When in doubt; call a Rhodie out – The tale of two Mozzies continues as war is declared - This is - The ‘Game of Moans’

Today I got the sack and left work early. I left work early because I didn’t fancy watching plaster dry and no one would pay me to do so. On the way home riding my bicycle ‘Die Hard’, I noticed that people had put out their yellow sacks for recycling. That meant I would do so too, but first I had to solve The Great Mozzie War.

I must. Last night I fought a battle of tactical retreat. I had no choice. I mean, the hole in my right buttock is really sore. At least three of them must have targeted the same spot and the frantic, semi-sleep scratching opened a wound so deep - I thought my pelvis was showing. So, last night, I shut all the windows and nearly asphyxiated on my own intestinal expiring gas (know in local lingo as – farting).  I had to find a solution.

‘Make a Plan’ the most famous of all Rhodesian expressions, one that actually is based around the word entreperunial. Erm – artareypulnary? Hmm. Try again. The spell checker isn’t working. Auntiepruneanal? No - it is still underlining in red. I must have set the word doc onto English UK style. It never had a problem when it was set on ‘Engleesh gibberish – Gokwe Kid style’, but that option (which I uploaded as an app, has sadly, been deleted. Too many complaints.) Such is Art, you either Love it or one star hate it.

Toodling away on Die Hard, really chillaxing, as I had half a day off and another tomorrow as the Barbarians, erm …Bavarians, have a ‘we no go to work because we stay in bed and pray’ day. No other state in Germany has this kind of day off, but …whatever.

So I stopped by the charity shop, but sadly they work very few hours. Only eight a week - which is ridiculous? I do at least three more each month. Such lazy beggars - (referring to myself of course). {You need to have quick mind to spot my mind games.]

But. Luck would have it. A couple of pedal turns down the drag were one of those shops that sell curtains. Ahh HA. I park up Die Hard and wander in. (I didn’t bother putting the lock on as only a suicidal maniac would consider stealing the thing.) The place was packed out with thin air. The proprietor and some side kick give me weird looks. I am tired of weird looks and I just wish this mad hair colour would grow out a little quicker.

I explained my problem. This was war, but not as you know it. When I exposed my hole, she almost swooned. Recovering, she asked me how much cloth of sort of anti-German Stuka bombardment did I need? Good question. I hang my head out the window to smoke; I don’t spend hours measuring it.

 I eyed her body language up.

‘About your tit size multiplied by three horizontally - and your bum size multiplied vertically by four.’

Try saying that in my German! It comes out as – ‘Exactly one meter wide, one, twenty cm at the highest point with a tolerance of 5 millimetres.’

Unfortunately, she had only one off cut from some fancy wedding shite that would only cover one window that she could give me el-cheepo. I was suspicious. Quickly I simply decided to keep the dive bombers out the ‘bedroom’ (which I just use to store dirty washing and empty beer bottles) shut.

Done deal. I was charged Euro 2.50. I reached for my trusty FN assault rifle and riddled the exploiting woman with holes. Then I remembered that was years ago when I use to be judge, jury and executioner in a rather tangled packet – and…I had no longer my trusty FN.

Well miffed, but glad I finally had some form of defence; I wandered on Die Hard a bit further. There I parked up by a German style crap shop and spotted an interesting pair of white shorts on special offer for Euro 1.50.  The size was a little odd, so I asked in perfect German the sales woman –

‘Please be so kind to tell me if I could fit into these. My brain size is three times my hips.’

The answer was not very encouraging (after she looked at me sort of weirdly.)

‘Those are for children. Girls actually. And they happen to be very transparent when worn.’

I mulled over this for a moment and pretended I was mad. (Very easy to do.)

Moving on with Die Hard, the next stop was Netto Supermarket, my local one.  As soon as I rocked up they locked the doors and called the police. (Only kidding, I locked up Die Hard and I am the police…well, I was.)

Now I need to stock up because tomorrow, whilst being another day, means no shops are open, but after I did a bit of entrepreneurship (no red line – amazing), on Die Hard, I had a serious neat bit of baggage kit attached to the back rack. I zip around, load up with essentials like beer and crucially – they had a tin of anti-Stuka spray.

Hah-hah. War – revenge is mine. I have the kit, I have the talent. Victory is MINE. Mine, I tell you. I also bought some lettuce and tomatoes, cucumber, mini peppers and onions. Red onions - if you really need to know – Eish.

Toodling down the drag ‘home’ on Die Hard, which is still giving me the gears, as in – they still do not work very well since I fell off it after my Metaxa  spiked session at the local Greek restaurant after calling them all a bunch of blood sucking leeches of German tax payers (whilst I don’t contribute a cent. Hypocrisy is my middle name…)…erm…let’s move on hey…

I have the weapons, I don’t have many tools. (Sanctions?) But I am prepared. I soon noticed that pinning Lady Diane’s wedding veil could lead to serious consequences. Such as me falling out the window and I am on the second floor and on the fifth beer!

German windows open inwards. There are two reasons for this. It stops cowboy window cleaner firms (who never pay any tax), because you can now clean them yourself and secondly, it prevents you filling the window board with a load of kitsch crap collecting dust or magazines that no one reads. It is German efficiency. A tidy home = a tidy mind = a tidy workplace = a tidy sum at the end of the month = a tidy economy = give it all away to the lazy bastards in the European Union.   

And, it was done. The proof is in the pudding.  I pulled that and took a photo. Not of my pudding- Eish… of the ultimate war weapon-

The book (The Gokwe Kid) is used to weigh down the corner between smokes. It’s a drag but tonight victory is mine. Notice the back up weapon…It is a killer. A tin of insect decimation.

Goodnight. And make sure the mozzies don’t bite. And if they do – don’t call us. We call you.