London 2012 Olympics exclusive – Zimbabwe’s Kirsty Coventry – an alien!

The world was left recoiling after it was informed by the head of GS4 that high powered scans, used by short term employed benefit scroungers (on really a penny above minimum wage), have picked up the fact that Kirsty Conventry, the much meddled Zimbabwean swimmer, is in fact the evil Gokwe Mermaid dressed in a rubber suit of attractive human female proportions.

 

Mr Cool Beans, the well renowned head of the world’s largest private security firm - who coins 750k a year for being a complete idiot, and Tory supporter.

 

Lord Coe, who is sort of in charge of London’s sporting extravagance paid with quantitative easing, when told of the allegations responded immediately –

‘Holy cow! Yes, I recall the Gokwe Mermaid incident. I thought the Mumbo-Jumbo witch doctors had sorted it out. Bloody hell, this bad news. Still, I must say, the rubber suit is very impressive. Well, it is just as well the thing was disguised as a whitey! There would have been some right stink otherwise. Strip the thing of all the old medals and prepare a firing squad.’

The infamous Gokwe Mermaid. Details are here in an exclusive for LOTR

Minutes  after Lord Coe’s comments hit the airwaves, supporters were twittering so much; the NHS A&E were overloaded with sprained thumbs and forefingers.

‘It is all that twat Danny Boyle’s fault,’ screamed one 65 year old Polish nurse as she gently pried the semi-melted smart phone from an Essex obese chav teenager’s crippled hand,

‘most of our staff were fucking around at the opening ceremony last night and are still too pissed to come to work. Is this anyway to run a country in the EU?’

The Zimbabwean government spokesman, Brainless Bunga-Bunga, denied all accusations.

‘I, aah… cannot comment because the West have imposed sanctions on anything I say.’

As the scandal rapidly unfolded, renowned scientific experts were quick to note that as Eastern Zimbabwe have a rare tribe, the Doma people, with only two toes, it was quite feasible that the Gokwe Mermaid had environmentally changed the usual dolphin tail ending in a fin, into a pair of legs. But they concluded on a serious note that they think it was all genetically engineered hanky-panky from the Chinese.

Meanwhile, latest reports are that the Gokwe Mermaid has fled to the Ecuadorian Embassy and asked for political asylum. It is also rumoured that there could be a bit more hanky-panky with some Aussie bloke also holed up there whilst training to win gold for swimming in shit for dear life.

The Gokwe Kid and the case of the nicked knickers

Sitting at his desk contemplating why anyone would spend quarter of a million pounds for a machine to make plastic wine glasses (part of his present university module), the Gokwe Kid received some grave news from Zimbabwe. Opening the letter for which he had to pay the transport cost (broadband), he read a remarkable report from his old sleuthing grounds –

Police probe mystery woman's underwear snatcher

New Zimbabwe [online] 23 July 2012-07-23

GOKWE police say they have been asked to investigate after 26 women went to sleep with their panties on – then woke up to find themselves naked, a newspaper reported.

The panties were later found in a heap in the local Njelele Village, and 17 were positively identified by their owners.

A spokesman for Gokwe police confirmed they were investigating the bizarre incident, adding that they were minded to exercise discretion and allow local leaders to try traditional solutions. Chief Njelele, the local traditional leader, has since requested police permission to conduct a witch hunt, the Bulawayo Chronicle reported.

The chief told the newspaper: “What happened in my area is so scary and everyone is in a state of shock and panic. I have called for a meeting with my subjects in the two villages where the incident occurred and I am scheduled to meet them so that we chart the way forward.”

According to Chief Njelele, on July 11 this month, “the majority of women” in two local communities under village heads Pauro and Chariseka went to sleep with their panties on – but mysteriously woke up in the nude.

 “After we reported the matter to the police at Gokwe Police Station, 17 women from Pauro and Charusekera positively identified their garments in the presence of the police,” the chief said.

“The remaining panties have not been identified maybe because of their state.

"Police, however, recorded 26 complaints from the village which tallies with the number of underwear which were found in the bush.”

The chief said he was in talks with police to invite self-styled prophets known locally as tsikamutandas to conduct a witch hunt to smoke out the “trouble causers”.

Whoever is fingered as responsible will be hauled before the chief’s court and punished – which could be in the form of a fine or expulsion from the village.

_ _ _

The great Gokwe Kid – Dick of the Bushveld, super sleuth, sucked on the slimy saliva dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. At last – something to get his nose into and solve yet another Gokwe mystery. Googling rapidly he looked up the word ‘innuendo’ (after several attempts to spell it correctly), and came to a cotton picking conclusion.

1. He had no time to fanny around on this case; no matter how funny it smelled.

2. Time was definitely an essence. One whiff that the Gokwe Kid was looking in every nook and nanny for the crook - he/she would will-o'-the-wisp away.

Rapidly the Kid checked over his budget airline sized, brown cardboard boy’s suitcase with its cracking, badly painted logo  - The Gokwe Kid Hardy Boys Pvt Dick Kit Kase - and smiled gently. Aah, those were the days. At least now, since he started university, he knew that he had spelt Kase incorrectly. Taking a black marker, he corrected the error into Kace.

The contents winked suggestively out, but sadly the polymer blow-up doll seemed to have degenerated over the last three decades and was quickly disposed off. The DNA kit seemed fine; even the microscope’s label ‘Property of Allan Wilson High School’ was still readable.

Throwing in a pair of shorts and a vest, the Kid had in a few clicks printed out an open return boarding card for any business class flight to his homeland with Air Zimbabwe from Gatwick. He knew from his immaculate memory  that they flew regularly. He could hop on anytime.

Before that the brilliant detective tossed into the encrypted search machine for head dicks a few key words – photo – panties – pervert – images, and soon had an idea of the type of culprit he was looking for. He wasn’t too bothered that it looked like a white man on some British council estate - this was negligible. It would be the body language he would recognise.

After hitching to Gatwick, he was rather alarmed to hear that there were some delays. Every minute counted. The Kid needed to be sniffing the culprit out before the scent went stiff and cold. Using his incredible powers of subtle questioning of every person wearing a uniform in Gatwick, the Kid concluded after 3 days that, it appears Air Zimbabwe has gone tits-up and will not be flying to the UK in the very long next foreseeable future – ain’t that just the pants!

Cold case closed.

Mugabe - My Part In His Victory

Mugabe - My Part In His Victory 

by

Chris Walmsley

Hi all. I have been rather busy (my last OU module)  and stressed, hence no contact. However, I did manage to read the above book recently and will give you my opinion.

Chris was an NSPO (National Service Patrol Officer), with the BSAP. It appears he was one of the first (give or take 400 odd) and at the age of 24 he is called up in January 1974. This was all very interesting, like, how the government decided that anyone with a degree would make cracking police officers regardless of the fact several appear to be either lumps of lard or - fanatically, rugby possessed psychos. (A theme that does become rather tedious - along with rowing.) So, as such, his regard for us more cerebrally questionable regulars as I would become, is well documented but can be taken tongue in cheek or perhaps a bayonet in author’s anal orifice - depending on what mood and intoxication you are in when you read this memoir.

Punctuation and grammar are of high standard but unfortunately, the clown who told him that inset paragraphs are a thing of the past and every one should be started double spaced down and in line; was spaced out on double rums. It is very annoying and does hamper the relatively easy flow of the narrative. (Please note that Facebook is just as backward and we are forced to also write the same dumbass way.)

Chris is a highly qualified economist (Rhodes University – oohhh), but not smart enough to realise getting a Kindle version of his book on Amazon for £1.99 might bring him in a few more sales. As an economist he writes economically and there is very little speech. When there is it is idiotically simply carried on into the above said not indented paragraphs.

Chris starts slow but eventually he is at the police academy of Morris Depot. Here we read what other writers have done before - bore us silly with how boys become men (lol) whilst throwing in some humour of questionable talent. But, we make an exception as he is not a creative writer - just an intelligent bean counter. He disguises the name of his squad’s various ‘torturers’ and describes them with enough variations of ‘ye olde cliches’ that even Charles Dickens would vomit in his grave.

Next bit is about his various postings and rugby games. It is…okay. BUT, it is after he leaves the police that he writes about what he should have done in the first place! He was very deeeep inside all the sanctions and foreign currency allocation stuff. Now that is very interesting. He knew about shenanigans that made writing on the wall immediately get censored… and as such, by mid1976 he was pulling finger to get the hell out of Rhodesia just as when ME, the future ‘The Gokwe Kid – Dick of the Bushveld’, arrived to rescue the country! (Book coming out soon.)

Historically - there are a couple of minor details I will ask the man about. He gives enough not to bore those that know and conversely enough so as not to bore those that haven’t a clue about Rhodesia. (His observations, whilst in Ireland as a student, are very interesting. Some of his fellow student’s view of his origins as a ‘racialist, land thieving, slave driving, coon flogging, white colonial bastard plantation owner’, are rather eye opening.

Finally –

Whilst the fact he plays with numbers and looks a bit of a wimp on the back cover photograph; Chris comes over as rather hardcore (unless he telling porkies), and I hazard a guess it took him some courage to write some of the more heart breaking stuff. So, all in all, I give 4 out of 5 stars.

Available here –

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mugabe-My-Part-His-Victory/dp/1908447648/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1342702050&sr=1-1

Mugabe is dead and wishful thinking

Lifted from the Guardian here

"The president is well and away on a private holiday to help his daughter prepare for postgraduate studies, but we are expecting him home this week," one of the officials told Reuters. "But some sick and malicious people are spreading false stories about him being seriously ill while others are saying he is dead or dying out there."
The two officials confirmed Mugabe was in Singapore but declined to give any further details. Asked whether the president had also used his 10-day trip for a medical checkup, one said: "We are not going to be engaged over rumours, speculation and wishful thinking."

This wishful thinking I came across on Facebook –

Mugabe’s death goes viral

In extraordinary scenes, the President of Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe, was filmed in his death throes. The appallingly poorly dramatic footage was captured on a Singapore hospital cleaner’s smart phone as the African liberator wrestled with the Devil.

His immediate family can be seen gagging and vomiting as the dictator’s cancer ridden innards finally exploded in what can only be described as really some serious bad Juju. One of the attending doctors, Professor Winkie Wankie Woo, witnessed the terrible battle of wills –

‘A huge, luminous gas, erupted from his anus, filling the hospital ward with a stench so evil, it even made the Devil cough! But even as a huge hole appeared next to his bed, with flames leaping towards him, he refused to go quietly.’

The dramatic footage shows a shadowy shape, dragging the fatally ill dictator out of his death bed, still hanging on to a couple of title deeds of white owned farms, ranting and raving about white gays and Ian Smith.

Shockingly, as Mugabe is forcibly shoved head first into a bubbling, boiling brew of pure filth, by what witness say was obviously the Devil because he had horns and a pitchfork and no halo and wings; his immediate family were ransacking his clothes cupboard and fighting over packets of uncut diamonds they discovered in the pockets of his Gucci suit.

Singapore authorities were quick to close down the YouTube video on the grounds it shed them in a bad light, but did point out that they were still expecting the hospital to be paid for the treatment that they have rendered.

However, First Lady, Grace Mugabe, was overheard to express doubts of coughing up for the bill –

‘Pay for treatment? What kind of treatment is this? I bring an African hero here and all they do is let him get pushed into a pile of shit! I have to pay for this? You can kiss my ass!’

The Gokwe Kid – Back to school

Apologies for not posting for a while. I am back at university and working very hard, as this is the last big one so as to get my degree and really must concentrate. I made a right dog’s dinner with the first block and exam. I will tell you more about that later. Meanwhile, having caught up, I am in the throes of trying to do the next exam. Now, in this module, called Design and Designing, I have to, for Block 2, do a design brief. The idea being, if I studied correctly, I would come up with a proposal of something to a manufacturer.

So I get this idea, and work away and then…as usual, I get this flash of inspiration and it is all there. However, one slight snag. I took a huge risk in the last exam, but even my most faithful followers of my lunacy think this bit might, just might, be pushing the envelope a little tooooo far.

Oh well. Ag Shame, as I did have a right laugh writing it. This is my answer to just one of the loads of questions I have to answer…

So my plan is to present a design brief for a cool system of storage racks for…well read on.

Question 2(b): User profile

I ruled out a large swathe of the human population for several reasons. The list I have narrowed down to a few essential facts. The Inuit natives of Alaska, Siberian reindeer herders, the nomadic Bedouin tribes of the Saudi Peninsula and Antarctica scientists are not on it. This is because I realised large top loaded freezers do not fit in kayaks or sledges and camels get the hump (as the constant roaring of the petrol powered generator disturbs their sleep), and in the Antarctica they have the biggest deep freeze on the planet working for free 24/7. That left a handful of potential users. Most of them appear regularly in the Daily Mail [online] that I occasionally glance at for research reasons that we as students must do to expand our cerebral capacities.

Here is my user profile -

User characteristic

Age: 37, but looks twice that.

Sex: Obviously she is having far too much.

Physical limitations: Due to her debilitating, genetically inherited disease (she was diagnosed with obesity disabilities at the age of seven), shifting off the couch just to use the toilet is a pain in the arse. This odd fact has nothing to do with the product proposal. Quite the opposite actually. My proposal is about filling orifices, not emptying them. Suffice to say she isn’t very active; unless procreating.

Top loaded freezer experience: Quite a lot actually. At the age of 9 she threw a serious wobbly when the Walker’s crisps ran out from the pack of 24 she had opened just after dinner and the drunken male friend of her mother popped her in one for half an hour - so as too ‘chill out a bit’.

Motivation: None whatsoever.

Attitude: A rather bad one.

I developed the following persona for someone falling within my user profile.

Hillary-Porsche Swindleton is a single mother with seven children from five different multi-cultural sources. They all live at home with her except the youngest, 23 month old Victoria-Mercedes, who is serving at present a 16 month custodial sentence for ‘borrowing’ a two pence lollipop from a 99pence store during last year’s riots. Hillary-Porsche is presently heavily pregnant with twins from her present boyfriend, a Zimbabwean asylum seeker who works part time as a delivery driver for Iceland. She works hard as a labourer. Many of her labour takes several hours but she says she is getting used to the job and finds it now relatively easy work. Hillary-Porsche lives in an area of the United Kingdom with no glass houses but a lot of stone throwing.

Her biggest problem is feeding her ever growing offspring. To help, the council has supplied a large, top loaded deepfreeze which has replaced the space in the kitchen where the sink would normally be, but next to the microwave, a 20litre deep fat fryer, a bucket full of disposable knifes and forks, and a large industrial sized wheelie bin.

Hillary-Porsche struggles to satisfy the ever increasing demands of her brooding, bored, benefit bred children. To make thinks easier for her, the freezer is constantly stuffed stupid with food delivered from Iceland every Thursday by Lovemore Sibanda, her on-off present boyfriend. For a kiss and a cuddle he drags the full bin out - bang on time, and fills the freezer. However problem arises with the storage for the various ‘Zap Em, and Crap Em’ microwavable delicacies. Due to the poor internal configuration of baskets and Hilary-Porsche’s difficulty in lifting anything heavier than a two litre bottle of 8% proof cider, the smartly packaged, plastic packets, get packed higgilty-piggilty. In fact, it seems that Lovemore simply tips the lot straight into it.

As a result, there are often massive brawls between the children. For example - such as when the eldest, Horatio, a gay 25 years old, claimed he failed once again as a contestant on X-Factor (tenth attempt), when Simon Cowell reduced him to tears by cynically telling him

“You don’t have a fat chance in hell of ever singing for your supper.”

 When Horatio explained he was very weak because he couldn’t find the faggots he wanted for lunch as they were buried under halal pseudo KFC chicken strips, pork loin chops, that didn’t appear very kosher, and piles of Chinese made pizzas that his half-brother of Naples ancestry eats 24/7; he was laughed off stage. As a result he suffers from lack of self esteem and gets depressed even when watching repeats of the Jeremy Kyle show.

It is therefore imperative for a clearly marked system of storage baskets attached to a mechanised system that creates easy access for every conceivable taste and cultural preferences. This includes having a receptacle to contain exploded bottles of frozen sauerkraut that, for some bizarre reason, Kozlowski, the 12 year old son (named after an infamous Polish plumber who came to repair a broken toilet seat), enjoys eating the stuff - broken glass and all.

The Gokwe Kid and the Lawnmower.

A Rhodesian bedtime story.

Salisbury, Rhodesia - 1971

Once upon a time, far away in darkest deepest Africa, the 13 year old (future) Gokwe Kid, bored as usual, decides it would impress just about everyone (not), if he should drag the lawn mower out of the tool shed and cut the grass. Obviously the garden boy wasn’t around; otherwise he would have correctly chased the insane Kid around the garden with a big stick, rather than let him have a go on the fiendishly complicated machine.

Mindful of Rhodesian Health and Safety regulations, the Kid was correctly attired in a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else. Standing bare foot he thought about kick starting it, but that would hurt his toes. The Kid already knew the basics of the petrol powered contraption from observing father teaching faithful garden boy how to use it  - along with the usual death threats should it stop working because it had become ‘brokhin’. The whole procedure looked very simple. Just turn a little tap on (that lets the petrol dribble into the engine), and pull a bit of rope like crazy; until the thing starts roaring.

Due to the lack of strength, the Kid needs both hands to pull on the stick attached to the rope and promptly has the machine lying on its side. Adults are capable of holding onto the handle bar with one hand to balance it - whilst jerking the wire something stupid. Anyway. The Kid solves this problem by standing on the engine block and after much tugging, in a huge cloud of blue smoke; it erupts in a mighty roar.

The Kid now played with the funny lever stick thing on the handle. He had watched the garden boy use it whenever he got to the grass that grew so thickly over the poo pit. He thought this throttle up and down malarkey was daft. Better to have the lever all the way down all the time, making the machine scream and shake in violent excitement - for surely this would make the grass cutting go twice as fast?

Feeling pleased with himself, the Kid pushes it around in crazy patterns and is alarmed by the terrible noises made whilst trimming the rock garden. Lucky for him, at the back of the violently shaking contraption is a very strong, metallic blue metal box. This is to catch things in. Like large rocks that make so much noise as they pound into its sides leaving lots of pretty dimples with the paint now cracked at the nipple. The Kid wanders around some more and after a while he notices that the cut grass is following him like a green corridor carpet.

The Gokwe Kid ponders this for a while and decides maybe the newly dimpled bucket box is full! He recalls seeing the garden boy sort of jiggle it till it came off. Grabbing the handle perched on the top of the metal box, he wags it around and lo and behold it falls off. The bucket is very full. Not just with grass but with lots of strange objects like lumps of soil and large stones and a very thrashed prickly pear cactus. The Kid scratches his head and then his bum hole to help him think. He thinks it is better he tip it all out over the fence and into the next-door neighbour’s fish pond.

With box well enlightened, unlike the Kid, who now ponders if he should perhaps clear the rear passage on the still roaring and vibrating machine. Not being a total fool, the Kid thinks that putting his hand inside could make his hand go very pear shaped and his fingers meet a prickly end. He remembers that very morning he had, out of boredom, thrown a large stick for his dog to fetch. The dog found this game boring so the Kid retrieved it now and poked into the lawnmower’s rear orifice. There was a terrible bang and the stick was thrown again for the dog with such tremendous force that the dog next door went to fetch it! Such a stupid dog.

Now with that all clear, the Kid is faced with the logistics of putting the box back on. As the machine was at full throttle, it shook terribly, and the Kid was forced to really ram the tin box around hoping it would grasp a counterpart of some sort when - he accidently hit some wire thingy that was in the way and it flicked up an end onto the tin box.

Suddenly, the Kid had a brief look at his guardian angel that would save his ass so often in the future (the poor thing aged prematurely from the stress), because – he became instantly a bright spark. Simultaneous thoughts shot through his mind  -

He remembered in vivid detail, sexy Miss Flowers, when she explained the difference between AC and DC in General Science class last week. The Kid had paid particular attention because the entire class had gathered around her desk, giving the Kid the opportunity to have quick peep up her dress for a hopeful sign of seeing some spider’s legs. But he now recalled the bit about DC current and its sticky problems. This the Kid realised he was now experiencing this particular experiment a million fold and regretted looking up Miss Flower’s dress.

And…

The most beautiful sound filled the air. A perfectly pitched, falsetto redemption of ‘My Way’. A dead ringer to easily win The Rhodesia X-Factor.

Editor’s Notes. This is incorrect. He is singing the famed African ‘Maiwaa’ or however it is spelt…this is an exclamation of grief surprise. Not ‘surprised grief’, there is a difference.) Pronounced like ‘My Way’ but put together as ‘Myway!’. The nearest English equivalent would be ‘Goodness gracious me!’, which, if you think about, it is a rather dumb expression. ‘Myway!’ is much better. You can change the decibel range, speed, frequency and repetition - Ad infinitum

It is unique. For example –

You wake up and go down stairs (if you have any) and in the kitchen (if you have one) the goldfish has died. You say ‘Myway’ once. (Slow, soft, sad tone.)

You find out your mother in law was run over by a hijacked Taxi. You say ‘Myway’ twice. (Shriek it out loudly but not quite laughter type tone.)

You receive a letter from the bank saying all your credit cards have been cancelled.

You then say ‘Myway’ as if you have just been electrocuted by a short circuiting sparkplug on a lawnmower. This you scream often, at a high note with constant repetition.

And…

The Kid realised he had created a new kind of beat box break dancing of electrifying proportions, guaranteed to win the coveted Rhodesia Has No Talent contest. Spasmodic, non choreographed jerking movements, timed perfectly with short bursts of urine soaking the front of the boxer shorts along with pulses of ‘parp-parp’ exiting out the rear end. All this whilst permanently partnered with a clattering, chattering lawnmower.

And finally…

In a stroke of pure genius, the now multi talented Gokwe Kid, realised he would also be known as the next Thomas Edison. He would appear on Dragon’s Den (Rhodie style), and get the required $50 backing for only 95% share of the firm for his petrol powered, fully automated external defibrillator. This was sanction busting entrepreneurship of all time. Still, the Kid would need to make a plan how to get rid of the chopping blades. It wouldn’t be much of a sale if you managed to restart some retard’s stopped heart, only to chop his head off in slices of skin, skull and brain scattered every where. Still, these problems could be eliminated and properly thought about if the Kid lived, because…

He was dying. At least condemned murderers get to sit in a fancy chair. They don’t have to do some macabre dance of death on tip toes. Whilst small sparks erupted from his bulging eyeballs, the Kid was buggered how he was going to be finally either sent to his maker or get rid of the crazed machine before his lungs finally fried. Luckily, his own stupidity saved his worthless skin. With the throttle on full whack it had chewed up some serious sanction rationed petrol, and after a few loud coughs, the machine shook dramatically a couple of times - and died of thirst.

And so The Gokwe Kid lived another day to spread more anarchy, but he had learnt a very valuable lesson. If he ever gets to have garden one day, it will be covered with AstroTurf.

Dedicated to Beri Hayter because I need her help on my next course.

The Gokwe Kid and the mad Made for Mugabe Mermaid

I just fancied writing something totally insane. Absolute gibberish. Of course, all creative writers need a prompt. Usually it is life itself. In theory, you can write about anything. What I love to do is manipulation. It is called ‘spin’. I should have been a politician.

So there I was, not really concentrating any more on my school work (short attention span), and well, what do you know – Peter Godwin sends a Tweet, which for some unsure reason pops up on my Facebook. The link was very interesting. It is from a web site called bulawayo.24.com. This article was posted today and I insist you read this below because it beggars belief…until, shockingly, it is actually true. I have witnessed this and give my account afterwards.

- - -

Water Resources Development and Management Minister Samuel Sipepa Nkomo had a Senate Committee on Gender and Development in stitches when he alleged that mermaids were preventing government officials from installing water pumps at dams in Gokwe and Mutare.

Nkomo was presenting evidence on the water supply situation in Zimbabwe when he made the stunning allegations.

He said the problem first occurred in Gokwe when officers installing water pumps at a dam dumped the project vowing not to return to the area because of the mermaids.

He said a similar situation occurred at Osborne Dam in Manicaland. Government hired white personnel to do the job but they also refused to undertake the project.

"We even hired whites thinking that our boys did not want to work but they also returned saying they would not return to work there again," he said.

Nkomo said it was necessary to brew traditional beer and carry out any rites to appease the spirits.

Local Government, Rural and Urban Development Minister Ignatius Chombo who also appeared before the committee concurred that there was need to perform traditional rites at the dams.

- - -

 

During the Rhodesian Bush War, the Russians, assisted by the Chinese, had this great idea to mutate some of the female ‘freedom fighters’ they supported into a kind of mermaid. The plan was that they could then swim from Zambia, crossing Lake Kariba, and swim up the Sengwa River and then sort of sliver along and then lurk in dams with broken water pumps in Gokwe Tribal Trust Land. A devious scheme, as sure enough, after the locals had hit the broken pump with a large lump of wood to ‘fiks-it’, they had then concluded it was ‘brokin’ and that meant calling a whitey out.

The ‘fighting mermaid of feminism freedom’ would then attack poor unsuspecting whitey and that was that. A few instances did occur in the Gokwe area, but was cleverly hushed up as crocodile attacks. Not that I ever saw a crocodile in all the time I was in Gokwe, but that is beside the point.

Luckily, during my time fighting this slime, I was chosen to become part of the elite covert unit PAMU (Police Anti Mermaid Unit). It was all very hush-hush because the mere thought that something like this might reproduce and suddenly a baby one pops out your tap whilst running a bath, was considered so terrifying that along with just about anything else to do with the war, it was kept out the local press.

Anyway, I remember that night vividly when I first saw one of the nasty things. I still get nightmares. It was a Saturday night/Sunday morning. I had just got back from the Gokwe whites only sports club rather well blasted out my skull. I recall that my knees hurt from crawling the half kilometre home, dragging my FN rifle behind me, and thought I could sooth them in the tiny swimming pool us elite policeman had just outside our single quarter’s bedrooms. Big mistake. I was so pissed I forgot that the pump had not been working for a couple of days and should have known this was a perfect spot for the hideous monsters to lurk in the rather shallow depths.

Recalling this is harrowing, even now after I have easily drank that pool and many more of its volume equivalent in bubbled water of hops, malt and wheat for decades, but, that night was bad news…

I managed to ease my aching bones into the shallow end, when suddenly, I was pulled in. (The official report stated I fell in; which is lie). The monster mermaid was terrifying but my training took over instinctively and I promptly started having a wee and a poo at the same time. (The poo was used in evidence at my kangaroo court-martial.) I screamed out for my mates but they were drunk and didn’t care a jot over my imminent demise. Of course, I still had my trusty FN assault rifle with me as its sling was wrapped around my neck. As I was dragged deep into the rather shallow depths, I cocked it and let rip at the demonic thing.

This was fire power at an enormous scale. I blasted it scales all over the pool walls. (Forensics claimed they found none. I think they were just too lazy to look properly.) That rifle did some damage though – mainly to itself. The barrel split almost instantly, but still I pulled that trigger as I fought for my life. The noise was appallingly still. The water pressure of 7,62 mm rounds being fired under water nearly made me pass out in pain as I emptied the entire magazine into its hideous form.

I don’t remember much after that because I must have wounded it and it went off. I got into a bit of bother but I talked my way out as usual. I did do a sketch of the thing that attacked me. Anyway, it is true, the things are still out there…please, please, make sure your water pumps are regularly serviced.

Next week I will tell you about the great fun I had when I was abducted by mutant ZANU (PF) green lesbian winged aliens from planet Zimbabwe.

Africa and Rhodesia - A short history lesson

At the end of the Second World War the West European colonial powers were bankrupt and the Americans lent them the money to survive. Three things then happened that became inextricably intertwined that spelt catastrophic doom for the average black peasant in Africa.

Some of the educated blacks spotted a chance to make a few bucks and under the pretence of ‘Nationalism’ started to make a lot of squawking noises aimed primarily at any –

‘Make Love Not War’ sixties counter-culture ‘liberals’ that thought whitey was still whipping the ‘coons’ everyday on their million acre plantations –

and the Yanks, now flexing some serious muscle, both financially and militarily, decided that as the new kids on the block, the Brits can forget the whole empire nonsense, free the peasants and they could hopefully outspend the damn Russkies in gaining influence in Africa.

All with predicable results - Anarchy.

The squawkers, proclaiming to be Christian to the core, not having a bone through their noses and promising on their ancestor’s grave that the ideology of democracy, free speech, a neutral civil service, judiciary, police and army would be upheld; were given their chance. Hurrah to Independence, Hurrah to Democracy, Hurrah to the greatest get rich quick scam since Charles Ponzi.

So in the sixties it started to happen. One after another the colonies held ‘free and fair elections’. The average European in the liberalised West didn’t give a monkeys’ nuts on the outcome; they had enough problems of their own. So as soon as the loudest squawker had power and realised he had just been handed a cheque book and all it needed was an ‘X’ (His Mark) on the dotted line, he could live like a king! There was the pesky problem that some of his ‘subjects’ may not like the civil service being taken over by illiterate tribal mates (who happily soon spotted ways to have a jolly thieving time), and replacing the judiciary, police and army with only ‘loyal’ mates, and the press was used just to press out their protesting brains, tried to be ‘democratic’ in their protest. (Give a take a butchering or two.)

This problem was soon solved by teaching the moaners some manners. Usually this was very painful and involved severe dismemberment that generally led to the democratic moaner wondering how he lost his legs in the last knife edge election. But at least the new nation was free of the accursed whitey hey! Still, all this soon brought problems. It didn’t take long before these happy free nations saw the economy collapse along with the infrastructure through corruption and incompetence. But – luckily there is a solution. It is all whiteys fault.

Oddly, it is. The political boundaries of Africa are a total farce. Before Whiteman arrived preaching that deranged idiot Scotsman’s load of crap of the three ‘C’s -Christianity, Commerce and Civilization, even the Romans had decided it was better to leave the place well alone. Things ticked along quite nicely, thank you very much. Tribes came, slaughtered, got complacent and were in turn slaughtered and along with some very nasty diseases hanging around the place, the native population muddled along quite ecologically efficiently. There were no ‘borders’, but just constantly moving boundaries of tribal influence.

So for centuries the jolly Golly was quite capable of sticking a spear up a rear to keep any status que, until whitey turns up with what is now Africa’s bane – the powered projectile. The top squawkers soon cottoned on to this fact after they had been sorted out into packets of land drawn on maps by whitey and his magic of Maxim machine guns. They patiently observed, watched and waited till they had lots and lots of boys’ toys that go bang, of their own; and a lot easier to use than your average assegai.

As the colonies disappeared to be replaced by countries that would struggle to find the definition in a dictionary, and with the reserve banks plundered – the money ran out and the boys with the toys got all excited and went mad and hacked up their former bosses and then they find that that this hasn’t quite solved the lack of purchasing power. What do you do in such a situation? Of course, you turn to the Whiteman because it is his fault they are in the mess they find themselves.

So, being very smart, they ask whitey, who has several centuries of bloody warfare, along with scientific advancement experience; to come back and sort the rotting, stinking, corpse laden shit holes out. Restore law and order and kick start the economy etc. Hah, who am I kidding…

Because, and this will shock, between 1960 and 1965, 26 African former colonies were given ‘Independence’. Most collapsed into anarchy almost immediately. Happily, the ones with guns could control the only thing left – their natural resources. Available to the highest bidder (don’t forget to chuck in a few weapons), the situation hasn’t really changed much. Bob Geldorf and Bono may tell you otherwise; but they are - quite frankly - hypocritical idiots.

So…one little place, still run by nasty whitey, has been keeping an eye on all this amazing liberalism and thinks – We don’t think this a good idea. By 1965 the British, under the leadership of some complete brain dead tosser called Harold Wilson, Prime Minister of a broken, chaotic, penniless nation called ‘Great Britain’, told the Rhodesians that they should hand over an immaculately run, almost crime free, corruptless civil service and judiciary and a generally rather well organised economy; to a bunch of squawking ‘Nationalists’ – and they told them to - ‘Fuck Off’.

It was like -this was the jewel of Africa.  No other colony had created in such a short time a nice paradise. Well, it did help if you were white, but saying that, they were paying the taxes that went towards better black enlightenment and surely one day it would reach equilibrium?

This answer didn’t go down toooo well with the rest of the world. Still, Rhodesia under Captain Ian Smith guided his ship straight onto the rocks. It just took a while to sink.

So the squawkers understood something dumb Rhodesian whitey had neglected to understand – the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and whilst the blacks were quite happy to chop each other to bits to make a few bob, kicking whitey out of Africa took precedence. For a very simple reason – it distracts the world from their own atrocities and makes sure dumb ass liberal whitey keeps pumping money into their Swiss bank accounts.

And so Smithy and the boys decide to fight. Sadly, after a bit of a false start, the future Zimbabwean nationalist squawkers, loosing the plot, pop a few assegais up a few arses and two triumphant Western/Eastern orientated orators emerge by the mid 1970s. One was called Joshua Nkomo. He led the group that was 100% Ndebele. They were on a loser from the bloody start. Due to whitey and his map, his Zulu ancestral rape and pillagers, whilst being far superior to the peasants up north (the Shona), find themselves making up only about 25% of the ‘country’. He opts to stop in Zambia ( a collapsed cess pit north of Rhodesia, that just coincidently happens to have some of the planet’s largest copper resources), and asks for help to overcome nasty whitey from…er, white skinned Russians.

Meanwhile, by the time poor Portugal gives up the ghost on Mozambique in 1974, the local intelligent intellectuals take over the country and whilst turning the place into the Guinness Book of Records as being the worst place to make a buck on the planet, and starving to death was a rather a happier way to go than being butchered as a ‘sell-out’; they let Mugabe (who has meantime brilliantly decided he is really a Chinaman, but has the support of 75% of the population called the Shona tribe), and his politically corrected nutters, to set up camp and start to cross into Rhodesia and kill people in the name of liberation. This was the end for the peace loving, black friendly, whites of Rhodesia.

Eventually, the nice, happy, liberated blacks took over – though it did take about 50,000 people to die first, and they all jumped up and down and celebrated freedom from white suppression in February 1980. Since then, the land has gone from strength to strength (not).

Who cares?

So, whilst the battle raged in 1976 – the Gokwe Kid arrives on the scene…

Mugabe – My Part In His Victory

I just realised that I have spent days messing about and making myself ill with the nonsense. I think that the thirty odd pages I wrote and scanned and combined was no good. Very depressing. But then just when I thought I had really lost the way, I came across another satirical Rhodesian writer. He has written a book called Mugabe – My Part In His Victory. I gather that he has published under a pseudonym of Chris Walmsley. 

 

There is a bit on Amazon here and I was well impressed. It also gave me an inkling where I was going wrong – mainly I didn’t need to go into so much historical detail, no matter how ‘basic’ I made it - there was too much. So I will scrap it all and just keep it very seemples.

I feel much better now. So back to work…

The Gokwe Kid takes a short break from work…

I ruined my dinner last night and landed up nearly poisoning myself. I had ‘found’ some severed neck bits and along with some frozen roast potatoes I popped them in a pressure cooker, added some herbs I had gathered from the mountainside and sprinkled a bit of instant Bisto powder on the lot, closed the lid, stuck the thingy on the nipple and fired it up on full whack.

Anyway, as I was laughing hysterically over my own witlessness, I started to think after about a tin or two that there wasn’t much hissing and puffing steam coming from the kitchen. Actually, there was a lot of smoke and a bad smell of something getting seriously crisped. The smoke alarm didn’t go off because it only does that when conditions are damp. In that scenario the thing screams its head off and lands up being put on maintenance mode for weeks and weeks and it goes ‘peep-peep-peep’ at a giant mosquito type pitch - which is driving me slowly insane.

So, I removed the cooker from the very hot plate and chased the smoke out my front door. Upon opening the pot, I was struck by several senses. The biggest one was the lack of mine. I had forgotten to put any water in. I scraped the rather black muck out and chased it around in a frying pan for two minutes with some oil and tried to eat the

disgusting muck. I also noticed that my once shiny new cooker now inside looked like the remnants of a fire bombed mosque. I filled it with cold water (I can’t afford the hot stuff) and a bit of el-cheepo washing up liquid and – well, I had a peep at it this morning and it does not bode well.

Sigh, it is a hard life. 

The Gokwe Kid and the mystery of the knives and forks.

Eish – I needed a break. Pushed it a bit far, but I have gone over 95% and run it past another mate – it is looking good. I thought I should take the day off, but after messing around - I felt the urge and did this in less than two hours. Forgive any p and g mistakes. Go on - have a laugh…

North Wales, sometime last year. (I think.) A true story.

The Gokwe Kid digs around hard in his stainless steel pot that contains his cutlery collection. No matter how often he gropes around, the only fork about is one used for poking at pickled onions at parties. He cannot afford either of these and now he concluded that at least five, maybe six forks had mysteriously disappeared out the kitchen. The world’s greatest bush detective started to think…a sign of imminent chaos.

First he looks to see if maybe they had flown out the window- a flock of forks. This solution was induced by the second tin of beer, which the great sleuth uses to grease his brain cells, as being impossible because he has no window in the kitchen. He also didn’t bother to raise his eyes and stupidly look at the extractor fan’s grid just in case they had been building a nest there. Perhaps they had made a stab at doing a runner? After all, as far as the Kid could recall, they all had four prongs to leg it on.

Scratching through his decrepit track suit bottoms at his anal orifice (as sadly his disabilities didn’t allow his arms to travel further up then his facial one), he thought hard. Staggering to the floor, he took a peep under the fridge – perhaps they were chilling out there? None to be seen and the cleverest of thoughts entered his frontal lobe. ‘How the hell am I going to get up?’

With the pain in his back nullified from mulling the problem over with some more tins that were now rather easy to get hold of, he miserably concluded he would have to purchase some more forking forks because the truth had finally hit him. Over a period of binges he had tended to throw the fork, along with the plate scrapings, into the rubbish bag.

Things are not simple living in Britain’s version of Gokwe. Although the electricity works, most of the inhabitants lack the spark of brightness. Even Polish immigrants don’t bother looking for work here. The Kid kits up and drags his aging, creaking screeching bag on wheels, with telescopic handle, down the long hill. His body, aged from fighting gooks three decades ago and nothing to do with alcohol and tobacco, weaves expertly between wonderful examples of starving Irish made rock walls, and the Snowdonia National Park wild bush. It reminds him of home – the Great Zimbabwe Ruins - when he fell pissed out his head down the narrow path from the acropolis.

The old bag will be needed. At least whilst he is forking about he can pop into the Co-Op and get some light refreshments for the empty fridge. But first he has to replace the things he needs to remove food from his plate - so he went to the bank first to see if the cash point would say yes for a change. Fortified with a fiver, the Rhodesian X-Factor winner is instantly recognised by a fan driving a large vehicle –

“Get off the fucking road you drunken dick.”

The Kid waves enthusiastically onto his back. How the people loved him and so in tune. The shouting fanatic knew he was on the rocky road looking for forks and was the great Dick of the Bushveld.

Now on a mission, the Kid studied the front of a large shop called ‘The Factory Shop’. This was obviously a shop that had not been fabricated, but what happened to Woolworths that had been there the last time the Kid took off his shades? Had they forked off too? He didn’t care; they had gone the same way as Rhodesia – well forked.

The BSAP’s finest works out how to enter the place. After lingering a little too long at the women’s lingerie and concluding he would look daft wearing a nylon leopard skin thong to remind him of the good old days, he snoops out the forkers who are hanging around with some right sharp characters called knives. They can only be messed around with by adults. Dangerous things indeed and the Kid quickly spots what he needs and enters the realm of the towns' intellects – the cash desk.

Idling swaying to some canned camp music, whilst some ancient crone attempts to work out how to enter a PIN number, the Kid looks idly down at his would be purchase and…

 

He has KNIVES. How can this be? Confused. Has he lost it totally? He looks down at his feet. The left shoe is right, the right shoe is right also, he hadn’t left it behind. No, he knew the difference and being the wicked wit he is and gagging for a laugh (and a drink), and as he is next in turn after the old bag finally remembered her birth year, he switches to the Russian accent he picked up from questioning questionable gooks and says to the young girl at the desk –

            “Zis is nife, Yes. It say nife? Yes?”

            She looks. She looks at the product, looks at the Kid - who has now placed a finger up his right nostril and has wide staring eyes.

            “Erm, actually they are not. I go quickly and get the knives.”

As the girl moved from behind the counter, the Kid pulls finger and stops her. Switching to his arrogant Rhodie/BBC News Reader pseudo accent

“My dear, I know perfectly well they are forks – for forks sake.”

The Gokwe Kid – walking the tightrope

Last night, someone whose opinion I respect, asked me if I was bi-polar? I spoke to many people last night. Really bizarre, some were in South Africa, another on Vancouver Island. I think they all worry about me. In the end it boils down to walking a tightrope. I have pushed and still pushing the boundaries of creative writing in a memoir. I have created an interactive ‘B’ class celebrity from three decades ago, wandering around as a policeman in the last colonial land in Africa, stuck in a Victorian time bubble. It is insane!

I shudder at some of the prose I have come across from Rhodesian/Zimbabwean writers and future writers. I am going over one at the moment, and I have warned the author that er…problems. As if I don’t have enough to do. A lovely parcel arrived today from the Open University. Loads of goodies inside for my next course and when I pass it…I have a degree…yippee. But, I wander a bit

So, who the hell am I to criticise any writer when I have no credentials? Actually, I have. Diploma in Literature and Creative Writing after my name (DipLCW(Open) as well as CertHum (Open)) for a start, but away from the academic…look in the cyber world. Google - The Gokwe Kid.  Get it? Click images. Or just type in Gokwe and click images. Get it!

So – to my problems. LM radio is playing in the background. I listen to it all the time. Jim Croce is singing ‘Time in a bottle’, how appropriate. Then Tinky Pringle starts gabbling and snaps me out of the zone. Bless her. A Salisbury girl actually. You can Email her via their website.

Anyway, yeah, writing about Rhodesia and those days. I am giving away the first seven almost perfect chapters. Simply Email me and beg a bit. lore-data@hotmail.com

But be warned. Some of you will not get it and set fire to your PC. Some will stop and think – did he really just say what I thought he said? This is very dangerous territory I go into. Some people have the early drafts. Few have the latest version. This is dynamite and I know I am on a winner - but there is a big but – I am three quarters across the tightrope and wobbling. In one conversation last night, I was warned. I was walking a very, very fine rope. This is an excerpt from his Email I received this morning –

I've nailed the first 7 chapters with much enjoyment and some good chuckles and outright shouts of laughter.  You poke fun at everyone (including yourself) and everything.  But there is an underlying sense of sadness, I think. Sad for all the fucking idiots who ran the show and sank the ship. Many of them are brought back vividly to life and... if I didn't know them... I knew somebody like them.  

I enjoy all the subtle use of innuendo and nuance. So many sights and sounds are familiar. It's full of good old colloquial speech and humour. The introduction of historical facts, movies, books, quotes is clever. Some oblique references where one has to 'refer' and try to 'apply' memory and make connections. Suggestive. It exercises the brain box! 

What I'm saying is... everybody will see themselves in your pages.... and that's what will make the book popular, I believe (apart from the good 'wordsmithing' in its pages)

Random thoughts......good images of the times, local colour. It's ruthless and hard-hitting (you will take some flack)

I keep willing you down the road to a happy ending ( that it wasn't so bad and all worth while) But I don't think that is going to happen!!

Last night I had the weirdest of dreams. I recalled an episode from a TV series called Stalag 13. The plan was that one prisoner would try to escape by claiming insanity and hence be sent back to the UK by the NAZIs. Weirdly, this ‘expatriation’ deal was true. So, the head of the escape committee gives the man approval to go ahead with the plan, but warns him that he could be going to somewhere he will not realise. And you know what happens in the end? The bloke went mad, stark raving mad. He actually believed he was the madman he created! So I awoke refreshed (a bit) and decided to really go for it, because, in a mad world, the fools have the last laugh…hah-hah-hah

So, my budding writing buddies – read what I will send you, learn a bit, but most of all – do not go down this road because it maybe one you will not return from…

PS – I will try to set up a PayPal account so some of you can throw the idiot the cost of a beer or two now and then.