The Leopard Never Changes Its Spots

Whilst doing research for my memoirs, I come across all sorts of information. With all the violence that President Mugabe is instigating against the people of Zimbabwe in opposition to his tyrannical rule, I decided to put up a few memories of what the ‘Great Liberator and darling of the liberal West’ did back in the ‘good’ old days.

The pictures are from a Rhodesian Government booklet from 1978. It is called – Anatomy of Terror. I have supplied a link. It is not for the faint hearted.

Massacre at Elim Mission - June 23^rd 1978

So says Mr. Andrew Young, United States Ambassador to the United Nations, in a recent interview with the London Times.

This weekend, in the worst atrocity committed against white civilians in the history of Rhodesia's six-year war, terrorists of Robert Mugabe's Zimbabwe National Liberation Army hacked and battered to death almost the entire white staff and their families at the Elim Pentacostal Mission in the Eastern border mountains.

Mr. Young is asked: "Does Mr. Mugabe strike you as a violent man?"

He replies: "Not at all, he's a very gentle man. In fact, one of the ironies of the whole struggle is that I can't imagine Joshua Nkomo, or Robert Mugabe, ever pulling the trigger on a gun to kill anyone. I doubt that they ever have.... The violent people are Smith's people and hopefully they won't be around for the new Zimbabwe."

This weekend, when local and international journalists arrived at the scene of the massacre 15 km from Umtali and less than 7 km from the Mozambique border, the mutilated and blood-stained bodies of three men, four women and five children - including a three-week-old baby - were lying as they had been found that morning.

Mr. Young is asked how he gets on with Mr. Mugabe.

He replies: "I find that I am fascinated by his intelligence, by his dedication. The only thing that frustrates me about Robert Mugabe is that he is so damned incorruptible.... The problem is he was educated by the Jesuits, and when you get the combination of a Jesuit and a Marxist kind of philosophy merging in one person, you've got a hell of a guy to deal with."

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About Andrew Young.

In 1977, President Jimmy Carter appointed Young the Ambassador to the UN. His controversial statements made headlines almost from the start. His greatest contribution was helping bring peace and a new constitution to Zimbabwe, and he also helped improve US relations with Nigeria. He was criticized for many of his statements, such as his suggestion that Cuban troops brought stability to Angola. However, President Carter continued to support his ambassador until 1979, when, contrary to US policy and statute, he met with a representative of the Palestinian Liberation Organization. When the occurrence of that meeting was revealed, Young's public statements were perceived as evasive by Administration critics. Ultimately, Young was forced to resign.

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From Time Magazine July 10 1978

At the beginning of the war, the killings of white missionaries had seemed, in most cases, to be merely part of the prevailing violence. The latest rash of murders suggests that the guerrillas are now killing missionaries in an effort to create panic among Rhodesia's remaining whites, particularly in rural areas. Since whites are now leaving the country at the rate of 1,000 a month, that brutal plan may be having some success.

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BBC 1^st June 1979: End of White rule in Rhodesia

Mr Smith warned that "pushing people forward simply because of their colour, irrespective of merit, would be most unfortunate and would of course lead to disaster".

He continued: "It would mean that Rhodesia would then develop into a kind of banana republic where the country would in no time be bankrupt."

I Feel My Pain

I am suffering from post root canal surgery. It is not nice. To make matters worse, the large hole in my molar has only been temporarily filled in and I have to wait another two weeks before the final completion. However, should the pain become unbearable during this time, I intend to take three aspirins, a bottle of scotch and pull the bastard out with a pair of pliers.

As we all now know, Mad Captain Bob has been allowed to steer the good ship Zimbabwe deeper into the dark waters, bouncing off icebergs on the way. No doubt he will be re-elected in 2008 despite the huge combined efforts of Western imperialistic nations to displace him and put Ian Smith back at the helm. I get rather tired reading some of the garbage being written about whose fault it is that Zimbabwe is in such a state. I mean, exactly who are they kidding when they believe that all the ex Rhodesians want to come rushing back and take over the place again?

I managed to rig up a very interesting little tool called Google Analytics which gives me an incredible detailed stat report about this blog. Sadly it can’t fix it! Anyway, some of the information garnered is that the story, Learning Afrikaans is the most popular hit. That particular anecdote will be rewritten eventually but at the moment I am busy redoing the Gokwe bit. Hopefully I will have the whole lot finished for this Xmas, so start saving now. I could also see how many new people have visited as against returning fans the last month. I was well surprised to see that almost 70% are new people.

The Google map they supply is so sophisticated I can even see which town visitors are coming from! Some of them are real puzzling, like the hits from Ghana.
Could the person who lives in Dubai see if they can trace a certain Mike Yoko. I believe he is head of a hotel security unit. I have to slowly start tracing certain people to get permission to use their real names. Mike was my shift boss when I was stationed in Gwelo.
Another name is ex Staff Inspector Mike Lambourne. He was my squad instructor back in ’76 at Morris Depot. That reminds me; anyone got any pictures of Morris Depot?

Finally, someone pointed out to me that I had forgotten to put my Email address in my profile section, so I finally got around to doing that. Eventually I will try to redo the links. I see that the title still appears to be a bit cropped when using IE. I still haven’t figured out what the hell is wrong with my PC so the Blog is still completely white background. Very frustrating.

Catch ya laters.

Trains of War.

I recently read a comment in a Rhodesia forum about the Yanks finally deciding that one way to counter the problem with road side bombs, was to supply their Hummer transport vehicles with V shaped armour plating. This is about 30 odd years after we had it installed in most of our troop carriers.

The local Rhodesian armour manufacturers were extremely good at adapting vehicles to counter the various weapons used by the Gooks. (Terrs, Communist Insurgents, Freedom Fighters, or whatever, etc etc.) Most of them were named after animals. The Kudu was an adapted Land Rover and the Leopard was constructed, as far as I am led to believe, on the chassis of a VW Beatle. These just being a couple of examples.

I received this photograph in my mail box yesterday and could hardly believe my eyes, as this particular adaptation I had never seen. That is not actually very surprising as there were no railways running through Gokwe. The body of this amazing contraption seems to be taken from a Kudu. Notice the back door, which is open, has the recognizable zig-zag plating to ricochet the AK 47 rounds. The sides have an extra skin of light metal designed to set off a RPG rocket so that it couldn’t penetrate the second, half inch thick plating, behind it. The ‘roof’ is just a tarpaulin to offer some protection from the sun and rain. This has been stretched over tubular roll bars.

The person who has been forwarding this picture around wrote the following:

I recently bought a small lot of photographs, mainly of Rhodesia Railways locomotives. This picture was amongst them. Do you know where and when this might have been used during the Bush War? One suggestion was that it was used on the Plumtree line.

If anyone can supply any information, please contact Ian at

iain@umgusa.fsnet.co.uk

and CC me please so I can place the details here.

Many thanks. Catch ya all soon,

Lore.

It’s All Going Tits Up in Zimbabwe.

Whilst Mad Bob shuffles like a geriatric in a Seville Row suit in Tanzania, Lore’s secret agents have managed to obtain photographs of a recent demonstration outside a factory.

The protesters are demanding a wage increase and have resorted to using the only weapons at their disposal.

Even with all the hardships, they can still have a laugh.

With inflation about to top 2000%, what little money these people earn, makes life a real bummer.

Onions, Elephants and Crocodiles.

Poor old elephants in Zimbabwe are really getting it in the neck. I see one just jumped all over some woman and her daughter in Hwange national park the other day. Turns out they were doing walkies. Not a good idea, especially since it turns out that the Safari firms have been kidnapping baby elephants to train as people carriers. Elephants don’t like that. Still, the Zimbabwe reporting is interesting…

Harare - A British woman and her 10-year-old daughter were killed by a rogue elephant while her husband escaped unhurt during a hunting tour in southwestern Zimbabwe, state media reported on Tuesday.

The state-controlled Herald quoted an unnamed parks and wildlife authority official as saying Veronica Poker, 47, and her daughter Shallot died on the spot when they were attacked by a lone elephant which is believed to have been wounded, during a guided tour in the Hwange game park on Saturday.

It happened on Saturday mid-morning "when the three tourists who were accompanied by a tour guide were watching a lone elephant while they were hiding behind an anthill," the newspaper quoted the official as saying.

"It is reported that the elephant could have seen the people and started charging towards them."

He said wardens were deployed following the tragedy to track the elephant believed to be wounded.

"Wounded elephants are those that are normally aggressive," the official told the newspaper.

The official said the guide fired a shot to scare away the elephant but it kept on charging towards the touring party and trampled the guide who suffered a fractured pelvis before turning on the tourists.

National police spokesperson Wayne Bvudzijena referred questions to the police commander for the Matabeleland north province who could not be reached for comment. (That’s because he is busy organising more beatings for cheeky members of the opposition party)

Sounds like they got themselves in a right pickle!

Maybe the poor girl’s name was really Charlotte?

Meanwhile, over at Lake Kariba, the ellies are getting shot to feed the crocs. Turns out the government wants to expand/increase the croc farms. Now back in the good old days, when I visited the croc farm, the baby crocs were fed kapenta (fresh water sardines) and the big mothers were fed smelly hitchhikers from Denmark. Only kidding. Actually they were given mostly chickens. Now of course, the kapenta industry is in ruins and the chickens have flown the coop. BUT there are plenty of elephants wandering around still, so let’s feed them to the crocs.

Hang in there Bob, I am writing as fast as I can!

With Zimbabwe boiling away at the moment, I really have to pull my finger out of my poop hole (as many of my teachers said to me) and get this book finished. Otherwise I might just miss the gravy train.
A pal of mine, Robb Ellis, has finished his and getting some great feedback. Robb has a huge Blog which was recently mentioned by the BBC.

http://thebeardedman.blogspot.com/index.html

His book Without Honour also received a great review from a Swedish newspaper, which makes fascinating reading because the Swedes were big supporters of Mugabe during the war for independence. It is a long article with loads of interesting photographs.

http://www.folketsnyheter.se/?sida=artikel&aID=453

Robb became a policeman after Independence. It sure is a very different police force from the one I was in!

Talking about policemen – this little excerpt I found in The Times online edition today.

The officer said he had joined the force more than 20 years ago. “That was a time when a policeman was really a policeman,” he said. “When you woke up in the morning and it was time to get into your uniform you would feel proud. You would cycle to work feeling happiness. Today it’s totally different. It’s like you are in a prison.”
The officer said that men were leaving the police, the army and the air force because conditions were so bad. He had lost as many as a third of his own men. The pay — 150,000 Zimbabwean dollars (less than £5) a month for a constable — was derisory and barely covered the cost of travelling to work. Some routinely extorted bribes to make ends meet. “They are forced by the situation to do what they are doing,” he said.

www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/africa/article1555824.ece

Racking my memory really hard, I think a Black Constable in my days would have started on about R$110 a month, or about half of what I started on.The senior sergeant you see in the photo, (I took it with a Kodak Instamatic) holding the receiver of a TR28 radio, would have been on about the same income as myself, albeit after at least 15 years of service. We had quite an adventure together in Gokwe, early 1977. (All in my book.) I was 18 and a half, he must have been in his early 40s. He had children he sent to good schools, lived with his wife in a small house inside the police married quarters and owned an immaculately kept family sized car. This same gentleman is now most probably living as another destitute, his pension decimated, his beloved police force turned into state sanctioned thuggery.

Money For Nothing, Get A Kicking For Free.

Fame at last! Well, not quite. The BBC News Online recently did an article about Zimbabwe Blogs. Sadly they left me out. I wonder why? There are a few interesting links listed. Well worth checking out.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/6456027.stm

Whilst the BBC might not be interested in me, it appears Captain Bob is. I am normally very suspicious when it comes to receiving dodgy Emails but this one did seem genuine…


From: Honourable Robert Gabriel Mugabe,
President of Zimbabwe,
President House,
Harare, ZIMBABWE
TEL:00263-78-01-66-40

Email: RobbingBob@easypeesy.com

Dear friend,

I am the President of Zimbabwe and have been for a very long time but that seems to be running out, so I crave your indulgence as I contact you in
such a surprising manner, but I respectfully insist you read this letter
carefully as I am optimistic it will open door for unimaginable financial
rewards for both of us.

In my overseas bank accounts, which I cannot visit personally due to illegal sanctions by the fascist, racist, imperialistic regimes of the war mongering uncivilised nations of Britain and United States, I have accumulated the sum of $10.5 billion US dollars ( ten billion and five thousand million US dollars). These same nations are subverting the course of justice in my country and I am dismayed that I may be forced to abandon my effort to keep Zimbabwe free of foreign tyranny as I am no longer a young man and wish to retire in peace.

Your name was given to me by one of my trusted cabinet members who has sadly passed away recently when he fell down a mine shaft. He had said that you could be trusted in this matter. I am of course willing to reward you very well for your assistance in this matter.

This business is occasioned by the fact that the customer account uses only a security number for access to the account. Due to the above reasons it is not possible to transfer the money to myself or any of my trusted comrades and I have need of an unknown third party. If you were to gain access to this fund and agree to bring this too me in a country to be designated in the near future, I agree that 30% of
this money will be for you as a partner, in respect to the provision
of a releasing the said money, 10% will be set aside for expenses incurred during the
business and 60% would be for me.

You must apply first to the bank indicating your bank name, your bank account number, your private telephone and fax number for easy and effective communication and location wherein the money will be remitted, upon receipt of your reply with a copy of the above details, I will send the access numbers to you by fax or email.

I will not fail to bring to your notice that this transaction is hitch free and that you should not entertain any atom of fear as all required arrangement have been made for
the transfer, you should contact me as soon as you receive this letter.

I like to point out that all recent press coverage is wanton lying and it was necessary to protect my assets from unscrupulous thieves with some soft usage of minimum force. I offer you this same protection to ease of mind this transaction.

Trusting to hear from you soon,

Robert Mugabe,

President of Zimbabwe

Mad Man Bob Out of Control.

A bit ironic that a day after I wrote the satire piece Comic Relieve, Mugabe’s boys did go on a beating spree. I have been following this rather closely and it is not funny.
The incident has prompted loud outrage, except from South Africa and the rest of the A.U., who just mumbled some wishy-washy hogwash.

When I read the articles in the various newspapers these last few days, some of the readers comments were very interesting. Quite a few loved to rub some salt in the still festering wound that was the last colonial battlefield in Africa. For all its faults, Rhodesia was Super and was progressing at its own mature rate towards an inevitable majority rule and no one was starving in the process.

I wonder if I will live to see a prosperous and stable Zimbabwe in my life time. Till then, I think I will stick to the plan of having Last Of The Rhodesians inscribed across my ashes urn.

Hallo and Welcome to the Red Nose Mugabe Show

Yes, Comic Relieve (you of money) week is back, my favourite time of the year; when just for a laugh, all you idiots send me money, so I can keep you entertained all year and next year and next year and every year - for ever!

Here are some of my new jokes for this year. Remember to laugh very loud and clap or my boys will give you a severe clap and I will be laughing very loud.

In Zimbabwe, we have reduced our carbon emissions by 95% in six years. That’s because only me and my boys are having a gas…hah hah – get it, gas = petrol..lol

Last week, Clever Ncube, became the first person to win our own televised Who Wants to be a Millionaire? He got mugged on the way out of the studios and the perpetrators stole the suitcase with the winnings - after emptying it…hah hah hah

Michael Jackson phoned me yesterday. He wanted to buy a farm. I told him we don’t sell farms to white people…hah hah hah. (laugh louder, or my boys come with the truncheons)

Last week I went to Ghana’s 50^th Anniversary celebrations. My wife donated $2000 US dollars. To get that money my boys beat 30,000 people centless…hah hah hah..get it…senseless..lol.

If you shout obscenities at the Jewish Zionist state loud enough, they give you great discount on water cannons. Mazeltov…hah hah.

All of our mines are at full capacity – filled to the brim with dead protesters…hah hah hah. (I want to hear more clapping or you better run to England quick, before my boys catch you.)

15 people on their way too my birthday celebrations in a donkey drawn cart never made it. At a road block, the police ate the donkey….hah hah hah..ahh, that one is just too funny.

I have just ordered another 200 cupboards for my bedroom. I’m planning on putting some more skeletons in them this year. (laugh louder or you become one of them)

When our teachers went on strike, by the time they settled, the rise was worth only half of what they demanded…and they call themselves teachers? Hah hah hah.

Climate change in Zimbabwe is a big joke – if it rains, we have no food. If it doesn’t rain, we have no food…so bring a packed lunch.

A man came up to me the other day. He says ’Uncle Bob, can you tell me why the banknotes are useless as toilet paper?’ I said to him ‘but it’s better than the toilet paper Smith gave us when we were in his prisons.’ He say, ‘but at least we had toilet paper, now they have none in the cells.’ I told him ‘they don’t need paper now. My boys beat the shit out of them before they get thrown in the cells.’ Hah hah hah (Just like they come and beat you and set your house on fire if don’t start clapping louder you white maggots.)

Tony Blair phone me yesterday. He said ‘ Honourable President Robert Gabriel Mugabe, liberaliser of Africa, passionate defender of human rights, blah blah blah,’ I tell him ‘Hey Tony, what you bloody want, you gay gangster, I am a busy man, I have a nation to ruin.’ This Bliar then has the cheek to ask me for a job! I tell him we got enough Blairs in the country and they all full of shit.’ Hah hah hah…get it, huh, HUH? Blair = name of portable toilet here in Zimbabwe…hah hah hah. That one is my favourite one at the moment.

How am I doing so far? I hope you are all phoning in and raising plenty of money for me. Hah hah, my wife said to me today, ‘Bob, I am really worried about all this money coming in.’ I was shocked, I said ‘why my precious?’ She says to me, ‘I am running out of things to buy!’ Aah, I laughed at that one myself a lot. She is a very funny girl you know. That white maggot Nick von Hogstreet or something like that, is sniffing around her a lot and mumbling at the ten million pounds he lent me needing paying back. I don’t trust that mad man. I think my boys must have a chat with him…hah hah hah.

To solve the problem of all those female students stealing the red bulbs from the traffic lights to put in their rooms to attract some extra money for tuition fees and food – the council has approved to replace them with green ones…hah hah hah…they are so stupid, they don’t know my chauffer is colour blind…hah hah hah

So comrades, dig deep in your pockets and support this worthy cause. I highly recommend this link:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/opinion/main.jhtml;jsessionid=UQ2RJV3CULVGBQFIQMGCFFWAVCBQUIV0?xml=/opinion/2007/03/11/do1101.xml

Death Of A Stupid Cow

In the film, The Last King of Scotland, a car transporting Idi Amn hits a cow. The young Scottish doctor, who is taken to the scene to attend to Amin’s superficial wound, is constantly distracted by the cow. It lies on the side of the road mooing away in pain. The film sequence is brilliantly done. The locals are standing around observing the whole scene and no one gives a shit about the cow.

Eventually the doctor, after repeated demands that some one sort the cow out, takes matters into his own hands and snatching up a pistol, sends the cow to roast beef paradise.

That made me recall an incident that happened to me. I had to hand in an assignment yesterday, so thought I could maybe kill two cows with one bullet. I dug up the part of LOTR with a short bit about a similar scenario. This gave me the perfect opportunity to work hard and rewrite the thing. So here it is.

I don’t recall ever seeing one sign on that Gokwe – Que Que road warning drivers of cows crossing. When I think about it, anyone, besides some very lost tourist, knows perfectly well that the odds of coming across some stupid cows drifting across the road are very good.

Working on the piece, I did a bit of research. I had originally recalled that the vehicle in this incident was a ’57 Ford. I did find the right pickup on the net and I was amazed to see I was just a year out. I decided to put up a photo of this mini-truck to give you an idea the size of it. Searching around a bit, I picked this one. I think it is about as close I can get to the real thing as it must have looked after the crash...

Death of a Stupid Cow

‘Aah Patrol Officer Lore, sorry to bother you Sah, but there has been an accident involving some cows. It has happened on the Que Que road, the Veterinary Department has been informed and are on their way. Chief Inspector Harvey… ’

I interrupted the Constable before he could finish - ‘said I must go. Has there been an entry in to the incident report book?’

There hadn’t, which is good. Less paper work the better, as at that time I was completely swamped with the stuff. So with rifle in tow, the book for on the spot fines, and after being allocated by the duty desk Sergeant another Constable for translation purposes, I picked a Land Rover that just might get us there and back and off we went.

More suicidal cows! Just what is it with these cows? None of them get it into their heads that when speeding steel meets flesh and blood, nine times out of ten, the cow won’t live to regret it, but the driver of the vehicle might. Why do they keep crossing the road? For some reason, they always think the grass IS greener on the other side. The fact that its all the same yellow/brown bush never enters their heads.

Now maybe Mandeeka’s No.1 son can instantly terminate three mombes with a commuter bus, (last weeks incident, same problem, different road, different cows), but this particular driver, when I arrived at the shambles, had been using a 1956 Ford F100 Pickup.

He must have had the rather well preserved relic going at full tilt over the small incline when he ploughed into the 3 cows crossing the road in single file at their usual unconcerned sedately pace. This time, it hadn’t been a clean kill. First thing I ascertained was that the driver and passenger of the well smashed up ancient pickup were amazingly unharmed, albeit a little dazed. The accident scene was complete carnage. The Ford must have bounced off the beasts like an arcade machine flipper ball, spun around a couple of times, before, still upright, came to a halt sideways across the road.

The way I pieced the picture together from the blood and drag marks on the very dry gravel road - the ‘Middle of the road’ cow had kissed itself goodbye with the engine block. The massive, heavy 8 cylinder engine had crushed its head so it resembled a giant hairy horned squashed tomato. The machine must have then spun and freakily rear swiped the ‘Entering the road’ cow, which had grotesquely been almost completely decapitated by the tail gate that had burst open from the initial impact. With the Ford’s momentum being severely slowed by the first two impacts, the final remnants of kinetic energy were spent on, ‘Leaving the road’ cow. The animal had landed up lying immobile, but looking relatively unscathed, trapped against the crushed body work and it was still very much alive.

As usual, from out of the surrounding bush, where there is not even a kraal in site, a small crowd of locals had gathered around. With little entertainment available, incidents like these were as much fun as watching Roman gladiators in an amphitheatre with no entrance fee to pay. With the Constable translating rapidly for me, I soon put a few of them to work by making them temporally officers of the law and positioned them a couple of hundred yards from the crash scene, flapping their arms to slow any oncoming traffic. We were only maybe 5 miles out of Gokwe town, and I didn’t fancy standing in the middle of the road if Mandeeka’s No. 1 son suddenly appeared in his bus again, packed with passengers and all possessions on the roof higher than the surrounding trees. Always pleased to help the law, the locals responded with enthusiasm. Whilst their antics might not have been text book style, their newly found impromptu dance routines did the job nicely - a bit like scarecrows in a tornado. The Black veterinary assistant, who had arrived at almost the same time, examined the surviving beast. He twisted brutally for a few seconds on the poor mombe’s tail, and then with an enormous amount of heaving, dragged its arse away from the wreck. I watched this with fascinated horror. The cow didn’t react at all, no moos of pain; it just seemed to look at me with big brown sad eyes.

‘This cow has got a broken back,’ says the Vet man. ‘You can shoot it,’ and he speeds off, leaving a huge dust cloud following his Landy. His job was done. I have to shoot a stupid cow! The driver seemed to have recovered enough to start moaning about his pick-up and his desire for compensation. Now by this time, I had garnered enough experience to know, that if it was possible to wrap up a case without using a ball point pen (unless it was for the on the spot penalty book), the better. This could get complicated if I opened up a traffic accident docket. Now was the time to use my expanding diplomatic skills to clarify a few points. Through the Constable, who gathered very quickly where this was heading, I pointed out, that in theory, perhaps compensation MIGHT be attainable if he could meet and prove the following criteria:

Possession of a valid driving license, road tax, car ownership papers and insurance. Of course, the pickup would have to be checked that it was road worthy – which might be rather difficult, considering the fact I could see 4 extremely bald tyres and that for some strange reason, there appears that there is not one mark on the dirt road suggesting any attempt of braking. Which could lead to the fact there wasn’t any. The drivers reply was the perfect one. None! He just stared at the ground for a moment and on rather shaky legs wandered off to sit under a nearby tree to get out of the heat. He had got the idea - Let sleeping mombes lie huh!

With that problem neatly eliminated, I turned my attention back to the cow and cocked my weapon which had been clasped in my right hand the whole time. Even a well oiled F.N. 7.62 semi-automatic rifle makes quite an audible noise, as its breechblock is shoved back and upon its return shoves a bullet up the barrel, ready for firing. All the gathered locals made a noticeable move back. I find it really weird, I doubt many had ever heard that sound or ever seen the loading action done, but they knew instinctively, that what had been a long extension of my arm, had suddenly been turned into a very deadly object. I wasn’t really sure about the right place to shoot the beast. I had read that elephants’ brains are really small and they have to be shot behind the ear. I didn’t know how big a cow’s brain was.

Suddenly, as I was musing over this mercy killing, a very excitable grey haired man breaks through the circle of gawkers, gesticulating widely and talking in rapid shona to the Constable.

‘P.O. Lore, Sah, this man here, he says that the mombes belong to him and please not to shoot the live one, as he lose too much money.’

I started to feel a little sorry for the owner, as this was definitely a serious financial blow to him, but I explained that the beast was in obvious pain and it had to be put down with a severe dose of lead poisoning, administered via my rifle muzzle.

‘Sah, this man says, if you shoot it here, by the time it gets to Mandeeka’s butchery in town, the meat will be useless. He say, he get a rope and can you drag it behind the Land Rover back to Gokwe to be slaughtered.’

Welcome to the clash of the cultures. I was appalled! What was asked of me, was in my mind, extreme cruelty for the sake of profit. I just couldn’t understand. That made me recall a recent article in the paper about cattle rustling on White owned farms getting out of control. Security forces had followed one group and came across a camp where they had removed the rear legs of one beast, but to keep the rest of the meat ‘fresh’ they had primitively cauterised the amputation wounds with absolutely no regard or remorse to the beasts suffering.

‘Tell this man,’ I shouted, whilst lifting the rifle in his direction, ‘to get out of my sight before I drag him to the butchers and then shoot him.’

There wasn’t any need for the translation. My tone and gestures sent a very graphic image. I turned my attention back to the cow, who had listened to the debate about its life without registering a single protest, not even a last moo goodbye!

I fired twice in quick succession, at point blank range, straight between the eyes; short, sharp explosions shutting up the incessant, screeching cicadas for a brief moment. No drama, no exiting bullet holes, no blasted out tissue or bone. No shuddering nervous system. Nothing at all to announce the grim reaper of cows - its eyes sort of glazed over. It looked dead. I couldn’t even see the small entrance holes as they were completely covered by the tight, smooth hair.

I was still fuming and called over the late cow’s owner and asked him for his situpa. I copied his details into the fixed penalty book and gave this ‘animal rights activist’ a ticket for 75 dollars for letting unattended domesticated animals wander the road. Then I told the pick-up owner to clear his wreck off the road before I give him a ticket for obstruction. I knew the crash scene would be cleared up faster than vultures would strip a buffalo carcase. Quite a few of the spectators had already returned with pangas and were haggling with the owner over the price of the best cuts. That took care of the cows.

I knew the old ’56 Ford would land up at Mandeeka’s garage, where presumably it would be beaten back into some shape of automobile recognition and be back ploughing into more cows in the near future.

So with everything wrapped up, it was back to the office – job done, just in time for lunch. I really fancied a fat juicy steak, as long as there weren’t any bits of steel in it.

For Satan so loved Zimbabwe, he gave his only begotten son, Mugabe, that whoever follows him shall have everlasting poverty.

Nice one! This little gem I picked up from the Zimsituation web site. It appears the police were doing the old search and beating thing on some poor peasant, when they found this little very witty ditty written across one of his numerous next to worthless bearer cheques he was carrying. The poor sod was arrested for defecating on the President. Oops I mean defamation. It looks like maybe – just maybe, cos I have heard it all before and I have predicted a couple of times that he will go this year.

Why? Because the economy has almost, not quite, hit rock bottom. 1600% inflation heading for a new world record of 4000 by end of the year.

Do I give a damn. Of course not. (not)! This Blog is just to keep telling everyone – Nah nah nah na … we horrible naughty white people got what we deserved, piss off and let us dig our own graves now. Oh, any one got a shovel spare, mine was stolen. I called the police but they said I got to pick em up ‘cos they got no cars or fuel and…whatever.

Meanwhile – back in the good old days, there was Sammy.

I wonder what happened to my first and only black friend. I think he must have been a couple of years older than me, back in ’77, when I was in Gokwe. His rank would have been Constable and he would have had to call me Sir. I got on well with all the Black staff in the police. I always seemed to instinctively know and respect their vast experience and knowledge when I first started as a P.O. (Patrol Officer) deep in the bush. But this man – he was special. I look at the photograph as I write my memoirs and struggle to remember his name. I think it was Sammy. I know that he was the first and only Black person at that time in Rhodesia that I allowed to use my first name - but only in private, for I feared recriminations. Don’t forget, I was a city boy – so my only personal contact with Black Rhodesians was with the domestic staff of our family and neighbours and all, including staff in shops and at the factory where my father had worked, used terms ranging from Picinini Baas to just Baas, as I grew up.

In ’77, I was barely 19, and my cutting wit and satirical tongue was primitive and often enough cause for a deservedly good kicking from my fellow White P.O.s. Such was our lot when a tiny minority were tossed in a communal pot of social intercourse not of their making. Sammy was based in Gokwe as well and we did a PATU (Police Anti Terrorist Unit) tour together, my first. Sammy was as slim as my self but at least 3 inches taller than my boring average height of 5’8 and a half. His English was exceptional to the point of brilliance. He could word play and banter with me and I was constantly pushed to match his wit. In those days White ignorant bigots would have ranked him as a cheeky ‘kaffir’, only because they instinctively knew that the man was far ahead of them in raw intellectual intelligence. In the photo, that’s him in the middle. What happened at that place is in my memoirs. Crazy stuff with dead snakes and deader men whilst we drunk numerous cups of the best coffee in the world – you have to wait till I finish it.

But I was reflecting recently what was it that made me want us to become friends, to such an extent I would have preferred his company a lot more than some of the other young White patrol officers I was forced to live with. Sadly, etiquette of the time and my upbringing created mental barriers I could not overcome.

But I do remember that day when I decided that I would like Sammy to be my friend, if he wanted to. Colour had nothing to do with it. I still have few friends, most people think I am obnoxious arrogant twat, and they are right, so making friends have never been easy…

It was a dry season day when me, Sammy in the middle and NSPO (National Service Patrol Officer) Nicholas (Nick) Robinson, who was driving, were on the way back to Gokwe town from some bush camp in a mine proofed open backed Land Rover. Sammy had flatly refused to sit in the back, where it was unprotected, and didn’t have any problem making his point. It was hot and cramped, three of us in the front as we swerved, bucked and zigzag over those dirt tracks through the bush. The engines on these basic machines kicked out incredible heat and Nick was forced to change gears between Sammy’s legs. The middle position of a land Rover’s bench seat is pure misery as far as comfort is concerned.

When we came across a troop of baboons, which was quite often in those parts, as usual between youngsters at the time, something insulting would be said. Nick decided to slur Sammy –

‘Hey , Sammy, isn’t that your family? Should I stop and let you say hallo?’

Nothing said here was really big deal. It was such an old joke, and I guess it barely brought a snicker to my lips. Sammy just smiled faintly. I don’t think Nick was racist. It was just a classic piss take we all did. If Sammy hadn’t been in the front with us, I would have been the brunt of the basic bush humour. Then, around the next bend sat a huge baboon on its own facing the oncoming Landy and touching Nick’s shoulder lightly, Sammy pointed at the animal and with a huge grin announced in a very feigned falsetto excited tone -

‘P.O. Robinson, have you told your sister that you have joined the police force? Perhaps you should stop and have a chat with her.’

I burst out laughing, and Nick nearly ran the poor creature over in anger as it dashed out the way. He hadn’t taken that comeuppance very well. He never said a word for the rest of the trip back.

Nick was a classic example of a NSPO. There is a lot of fuss being made recently over Peter Godwin, author of Mukiwa, (a best seller, I loved it) Co-author of Rhodesians Never Die (IMHO perhaps THE best factual book about Rhodesia between 1970-80) and his latest memoirs When a Crocodile Eats the Sun (not read it yet, hoping someone sends me a free copy). He was also one of those type of policeman. Highly educated, usually with A’levels, they used the opportunity to do their national service in the police – the idea being of course that you reduced your chances of having the shit shot out of you by 50% than if you in the army. Also, if you lucky and staioned in a city or town, good odds of wasting the 18 months of call up (at that time) playing policeman plod and having a laugh before going off to university. The pay was also slightly better than the average troopie. Being clever was always an advantage if you happened to be a bit of a sadist and off you would go into Special Branch, grow your hair and beard and beat the shit out of people. 30 years later nothing has changed much, just the name. Now these nutters are called the C.I.O.

Sammy and I discussed everything when we were alone, which was not often. Conversations about home, politics, minority White rule, and why he was fighting on ‘our side’, but I cannot recall the details. Then one day he was gone. I think it must have happened whilst I was at driving school. I vaguely remember he said his time was almost up in Gokwe and he wanted to be transferred to a town. It just wasn’t the thing to do in those days to make enquiries about the whereabouts of Black people unless they were bad. Rather stupid of me when I think about it now.

I often mull over the idea, that with that fine intelligence if Sammy climbed high in the new Zimbabwe Republic Police Force, only to be succumbed to temptation and became another looting corrupt officer - now the terrorist. I somehow don’t think so. More I fear that his cutting sharp tongue could have landed him in big trouble – like a bullet in the head and an unmarked anthill somewhere in the bush as his grave.

But maybe he was as clever as I believed him to be, and got out with his family when Mugabe completely lost the plot. Perhaps he is a teacher in London. I suppose I will never know now. I just have an old photograph of some kids ‘dressed to kill’ in combat camouflage larking about with a snake we terminated and that handsome grinning, unforgettable face of Sammy - my Black friend.

This Needs a Look At.

Wandering through the world of cyber news I came across a rather fascinating article in the Guardian. The article is rubbish but the comments that follow make a really good read.

I'll never lament the passing of white rule in Zimbabwe

http://www.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,,2022223,00.html

I of course had to add my little say!!!

Back to my problem with my browsers. It would appear after much research that I am not the only one. More alarmingly, it appears that this phenomenon is growing and no one has a bloody clue what the hell it is! Something has affected the computer and so far zip of an idea what is going on!

http://www.anybrowser.org/campaign/forum/viewtopic.php?t=582&sid=0f4db20b1de342a4ad0e2ca4047e604f

if anyone out there can solve this puzzle – I will nominate you for the Rhodesian Noble Bread Prize.

Oh Woe is ME.

Many thanks for the advice from Suzanne and Fiona. As you use the no-reply button when you post I cannot reply in person. It would make life a lot easier if you Emailed me direct. Well I did manage, after a lot of arsing around, to get the counter back up. Then I noticed all the links have disappeared! I will have to put those up again laboriously one by one as the days progress. I went deep into the guts of my machine and played with all the advanced settings, clicking here and there and everywhere, but to no avail. So I suppose I just gotta wait till I find someone who has a better idea what’s going on.

I am a bit miserable at the moment. BUT, as it is suppose to be my job to make people laugh, I have a treat for you. I am pleased to announce that for my final teacher marked assignment for my course at the Open University - Writing Fiction – I got 85%. That’s a 1 pass. Cool huh! I was extremely hampered by the word count so what should have been just a very long story was chopped up into a so called Book Chapter. I dunno if I will ever get any further with it.

I was rereading some of the Tinny Blabber code last night. I haven’t looked at it for months, so spotted loads of errors, but for a high speed freewrite, I thought it was rather good. I really should do something with it…yeah…like I got LOTR to finish also.

So for your reading pleasure…here it is.

THE LOST PLOT

Narcissist and CBS (Chronic Boredom Syndrome) sufferer, Ferry Strange II, is a figment of alcohol fuelled imagination and legend in his own mind. His warped magnetic personality fractures time and space - thus, according to the laws of quantum physics, it results in him losing the plot constantly and reappearing relatively unscathed in yet another.

Chapter One:

GONE WITH THE WIND?

It is now nine o’ Clock here on BBC 1, time for the news, with Shalimar Gajsek and Stewbird Vool.

‘Good Evening, it’s Friday the 13^th of September 2013. Fears are mounting for the missing Vaginal Airlines flight 666 to Malta, which disappeared from radar screens two hours into its virgin flight earlier this evening. The highly controversial plane, christened Titsuptanic, only yesterday by financial backer, Sheik Mah’Leg, is the first wind powered aircraft of its kind. It had taken off from Looted Airport, with 763 passengers and a crew of three, after half an hour’s delay. Amongst them is the 45 year old celebrity Ferry Strange the Second. Reports are still sketchy, but a reprehensive from the airlines did not say that the pilot had radioed in, shortly before it apparently fell out the sky, reporting that many of the passengers were being violently sick and overcome from fumes reminiscent of rotten fish and boiled cabbage, and that he was decreasing his altitude so they could open some windows.’

Shalimar Gajsek sputtered the last words before throwing herself violently against the back of her chair and then, to the amazement of her fellow newsreader, tilted her head back and let loose wails of distraught, hysterical laughter, followed by a mighty crash as she disappeared from view in a flash of white knickers and shapely tanned legs - closely followed by her laptop…

Friday 13^th of September 2013. 6.00pm – Looted International Airport.

‘Please remove any sharp objects, such as nail files, pocket knives, knitting needles, Ninja fighting stars, etc., as these are not allowed to be taken on board and place them in the transparent Perspex box.’ This boring monologue was repeated to all passengers as they placed their hand luggage onto the rollers before the opening of the scanning sarcophagus.

Next in line, Ferry Strange II, with immaculate timing, unzipped a side pocket from his cheap rucksack and just as it was about to disappear, removed a foot long black vibrator, flicked it on, and nonchalantly popped it into the container. Trapped inside, its frantically pulsating head rattled noisily amongst the various confiscated objects as it searched for some hole to hide in.

‘Mummy, what’s that strange thing the funny looking man has put in there?’ squeaked a small girl in the queue directly behind Ferry.

Strange’s face remained immobile. His black silk cloak billowed around his matching coloured leather clad form as he stooped through the metal detector gate - setting it off instantly. He grinned wolfishly, exposing silver pointed incisor caps to the hapless security man as he waved his lolly-pop around him.

Roaring deeply he announced: “I have come through your Star-gate. Take me to your beer dispenser.’ He then strode in the direction of the bar in the airport’s departure waiting area - without bothering to retrieve his rucksack. It only contained toy automatic pistols and hand grenades. Ferry loudly sung the opening lines of his favourite Sex Pistol track: ‘I am the Anti-Christ! I am an Anarchist! I dunno what I want but I know how to get it…’, as the pandemonium broke out behind him. A quick look at his reflection in a Duty Free shop window confirmed that his pseudo Dracula personae choice for the trip was definitely self-pleasing.

At the bar, Ferry bemusedly studied the huge gilt-framed 2012 Olympics Hall of Fame placard, showing details of the single British medal winner, whilst he waited for his drinks. Reading was difficult. The new luminous green contact lenses were playing havoc with his eyes, making the whites rather red, but he could just make out Momad-Dee-Killah’s name, who had won a bronze in Street Fighting. When his first beer arrived, he wrapped his fingers around the glass, his metallic painted finger nails complimenting the colour of the brew. Using a trick he had learnt from the Oktoberfest, he overrode his swallowing mechanism and poured down the liquid in front of the astonished eyes of the awe struck teenager, still busy pulling his remaining order of four pints.

By the time he had sunk his third pint, and autographed 27 covers of the latest copies of Britain’s best selling weekly magazine, RBB (Rich Bitches and Bastards), emblazoned with a photo of his naked comatose body being dragged by the police out of the Australian jungle, Ferry was getting bored again. Suddenly, the constant background noise of flight departure announcements was drowned out by the hell raising din of howling wolves emitting from his mobile phone. Strange looked at the flashing screen and sucked at his fangs in pleasure. Anticipating the coming verbal tirade and ignoring the bleating of his fans, he hit the ‘receive’ button.

‘Hey,’ he drawled, flicking back his shoulder-length black hair and propping the device between the ear and shoulder, ‘how’s my favourite BBC red head doing? You got news for me or you are just missing my weight on top of you?’

His hands, now unoccupied, amused themselves by lighting up a cigarette and burning holes into a Striklee No Smokin cardboard sign.

Shalimar Gajsek laughed that famous sound of pure desire, like Linda Lovelace gargling on Channel Number 5, and then let loose - ‘You obnoxious bastard, according to the 6 o’clock news, that I have just read out, you’ve been back two days and you haven’t bothered to call me. Where the hell are you now?’

‘I’m just about to board a flight to Malta.’

Shalimar switched to her moaning girly voice, ‘we haven’t spoken since your good-bye party on Saturday when you tried to make us eat all that sauerkraut and kippers and now you are off again! I am starting to think my mother was right about you…’

‘Aah, give me a break Shali, I am still recovering from my wounds.’ Ferry instinctively rubbed at the spot where the immobilisation dart had been fired into his buttocks. He was the first person to be forcibly removed from the live reality show, I’m a Celibacy - Get Off Me, and deported from Australia.

He scowled, ‘my arse still hurts, you know, and the bastards refuse to pay me my appearance fee. Still, it was the best laugh I’ve had in ages,’ he added, draining his fourth pint and signalling for three more.

Shalimar started to giggle. ’Serves you right. Still, when you tied up that silly cow and announced you were going to demonstrate the Pogo from Togo, I nearly wet myself. And how the hell did you manage to get all that champagne helicoptered in? I thought the camp’s location was top secret!’

Ferry snickered. ‘I had a GPS phone in a condom - shoved up my ass. It was simple, if albeit painful, to send the co-ordinates. The rest is history.’

Ferry had single handily increased the show’s normal ratings by 400% on the first night. However, as the camp became an orgy of drunken debauchery, the sight of the naked former Labour government Prime Minster’s ex-wife trussed up in vines, like a Christmas turkey about to be Strangely stuffed, before a live audience of 35 million excited, albeit brain dead television viewers - he had pushed the envelope of tolerance a bit too far.

‘Gawd, you are insufferable, Ferry Strange. Why are you going to Malta?’ Shalimar sounded well peeved that Ferry was off again on another trip to satisfy his Chronic Boredom Syndrome.

Ferry replied, reading from a seriously fancy embossed letter reeking of whisky, ‘Some Bozo in Gozo, calling himself Father Shameus O’Toole, Last Grandmaster of the St John’s Order of Errant Knights In White Satin, claims to have proof of my real parentage, so I thought I’d check it out.’

‘Shame, I thought we might romp about a bit tonight…’ Shalimar paused for a sulking moment, allowing Ferry to sling down yet another Guinness, before she continued, ‘RBB wrote that your mother murdered your father by sticking his head in a deep fat fryer.’

‘Yeah, something shifted in her head after their business went bust in East London. I guess calling the shop - Ferry Strange Fish and Chips and Hot Faggots - was a bad idea. Anyway, I got to split. They have just announced that they would turf my luggage out on to the tarmac if I didn’t turn up in 60 seconds.’

‘So what has happened to the rest of that stinking mess of kippers and kraut? There must have been 100 kilos of it,’ continued Shalimar desperate for a few more moments of his attention.

Strange drank greedily from his sixth pint before answering. ‘Actually, it was a 183 kilos, to be precise. My rubbish bin was full, so just for a laugh, I’ve checked it all in as luggage. I need only to pull the tags off at the other end on the baggage reclaim ramp…’

`Charming indeed! Well, I suppose I should wish you a good trip. Hopefully you will phone me when you have some news. You didn’t tell me that you love me.’

‘Didn’t I? Okay - I love me! ‘

‘Piss off Ferry! I hope your bloody plane crashes.’ The phone went dead.

Friday 13^th of September 2013. 9.04pm: Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.

Ferry looked at his rescuers. There seemed to be scores of emancipated refugees crammed into a tiny leaky wooden boat, bobbing gently on the tepid waters. Standing up to his full height, he spread his arms out in greeting. The soaking cape clung to him like a giant bat’s wings; his silver incisors glinted under the full moon and small rivulets of blood from a superficial head wound mingled with his streaming mascara. The strange glowing green eyes, scanned the petrified passengers. Ferry paused a second. Gathering his thoughts he addressed the visibly shaking wrecks: ‘I don’t suppose you might have some cold beer on board?’

HELP -HELP

Nope, nothing to do with Zimbabwe - they are beyond help. I gather from a quick look at the Zimsituation site that Mad Bob had a great party. Waffled on for hours about homosexuals. Everyone is starving and he is worried about a few Morfs!

Talking of Morfs, someone wrote to me that it is actually Moffys or Moffies or whatever. Something Afrikaans. I dunno. I just remember that every Thursday it was Morf Day at Allan Wilson Technical School. This entitled boys to jump on each others backs and make movements like rabid, rampant, sexually deprived mongrels against your body whilst screaming ‘Morf-Morf’. I never did ascertain the reason for this. Another former inmate of this same strange school for sexual retards posed the question, who actually started the tradition that Thursday was officially Morf day? I would have thought it might have been more consistent in the course of questioning to start with – What deranged idiot started the tradition, and hopefully he died of Arse Injected Death Sentence a long time ago? Please don’t get me wrong, I don’t really have anything against Morfs, after all I have one in my family (whom is proud to boast about how often he uses his bidet to clean his ring), but I just don’t fancy one.

My problem at the moment, besides many, is the fact that whilst I was trying to repair this Blog, after I switched to their much touted, ‘better than je’ waffle, strange things happened. Now when normal people click on my blog they get a green background and stuff. I don’t get any! It’s all white. It gets worse. It doesn’t matter where I go on the web. ALL sites are missing serious chunks of their background graphics. This is the same on Firefox or Explorer. Can any one help!!!

I also realise that my counter has disappeared. I hope to rescue that, but my old brain struggles with stuff like that.

Still, I can be grateful for small mercies. I am on-line, have a roof over my head, tins in the fridge and food!

Catch ya later.

Happy 83rd Birthday Mad Bob

Old Muggies is at it again. He flatly refuses to die! And to top it all, he is so popular that it looks that he will bow to the pressure of his adulating fans and jiggle the constitution again and stop on till 2010. I presume this is due to the fact that there is a real fear that the boys down south, led by Bob’s mate, Daft Mbeki, might just not get organised in time for the next football world cup, and Mad Bob is prepared to take over.

He has excellent reasons for doing so. Crime in Zimbabwe is very low amongst the civil population. This is because there is nothing left to steal. All the nasty men went to South Africa to fill the vacancies in the Car-jacking, Homicide, Rape and Pillage industries whose annual turnover is one of the best in the world!

Financing the whole shambam is easy as Zimbabwe is acknowledged as the world leader in printing money. Inflation is pegged this month at a cool 1600%, but that means little to you and me. Let’s just say that if you buy a tomato for a $1000 - in 30 days time you will only get half a tomato. This is because Zimbabwe has the fastest shrinking tomatoes in the world!

Having forsaken buying their bank notes from abroad because by the time they arrive they are worthless, the Zim bearer cheques are designed to add as many zeros as you like AND rub them off depending on the latest financial strategy. This has led to a rush on erasers but the Chinese made ones are causing problems because they tend to leave holes in the notes.

All these zeros are confusing. Take this advert for example that I saw on the Zimbabwe Situation web site today (link on the right).

AN APPEAL FROM A PENSIONER

I am the proud owner of an Austin Mini Clubman, my only means of transport
and at the moment unemployed but my little car has a problem with the tyres.
I need to get hold of at least one tyre - 145/10 - as the car has been off
the road since before Christmas and I need to go and look for work. NTS
have size I need but at cost of $77 000-00 each without the tube.

I am asking if anyone out there has one or two tyres size 145/10 that they
would be prepared to sell me for a reasonable amount. They need not be new,
even re-treaded or second hand will be greatfully accepted.

Maybe there is a farmer out there who has a couple of old tyres for his
trailer that he no longer needs.

I thought that the price was too cheap. Then I remembered that they lobbed off three zeros 6 months ago. They would have been 77 million then…I think!

Anyway, there is food around. Another advert –

Still supplying pets food which consists of 500g of precooked pork offal and
veg costing $700 and 250g of pigs liver or heart costing $700 for 250g.

Meanwhile a pal of mine has a problem with his Dad. His Zim passport runs out in 2 months and he wants to visit in May. Sadly Zimbabwe has used all its ink making bearer cheques.

Finally…All the Zimbabwe diplomats and staff connected to 40 consulates/embassies around the world face eviction because they can’t pay the rent and haven’t done so for months.

As if I’m bovaard.