Green Leader - and the propaganda

Green Leader

Now this is very interesting – just received an Email asking for some help, but first some clarification –

Now all clever Rhodies, know that the attack on Joshua Nkoma’s compound in Zambia was one serious massive ball’s up. From what I gather, our own Ken Flower, the Boss of the Central Intelligence Organisation -  was a double agent and tipped the Brits to tell fat man not to be there.

So many people and some serious money were pumped into one of the biggest lemons of the war. Propaganda for whities ran at full steam – resulting in the notorious ‘Green Leader’ tape along with an absurd - sing – a- long, Rhodesia is Super, type folksie music.

Of course, omitted in the happy song about how clever we were to take control of Zambian airspace ( which at that time a child of ten with a FN mounted on a microlight could have done), was the before and after tape recordings. Besides the graphic language, it makes no excuse that the whole ‘Green Leader’ speech was a piece of theoretical drama. This anyone can find out easily – but back to my Email and request for help –

And I quote – (lets get one thing very clear, I am a writer and a rather good amateur historian backed up by my step-mom, former Head of History at St Georges College and presently doing her PhD in Porkies and Not Porkies of Literature related to the Bush War’) –

Hello China,

Enjoy your site and bought your Gokwe book so I reckon you owe me a favour for keeping you in beer for 24 hours, eh? 

You're obviously into music, although I never read anything about any John Edmond Troopie tunes being played on Kleine order Grösse Precious, but I figure you may know anyway.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_6JDUo53xo

This video is a seeming cover version of the original Edmond's Green Leader Theme.  But its bugging me that I cannot find out who is singing the bugger, as in my opinion its superior to the original, if only for the inclusion of the actual Canberra attack recording on the terrs by the late Chris Dixon with accompanying harmonica at the start.  

Can you help me out? Cheers bru!

-----

Anyone got any ideas?

And as for the so called ‘elections’ – yeah, I am not holding my breath.

Last of the Rhodesians - Advertising

A bit of a risk and cost a bit - but at the end of next month I have a full page in the Rhodesians Worldwide magazine. It will be interesting how my sales go -

Cheating with the BSAP

Cheating with the BSAP

I hate cheats. I never cheated, although one of my children did point out that when it came to women I had no problem; but here I talk about games.

I caught my ex cheating at Rummy just after I met her. I said that we will never play again unless she knocks that habit on the head.

I never got it. I would rather lose than ‘win’ because I cheated. You hear/read about all those druggies in sport. Yeah, obviously big bucks are involved, but just a game of cards?

But I had one incident of the ultimate cheat.

It happened at my beloved Chirama in Gokwe. … I am playing Mastermind with my stick leader, Leo Andre. He was half brain dead but a nice bloke. He could even spell his name.

When it was his turn to score, EISH, the idiot never got it right, but one day something amazing happened…

I set up the coloured beads. He cracks the code in two moves.

Okay – call it luck.  I set up another combination. He cracks it in one.

Now don’t forget, the bloke would struggle to recall what a hair brush is used for…I start to get suspicious.

So I set up another configuration, but this time, out a corner of my eye, I am clocking big time. Something is not real here. Normally I fell asleep by the time he ran out of pins and space. How come all of a sudden he is a genius?

Carefully pretending to be relaxed, my heightened BSAP instinct is on full alert and under my ‘sleepy eye’. I notice something.

I spun around – like a striking cobra. Sure enough, there was the cook behind my back, sending hand signals to Leo.

I shot him and ordered over the radio for a new cook as the last one was wasted.

Let’s talk about sex –

Yesterday I had a flash of some titties attached to a rather old biddie.

Man, I would have run a mile but I was loaded down with four pairs of jeans, a pair of shorts and a small cooking pot.  I was in a charity shop. I love charity shops.

Unlike the UK, where every second High Street shop is flogging second hand goods to help feed the peasants in the ‘developing world’, (developing into tyrant controlled rampant corruption and let westerners feed and clothe the peasants at their expense because we use any dosh we can steal to shoot the peasants if they get a bit uppity); here in Germany they are rather few and far between.

But in this one horse town (less the horse) they have one. The opening hours are rather erratic but I managed to catch them yesterday. Well, what a surprise. I thought I had wandered into Louis Vuitton or a Hugo Boss store.

I had a good sniff around the jeans department. The haberdashery section was a little empty but I did spot a neat pot I needed, complete with lid. Loaded down I thought I should try the stuff on. The pot fitted my head perfectly, although I did struggle to see.

Feeling my way around, I found the ‘try them on’ closet and yanked the curtain back. And there they were, hanging down almost to the floor. What a sight for sore eyes.

I hastily mumbled an apology and closed the curtain sharpish whilst wondering if I should take the pot off my head and throw up in it.

So eventually I try on the clothes. Now it is time to pay. I am asked if I have a voucher. It seems poor people get a discount if they have a piece of paper from the council to vouch they are poor. I arrived on a bicycle that wants to kill me, that is surly vouching enough that I am poor.

‘If you have a voucher, you are entitled to buy some of our food.’

Well I had had a quick look in the food section but it was rather empty. There must be some real hungry poor peasants in this town and no sign of a few crates of beer.

I told the lady at the till that whilst I struggled to survive, I had no voucher. I then switched my body language into the ‘woe is me’ mode. It works a treat.

I wander out the store and give the bike a bit of a kick to tell it to behave itself. I have three pairs of jeans, one of them a Wrangler and one a Levi, the other a no name. All beautifully washed and ironed and looking like new. The shorts are perfect too.

It took a while to get the pot off my head but eventually all was stuffed into my rucksack and a shopping bag on the carrier rack.

I am well pleased. Even my wallet heaved a sigh of relief – total cost for the lot - Euro 10…

The Gokwe Kid and the stolen bicycle

What is with me and these two wheeled monsters? They always either try to kill me or just really cause trouble. I noticed that a bad person has stolen the rear light on the monster thing my boss leant me. Still, it might have something to do with me falling off it after checking out the contents of half a bottle of Mataxa. Take it from me, the bike can’t handle the stuff and weaves all over the shop till it hits a kerb and falls over. Sadly; with me in the saddle.

Another thing. What is this with all the gears? How many gears do you need? Insane. This crate of shite has 24! Not only that, they don’t work very well since the accident. The chain (about the length of a rugby field), keeps hopping up and down trying to make up its mind what bloody cog it fancies.. And when I free wheel, the most awful racket breaks out.

Can you imagine having a car with 24 gears. Your arm would drop off. It is bad enough when they have 6. I was half way to Austria the other day when I noticed the dashboard kept hinting I change into 6^th. I hadn’t known this particular vehicle had such additions.

Mind you, load of crap. As soon as a bit of hill arrives the thing is coughing and jerking about like a drunken kangaroo, and the lights on the dashboard are flashing away recommending second gear. I am trying to drive – like as in - look at the road – not discotheque of lights behind the steering wheel… EISH

Anyway, here is a quickie I didn’t put in the book but suddenly remembered.

So - I am on afternoon shift at Gwelo Charge Office, about July 1978.

‘Tring tring’

‘Yawn, Hello, Patrol Officer Karl Greenberg of the BSAP, aka the Gokwe Kid, capturer of the infamous fraudster Raymond and a legend in his own mind, on the phone, how may I help you?’

‘Hi Karl, this is your present honey’s Dad and I think there is some dodgy hanky panky going on with a bicycle.’

Me thinks – whatever, eish I was just about to fall asleep from boredom.

I immediately go into top number one professional police officer and say

‘Huh? Come again.’

‘Well, my cook boy asked for five dollars advance because he has been offered a bargain of a bicycle. Some piccanin is selling one but I think the bike is stolen. Can you check this out?’

Well, normally, like I mean, I have handled serious stuff, but it was great excuse to toodle off and check out the scene. After confirming I am on the way, I grabbed a constable after kicking his snoring torso awake (shit, this town is so one horse) and we hop into a ‘Panda’.

A Panda. Yeah. It is a Mazda 303 (most probably an illegal sanction busting kit car), with just a front bench, that at a pinch seats three, and a very large tin box at the back. This was for throwing bad people in and stolen goods via a rather dodgy back door.

So, we rock up and meet and greet my latest chick’s dad. I knew the way, a bit of a shclepp just outside Gwelo urban, because they had invited me for dinner a couple of times. After a short chat, I throw suspect and one rather buggered bicycle into the Panda and off we go.

Like I said, this was out a bit in the bush. A narrow tar road, which meant you have to sort of drive slow and pull half over onto the dirt when an oncoming vehicle approaches. Such happened at a sharp bend. As I went back onto the tar, I noticed one hell of a banging noise coming from the tin box. Alarmed, I pulled over.

Well, what a surprise! The back door was open and banging backwards and forwards fit to bust its hinges. And, guess what, there was bicycle inside but that was it. I had forgotten to lock the door.

I ponder my position. The constable has gone into that body language of  ‘white Bwana is a fool and I cannot wait to tell the others when we get back’. I solve that problem by putting the blame on him for not reminding me.

Now what? The great Gokwe Kid makes a descion and turns the Panda around and drives back to the scene of the crime. I have been away exactly 10 minutes. I announce to the astonished man that the crime has been solved. But it consisted of one piece of bad news but, TWO pieces of good news.

The bad news – erm, accidently the suspect absconded and I bloody hope he hurt himself jumping out the moving vehicle.

The first good news – I have no paper work to do.

The best news of all – your cook boy has a free bicycle!

Case closed.

Men of Men Multi-tasking

So, it is Sunday morning. I check out what’s happening through the window. Not a lot. Nothing really ever happens here beside the occasional jumpy thing paying a visit.

With a finger up one nostril and another digit scratching at my hole, I contemplated how to spend a couple of hours; preferably under those lovely vitamin D rays blasting down.

Having no balcony or garden, this is a bit of a dilemma. Me thinks (yes, I can), maybe I wander down to the canal embankment a bit whilst sipping at a chilled chibuli with some cool vibes stuck to my ears. Any other place to wander to would be tantamount to another three day bush patrol looking for anything remotely connected to civilisation.

With that decided I prepare myself for another thrilling adventure (not). With little rucksack packed with essentials (smokes and beer), I wasted a good 15 minutes looking for my trusty FN assault rifle until I remembered this is 2013 not  1977. I most definitely have to stop watching repeatedly that film ‘Inception’.

It is not that I am accident prone, it is more like I am prone to make the accidents, because what happens next yet again beggar belief. I am all tooled up ready to rock and roll and decide I should clean my teeth. Nothing out of the ordinary there, most of us do it. Even in the bush days we were taught about a special tree that you could use. Chewing on a tree was never my idea of fun but that is all beside the point.

So after that boring task and wasting time trying to work out how to turn the buzzing thing off (a new model), I conclude that a healthy mouth must be well swished with a good dollop of peppermint wash. The el-cheepo stuff from ALDI. Whilst having a merry swosh about, I noticed that my hair was looking very dry. It also had a very strange parting but gathered that had quite a lot to do with the fact I was wearing headphones.

Concentrating very carefully, I felt it a bit and not only does it look like bleached straw, it had the exact same brittle constituency. (I have a really bad feeling that this is not quite the word I was looking for, but you can blame that on my dyslexia)  I had purchased some wax for just such an occasion, so grabbed some and sort of rubbed it a bit around but meanwhile…

I had totally forgotten that I was also busy with another task – namely removing the last bits of last night’s roast duck dinner with red sauerkraut (that is not a pissed-off hybrid Native-American/German native) and those cylindrical mashed potato things and – swallowed the lot.

It was impossible to see what happened next because my eyes had turned into my head, but when they sort of righted, along with stomach cramps, was this awful mess dripping down the mirror onto the little shelf which holds men things (like tablets of Valium and Viagra – a great mixture as you spend hours going up and down).

And the SMELL. It was the devil’s breath after he has been sucking on a packet of Polos all week.. I ran out screaming like some blonde and dashed dizzily around, clutching at my delicate and convulsing stomach, looking for the bathroom to hide in. I then found the bathroom and again ran out screaming. The stuff was still there and was foaming a bit where it had just met the shaving cream tin.

All I wanted to do was to go for a bit of a walkabout – not land up a nervous wreck contemplating how I clean this lot up without retching constantly. Still, I learnt another valuable lesson. Stick to one job at a time otherwise all hell breaks loose. I did manage to go for a little walk, but returned early because I was feeling a little weak.

(And, no, this time there is no photo.)

Exterminate, resistance is futile and set fire to the rain

Last night I was chirping away on the internet (as you do) when, through the open window my biggest nightmare flew in and landed on my keyboard. Off course the window had to be open. The only things that come through closed windows tend to be bricks with nice messages written in either Russian or Italian. Takes me ages to translate but generally this is – ‘Pay your rent or we will dismember you with chainsaw – slowly’. Mmm – well , like, obviously the translate thingy-ma-jig has a personal problem with me.

No, it wasn’t a job offer shaped into a paper airplane – this was worse. A GIANT grasshopper come locust thingy. My heart nearly stopped as I ran screaming like a girl to urinate before I filled my jocks and socks with fear.

I came back armed with a tea towel. My hands were shaking worse than a drunk waking up still alive but well pickled.

Intuitionally my Police Anti Termite Urinater training took over and using all available cover (not a lot as this is a small flat with not much in it), I hunted the pest down.

I not only dislike these creatures but ever since I read the old testament and the seven plagues or was it ten commandments (I get confused) , I am petrified by them. In Rhodesia, occasionally (thank a deity), one of these GIANT things would rock up into the garden. One. Perhaps two. Have you ever seen a YouTube of millions of the things. I watched a couple and nearly swooned away. How can you live in place that gets invaded by these things? And the noise they make!

Even just one. Some weird clicking sound and when it flies it sounds like a bat out of hell complete with 12 string guitar riff. And..its legs! Full of spikes that would make a Neo-Nazi punk jealous. What in hell for? Big, powerful muscled legs with hundreds of daggers mounted on them. Awful apparition. Aah – I even fainted watching that cartoon Bug’s Life or something.

I could have maybe been a pilot. If so, you know those planes they use that drop shit loads of water onto serious big fires? Yeah, well I would load my plane with the same quality juice that put people on the moon, fly over these , these things - let it rain on them and the set it all on fire. I would have the onboard music system blasting out Adele’s hit ‘Set fire to the rain’, and I would laugh.

Anyway, not being tooo drama queen, the thing I was now hunting resembled more like those that the savages (oops, the indigenous population), would collect and make toasted sandwiches with them.

I recall one night once, back in the good old days when we were a when we (wink at a certain Jewboy), it was on Lomungudi Road. It must have just stopped raining or something because there were zillions of the things flying around a street light. They dropped exhausted to the ground and as I watched in complete horror as two of the majority with no voting rights, collected them up by the thousands into Spar paper bags (No plastic due to bastard British sanctions.), they were laughing with delight. The only comparison would be for me to have been accidently locked into a butcher’s store full of rows of moist biltong with massive rinds of palm thick juicy fat.

I am wandering here, not surprising since I am bit blonde at the moment…

Where was I? Oh, so I am hunting this thing down. Looking very carefully and walking gingerly when – there it was! Perched on top of the television - preening itself. Well, I am not really sure how they preen, but without hesitation I shoved the safety catch of my trusty FN onto automatic and let seriously rip. I was beyond caring that the rounds would go not only go through 22 inches LED TV but also straight into the bedroom of the twat next door (he who thinks he is the guitar man and plays five notes perpetually until he only stops because I have drunk myself senseless) and erm.

Okay. I didn’t have my trusty FN, just a tea towel. I whacked the bastard and – it disappeared. Just like that. I mean, I know cockroaches are fast but a hopper couldn’t leg it that quick? Or?

I looked around a bit. Carefully, I didn’t want the thing to take me by surprise and perhaps land on my lovely new hair do. Can you imagine that! But, it had just, like, whish - into thin air. Talking about thin air, I was gasping by now as if I had just been carried up Mount Everest by a couple of coolies.

I was a little insecure but still managed to sort of have a sleep and this morning…

I awoke not sure what day it was or is, but a quick look in the fridge made me conclude it was the day I need to do a bit of shopping. I fetched my little travel bag (those ones even Ryan Air says they are okay), because it is full of empties. Plastic bottles. Now I am not a born natural recycling freak but the Germans were taught a very clever lesson by the Rhodesians – it is called DEPOSIT.

So, it works like this. The stuff inside the bottle costs 33 cents. (Yes, don’t have palpitations, supermarket super beer is that cheap), but the thing that holds the liquid has a worth of 25 cents. Not just plastic bottles but tins as well! Amazing, unlike Mud Island that is slowly but surely sinking in cans and bottles, here in Deutschland, the place is spotless. Even if a lazy drunken teenager discards vicariously a can or plastic bottle, it will be pounced on by the hordes of illegal Eastern immigrants. It is a perfect win-win scenario. The state doesn’t have to pay for the bums and the bums clean the state up. Man, these Germans are clever.

So, anyway, just as I am clocking the time for the next bus (I gave up with riding the bicycle after I fell off it twice whilst testing half a bottle of Mataxa. Riding these things is all Greek to me), well stop my heart with a 7.62 – the THING is perched on the case!

I ran off screaming like some blonde girl and headed to the toilet before I filled, yeah whatever. I popped my head around the door and it was still there. Carefully, very carefully, I slinked out and using all available cover managed to get hold of the tea towel. And I bloody whacked it.

Erm, you are not going to believe this – it did another Harry Potter. Gone! I didn’t understand and I was now seriously frightened. Pulse was racing, the fridge is almost empty, the bus is gone and that THING has to be somewhere.

And, I saw it. It was on the floor, near the tiny left speaker of my el-cheepo Precious replacement. It seemed a bit damaged. I went in for the kill –

Not once, not twice but so often the cable was ripped out the speaker and went numb just as Leona Lewis was screaming about her bleeding heart. I was heartless but wanted blood.

Exhausted, I watched as, amazingly, it was still not dead as it was trying to drag itself on broken limbs to hide under the thick pile of dust in the corner. (Remind myself to get the vacuum cleaner out before it rusts away.)

I hit it again and again screaming ‘ Die you motherfucker –die’.

It has stopped moving now. Quite a while. Well, in the time I took to tell you this horror story. It isn’t kicking anymore, even when I placed a bucket next to it.

The moral of the story – Never mess with the Last of the Rhodesians.

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.

Teaching myself a lesson

Teaching myself a lesson

Have any of you seen that film ‘Fightclub’? There is this cool moment where Brad Pitt is beaten to a pulp and still laughs at his antagonists. I have a personal affection to that scene.

I have been beaten so hard by friends, family and teachers; it is amazing I am alive. But get this – all it did was make me more arrogant, more obnoxious, more a pest, that they all simply gave up. I would stagger onto my half broken pins, covered in my own blood and still tell the twat who decked me that, he was still a twat.

But – there is something that does/did/always teach me a lesson – it is called… my wallet.

Okay- where is this leading? Well, it all started a couple of days ago when I invested four Euros in some insane desire to look like that donkey hiding in the Ecuadorian Embassy in London.

Well, let us not beat around the bush (I wrote about all that – boring job actually. Just did it to save up for a car), and you most can probably guess – I managed to not only frighten Jehovah’s witness but me as well!

I am not really sure where everything went wrong. But wrong it did. Instead of looking like some dignified academic, I looked like a dick that had eaten too many carrots.

I panicked. This you do when you look like a ginger  haired homosexual. (Known as a ‘Gomo’) I then---wait for this- I had this idea to pour half a bottle of toilet bleach onto my head. Man, was I well flushed.

So……obviously, I am ‘on a boat’. Now what? I can not hide here for ever. I found a cap. I put it on and sneaked this morning really Gollum like to the hairdressers in this one horse town [less the horse].

Laugh? The girls nearly shat. As for the other customers - I could have happily machine gunned the lot.

So – several options really. After I threatened to single handily get a chain saw and give them a massacre they won’t forget – we discussed my options.

One – Shoot yourself.

Two – Shoot yourself

Three  - ( Now I am getting bored with the previous two options) – Erm, cut all your hair off and perhaps we will not slash your neck.

Four. – Spend a fortune and we will somehow make you look almost (almost) human.

I am pleased to announce that I, The Gokwe Kid, Simply the Pest, survived the ordeal. But I learnt a lesson – never ever buy some gunk for your hair with the instructions in German – otherwise, three hours and fifty Euros later and loads of people laughing at your expense…EISH!

I may, just may, put up a pic of my ‘restoration’. My name is not Lazererus.

Stupid or what?

Okay. Sure, I am a bit unhinged but this really takes the cake. Look at this! And this is after I
poured a bottle of toilet bleach over my head! Eish! I do not have much choice than cut the lot off.

This is It

Okay. I am gonna do it. The last one who said these exact words kicked it about my age.- this is not just a case of black and white..

Before I die – please recall. I - Karl Greenberg, Last of the Rhodesians, is going (I am starting to cry now) is going to mix toilet bleach with some shampoo and because his hair looks like a ginger homosexual – would rather expire. Good bye. I love you all..

I am on a boat

Erm…it seems I have annoyed a few people. Sigh. Oh well. Here is my reply –

http://vimeo.com/18848658

Busy Bee, Wikileaks, the Devil’s idle hands and Jehovah was a witness

Oops, sorry for not posting for a while. I have been a very busy bee. This is good because I notice things can go terribly wrong when I am not occupied.

Saying that, I should always be occupied because if I am a writer - I should be writing in my spare time. Sometimes though even I need a break but sadly the time seems to be spent being naughty.

Talking about being naughty, I was reading this book yesterday. It is called Simply the Pest. It is about a  lunatic kid growing up in some place in Africa. Rather funny I must say. So there I was giggling over the antics of what is rather apparently a very disturbed individual when I happened to notice that my fridge seemed to be missing a few things.

Mainly the magic nectar stored in brown bottles. This was not good. What do you do? What you shouldn’t do is wander off to the centre of this one horse town (less the horse) pondering the fate of some stupid kid.

Whilst waiting at the bus stop (sod walking there), I had a strange desire to look like Julian Assange. That’s that bloke who is always getting into trouble for having a leak that pisses a load of people off. So wandering around my local supermarket I spot a packet of get white hair instant gunge and thought ‘yeah why not’;. I suppose many people could tell me why not but did that ever deter me?

Back in my pad I sort of read the instructions which are in German. I understand quite a lot of German even more so after some more bottles of golden nectar. I mix up the stuff and have a right merry old time rubbing it all over my hair when –

‘Ding Dong’

Me thinks ‘Such luck, AVON is here, I hope she is a right cracker.’

I push the ‘Let them in’ button, open the door (semi naked with my hair standing on end steaming of peroxide and lo and behold guess what wanders in? A morph in a light purple shirt with a dark purple tie. Hah hah. I was at that exact moment scrolling through the chapter called ‘Losing my religion’, and I am confronted by non other than a witness straight from Jehovah.

One look at me and the bloke’s hands (full of those magazines with poorly drawn pictures of happy families) were shaking like some drug addict on serious withdrawal symptoms. I eagerly took the opportunity to tell him that back in the ‘good old days’ people like him were either kicked to death, mauled by the dog or were dragged screaming to Chikarubi prison and caned so hard that they were put into hospital. Rightly so because as the Bush War progressed so did the increase of young men who seemed suddenly converted and couldn’t go off to get slaughtered because the good Lord said it wasn’t the thing to do. (Though shall not kill or something like that.)

To add insult to injury I recalled another bit and quoting from the context of the story asked him if he had a black ‘kaffir’ bike. (You all know I never use any form of derogative or racist words unless part of a scenario I am describing.)

Well, he ran away leaving me amused at my own wit. I wandered into the shower and rinsed my head thoroughly and applied a sachet of something and waited another bottle or two. Then I noticed something strange. I looked in the mirror and the reflection was of a ‘gomo’!

Now all Rhodesians know that a ‘gomo’ is a large granite outcrop. However, according to the urban dictionary it is also a ginger headed homosexual. I was in deep trouble and decided I would tell the world. So I fired off a few witty lines onto Facebook, made my dinner, watched Russell Crowe stab a few people in Gladiator and went to bed.

Erm…this morning I received more surprises. Firstly, I still look like a gomo. Secondly I have yet again been banned on Facebook. It would appear some smart alec took umbrage to my fine satirical wit. This could turn out to be rather a sticky problem because they have some kind of rule of three strikes you out. We will see.

Now that still leaves me looking like a gomo. I am pondering my next move. Logic dictates I should maybe get another packet of the stuff and see what happens. Eish – I am in the kak!

Thirdly – I realised that the inane child in the book is…ME!