Saturday, August 17, 2013

Man, where did I put the sugar?

This morning, after putting a corner of the mozzie net covering my window to one side, I hung my head out and blew cancerous smoke onto the countryside. I noticed that the net in this same spot has gathered some odd looking cigarette burns. That might have to do with the fact I may have forgotten on occasions to lift the corner before attempting to stick my head out.

There, on the embankment of the canal, someone was riding a horse. From the way it was galloping away from this one horse town I live in, it was obvious the rider had accidently entered ‘Tombstone’ instead of ‘Graceland’ into the SatNav. I suppose it is to do with the difference between the German and English keyboards.

Strange that I should see that horse - for last night I awoke screaming and instinctively grabbed the tender skin covering my triceps (known in the trade at our age as ‘Bingo Wings’, thinking that the hay tinted fangs of a four legged devil had had a little nip as I was brushing its haunches.

Luckily – this was just recollections of poor bastards that suffered such fate whilst being recruits in the BSAP. But, man, was it scary hey. I bet it bloody hurt. Old bitch Mrs Smuts, in Afriks lessons, used to tweak me in the same spot. The idea was to make me learn Afrikaans. I have now finally got it – if I meet her (presuming the rotting old cow is still breathing), I will announce in my best Google translate –

‘Dit is vir my, my onthou? Dit is my baseball bat, en ek gaan, stadig, o so stadig, breek elke been in jou liggaam, terwyl die verfilming van dit alles te gaan virale op YouTube (baie van die 'Hou' uit Alan Wilson seuns, een vir elke slag) en dan, voordat jy jou spook om die een wat is verwag dat jy vir dekades - hoofsaaklik dat bakkies met horings te stoot 'n drietandvurk jou ..., en dra 'n kleed soortgelyk aan superman, (of was dat blou?), het ek sal knuppel jou brein uit, meng dit met 'n paar Rex troeteldier kos poeier en gee dit aan my oorlede hond.’

Which of course sounds like complete gibbersih – here it is in sort of Englisch –

‘This is me, remember me? This is my baseball bat, and I am going to, slowly, oh so slowly, break every bone in your body whilst filming it all to go viral  on YouTube (plenty of ‘Likes’ from Alan Wilson lads, one for every blow), and then, before you give up your ghost to the one who has been expecting you for decades – mainly that bloke with horns, a trident to shove up your…, and wears a cloak similar to Superman, (or was that blue?), I will bludgeon your brains out, mix them with some Rex Pet food powder and give it to my late dog.’

Naturally, none of this is true or makes sense, but I will click my own ‘Like’ on the link on Facebook. Well  - at least I get my rocks of that someone likes it…

Meanwhile, back in the town where even horses shit themselves, I contemplate my immediate future. It is Saturday. The rays are streaming. Two choices – get lashed and write or go out, come back and then get lashed and write.

To go out or not to go out - that is the question, because there isn’t anywhere to go. Well there is. Entire Europe actually. I haven’t seen Vienna yet, but I don’t quite fancy riding Die Hard there. Anything further than 30 minutes on that ‘thing’ is more than enough.

Still, I got out the glad rags especially bought for looking cool should I lie sprawled on the main road, covered in blood after being run over by a Mercedes convertible. Okay, an Audi or BMW will do the trick, maybe even an Indian manufactory owned Jaguar XJL; but certainly no American junk or Jap crap. (Besides a Honda NSX, but they are rare.) A Porsche would be nice  - erm I am waffling…

So, I die, (because I didn’t hear any vehicles ‘cos I gotta a mini-mini precious [known in local lingo as an MP3 player], blasting away on ear phones),  with Die Hard lying beneath me, and in my expiring breath give out the PIN for my blog so my fans can cry over my cyber grave.

Huh! Eish. Move on Greenberg…

Yeah, well cool, I wander down on Die Hard to a pad called…erm. Some pad down the drag. Even Que Que was more exciting. One reason only. I have a new bad habit. A new addiction (a legal one for a change). One that is costing a fortune.

There is a shop that sells this. Not cheap mind you. The first load (as usual), special offer. Good price. But - then they know you are hooked. So bad, I was actually willing to risk my life on Die Hard to get the next fix. I could maybe have purchased it for a couple of Euros less on the internet – but I was desperate. I had the shakes, the intensity - not sure how to describe - it is like love - but without the babe farting in the bed in her sleep. Weird really.

There it was. But before that - I had to sort of get myself in a position of strength. It is bad admitting you have addiction problems; so as all addicts know, you sort of dance around the theme – and lie…

‘Oh no, I do not need this, Oh no, I am only here for the beer, Oh all yea know, it is all a lie, and Oh no, if they are sold out - I will not hesitate torching the place.

But, before I let you know what is driving me insane – I tell you what happened next. I still didn’t find some white shorts. (Long story why I am still looking for a pair.) This is not good. In the BSAP we had two pairs and some chalk in the pocket to cover any scuff marks that appeared between the toilet and the parade ground. Oddly, I never did work this out, Inspector Mike Lambourne, Squad Instructor, frightened some of the recruits so much that they had to sit in a bucket of white paint to hide the mistake they made from loose holes. Silly Billys. He was hard core, but fair.

I am maybe a loose cannon, but mighty Mike always had a secret grin when he punished me for being yet again insane. I clocked – I am not daft and had no problem excepting my punishment. But why be frightened of the man? A very good person – I gather time hasn’t been kind for him – but – Eish, he still is one of the finest of Last of the Rhodesians.

I waffle. Sorry. My mind is swinging a lot these past few days, weeks. At least I do not contemplate a ‘Steven Fry’. Eish – a genius that trys to kill himself because of manic depression. If he was that bright he would succeed. (That is cruel. I understand his problems very well.)

Moving on…

So – finally, before you all top yourself from boredom…I will announce, HERE in public, my latest addiction… It is called –

The Game of Thrones


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Never get any work done with computer games around.