Russians, a cheeky little girl and Bingo Bongo Bar and a trashed swing

Russians, a cheeky little girl and Bingo Bongo Bar and a trashed swing

Some of my new neighbours are Russians. Well, sort of. Cute accents. One has a very cheeky little girl, Viktoria. (With a ’k’.) 9 years old.

Her parents can’t wait till she finished her homework and leaps over the fence and into my magic realm of the Bingo Bongo Bar.

Now – hello? Rhodesians have not exactly a good relationship with Russians because the bastards supported Nkomo. Recall – the slitty eyes, who make just about everything, including nasty viruses, supported the black Hitler.

These Russians, one born in Siberia, the mother, (who the fuck wants to be born in Siberia?), not my problem, so I built a swing for Viktoria.

It only took a week to realise that, as an incredibly intelligent and a gifted craftsman that I am – something was going extremely wrong with the swing.

I am not a psychics engineer. One side of the bar which holds the swing is attached to a tree. Well, a large tree and it was hardly going anywhere as deaths have proved driving into a big tree = tree 1 – human 0.

It was the other side. I built a sort of ‘A’ frame, latched it onto the fence and sat it on gravel and paving stones.

So – off she swings. Great fun.

At this point – I wish to point out, that she is not allowed to be alone with me (my prerogative), there is always someone who can see what is going on and she is a bloody pain. Kaaaaarrrhhhlll, has become her call. I tiredly reply – Viktoria, want you want now?

‘I want an ice cream.’

My beloved Jacky has told me to put my foot down and tell her rules. I did.

I did. It went like this – here is the freezer. Inside is the ice cream. Here are the cones. Here is the spoon and here is the strawberry sauce. She was not impressed. Sulk? Are all little girls like this? I have two sons. One is insane, the other is okay – but girls. A no-no and idiots like myself land up to eventually marry one and get ruined.

Back to the swing -

There is a problem. For some scientific reason, unknown, this tiny waive of nuisance, has manged to make the ‘A’ frame lifts up constantly. We have Apollo 13.

Now I need the Russians. But first, Rhodies make a plan.

First - I need two long and fat poles. (Not Polish people.) Cut them into shape and cheeky pain in the arse paints them black.

Secondly – call her Daddy.

This bloke is HUGE. Hence, I need him.

I explained the situation with sign language. That is a lie as he has been here most of his life and both of us speak fluent German.

Hah – He demands I speak only English to Viktoria. So - what do I teach her? Australian – Hows Zat!

Plus, she picking up some really bad habits from me. One of them is gambling. In Bingo Bongo Bar is a one armed bandit. Underneath it is a small bowl full of coins. She feeds the machine and pulls the handle. When she hits the ‘jackpot’, (that word she learnt very well), typical addict, keeps feeding it.

So, Johan, her dad. Is given the task of smashing into the ground two, meter long stakes into the ground with a sledgehammer. I now know why there are no vampires in Russia. Not even the hardest, cold heart Dracula could survive.

We now had a small audience as he drove the stakes all the way to Australia. Hows Zat! Not quite. With a bit left they now had to be joined to the ‘A’ frame. This involved my expert assistant, Viktoria and a Makita, 18 volt rechargeable drill/ screw gun.

First, pre drill. This involves serious explanations with the chuck and backwards and forwards. Little assistant, who has promoted herself to expert in everything, including arrogance and laziness, drills the holes, and using another adapter, with the help of Daddy, bolt it all together.

Job done. Atomic bomb proof. All test it.

I now conclude. I promised to build her a tree house. But have no car at the moment to get the materials.

I also promised to let her yowl away on my karaoke machine. I explained that I teach her how to put on the PC, the TV, use the wireless mouse and keyboard and where to plug in the microphones.

Her reply?

‘I am going home now.’

Hows Zat

The Well Being

The Well being . 

Tony is back.

Tony once spent time in a well. Well, it was not a nice time in the well. He was looking into the well and his wellies were wet and, well, hmmm, he fell in.

‘Well, well, well,’ Tony spoke out loud as he plunged 14 kilometres, down to bottom of the well and landed on his head and broke his fucking neck and he was dead. Well, that is not true. In fact, Tony was at the bottom of a well with no wellies and well, was in a bit of a pickle

.

So what do you do at the bottom of a well, not feeling well? You call for help for your wellbeing.

Now – let’s get this well straight. The famous Tony has fallen into a well without his wellies and 14 kilometres down the well he shouts out ‘Hello, I do not feel well, and I am at the bottom of this well and well, it would be well welcome if you could get me out of this well.’

No point. Welling up tears, Tony, realises no one gives a shit about his well being in a well. Well, how about that!

(A short editorial break. Well, fuck me, I am going mad writing this. God help you trying to read it! I think, you will be cautious with that word ‘well’ so where was I welcome? Oh, we well welcome the well being of  Tony at the bottom of a well.)

Well, meanwhile, back in La la Land, well, Tony is in a well, and well fucked.

Okay. Look, or read this, or if you blind,  guide your fingers over the screen as I done this also brolle, er, sorry must feel that again, hah – Brolly. It was, well, actually, an instant hit. Blind people could feel up the newspaper without getting wet.

Well, hmm, Tony is getting well pathetic.  ‘Can anyone hear me, as I am well fucked in this well without my wellies.’

Well, it is exactly at this point that neither the writer, nor the reader, gives a fuck about his wellbeing.

Next week, Tony is on the International Space Station attempting do the first porno film in zero gravity.

I predict a riot

The END

Rhodie Tony walks down a hill

Rhodie Tony walks down a hill.

Why? Who cares? The idiot got up there and now needs to come down. He was coming down alright, four tabs of ecstasy, 15 beers got him up there for no apparent reason than besides ‘Why not?’

His body is shaking, mind confused, his limp penis pongs of sheep. This is not good. Some hikers greet him. He fondles the breasts of a buxom woman and is promptly decked by her husband. They do not understand that Tony is not well.

His cell phone rings. He looks. Eish, it is the Boss. WTF? Now was a bad time to phone. He hits the green button.

‘What the fuck do you want? It is Wednesday, almost the weekend and I am riddled with cavid 19.’

Blah, blah blah,

‘Really, ooh, what she looks like?’

Blah, blah, bla,

‘No problem Boss, all sorted.’

Tony hangs up. Jesus fucking Christ, this hill is bad news. Ahh - an idea.  If he walks backwards down it, his mind will work in reverse.

A great plan. Five steps and… down he goes, a tumble of arm and legs at the bottom still able to moan among broken bones

Some Polish passer-by, frisk him of his wallet and throws it away in disgust of it being empty.

But – Rhodie Tony, can not die. He is a hard core Rhodesian. Men of Men.

Pushing splintered bones back into his body, he walks to the bus stop. There he meets HER.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7o5itMLK-vQ