –

‘The First Floor sells shotguns – tell him to do a Kurt Cobain.’

I thought that was a bit over the top, besides I am 55 not 27 years old. I have more sense than that.

And so it is decided. I would be dyed, yet again, this time in…PURPLE. It seems that this colour cancels out yellow. I didn’t do chemistry at school for the simple reason I never thought I would get this far.

Well by the time I have been finished operated on – amazingly I still have some hair, and, it is sort of better. I am also told to get hold of some shampoo called ‘Silver/Grey’ (without chemicals) and with luck, I may appear normal in a few days.

The End.