Having AND eating cakes since 1977
 

Naaace Planet - Ah'll taykit !- by Simon Reader Had I not done so exceptionally well in the OosKaap, I would have been extremely disheartened to be returning to the town shaped like a Buffalo Boot. Firstly, I received notification of Brian Ebden's legal team wishing to lay a charge of DOC (defamation of character) against my person (fat chance of that happening - I've already structured my conditions for a truce with the bastard - it's that or nothing). Secondly, the first voice I heard upon returning was that of Gareth Cliff, the ugly, talentless 'Shock Jock' the South African Broadcasting Corporation has hired to try and raise it's 5FM profile. I had not even arrived at my front door when he called Sophia Loren an ‘old hag’. Live on air. Never mind, we'll get back to him. The New Year started with force. Good, positive force. Before I left, an associate of mine by the name of Shaynne Loubser and I discussed women and girls in Johannesburg. The most distressing point that arose from our discussion was that beautiful women disappear. You'll watch them shopping or drinking in an expensive bar or in a Porshe Boxster sitting next to a clean looking Israeli diamond dealer. You may go further to get a smile, an introduction or even a name. But then they go - like they were never there and your chances of spotting them again are slim, to say the very least. In order to stop this teasing - diseasing, cynical romantic spoiling infecting the potentially lucrative air of Johannesburg, one has to, as Shaynne and I both agreed, make an immediate move, regardless of whether Ari or Yusuf in the Porshe driving seat happens to keep an anti - PLO rocket launcher in his glove compartment. The night before I flew to Ooskaap, I was treated to Kilimanjaro - quite possibly the most over-priced club in the world, filled with the worst type of people. It has been designed for the small market of impossibly wealthy black people (quite, the first words I heard as soon as I'd sat down on a satin cushion were, 'Of course it's fucking Armani, Lebo'). These are the creatures that our country will soon learn to hate (when asked what they do, their answer is simple; 'I'm an analyst'. When asked what kind of analyst, their answer is even simpler; 'No, I'm an analyst'). They stand around in circles, referring to Nelson Mandela as the 'old man', with that gossip columnist Gwen Gill entering the circle now and again, asking when our Reserve Bank Minister is going to arrive (I'm quite positive that he's given her one, not suprising really, indicative of his drunken tendencies or maybe he likes the fact that he can shaft a white woman with a head so flat she could walk from Cape Town to Cairo balancing a milk bottle on her head). Anyways, back to the positive. After about an hour, the circle increased in sized and I began to feel like that albino rabbit in Watership Down. After the girl carrying the cigar humidor was ravaged (these guys surrounded her, and then basically charged their fat little fingers into the box, piling cigars into as many pockets as Boss or Armani affords into their suits), I decided to follow a flash of beautiful white skin I had seen disappearing into the wash rooms. Beauty that you cannot describe in a thousand words. She walks out. I stop her in her tracks. A small scar on her cheek. My hand thrusts out. 'I'm Simon, complete fucking millionaire. I'll buy this whole fucking place.' Not a very clever thing to do. She does not like this and I am immediately relieved (excuse me, having seen the lot at Chocolate Box, I can be excused for thinking that Johannesburg's women consisted mainly of coke-whores and gold-diggers). My hand shoots out again. 'Hi, I'm Simon, card-carry commie, living in a commune in Yeoville - only white man living off the State.' Again, not a very clever thing to do. Third time lucky. 'Hi, I'm Simon...'(her hand covers my mouth - what's that perfume called? Izzey Miyake? Bugger me with a pitchfork - never, never, never). A faint accent, Dutch maybe, a name and a declaration of absolutely no interest what-so-ever. 'I'm off to Plett with my partner. Tomorrow morning.' And with that, like them all, she's gone, never to be seen again. The cynical Gauteng romantic-spoilers 1, Simon 0. As I'm leaving I hear, 'No, I'm an analyst' (that, after our Reserve Bank Governor arrives, is immediately surrounded by starfuckers and waiters - the latter of whom ask his order, to which, looking straight into the eyes of that pig Gwen Gill, he calmly states that a 'hand-shandy' would get him off to a good start). Now if you've ever heard the description, Sunny Place Full of Shady People (Winston Churchill originally used it on Monte Carlo), then you need to look no further than Plettenberg Bay. Johannesburg basically packs itself up and relocates for 3 weeks. Toys, huge houses, yellow X5s, Mafia members, whores, fraudsters, tax evasion professors, coke-heads and the men from the East Rand who've made buckets of money out of towing cars. Think about this: the folk who live all year round in Plett (barring a few talented journalists and good chefs) are simple, happy folk - they smoke grass (a lot), surf, go for long walks and hug lots and lots of trees. So when three of these folk try and operate a bar over-run with whores and thieves, the results are catastrophic. Not only upon terms of damage control, but also upon the English language itself. Here's a crash course (with translations): JoburgPlett: 'Fukkin' poes! Heow long' s'it taak to por a dop huh? Ken Ah pleez opin n' eccouent here? Fukkin' poes! Ah'll drop a grand!' Translation: You horrible person! How long does it take to pour a drink here? May I please open an account here? You horrible person! I am prepared to spend one thousand South African rands. Same bar, different night, different individual JoburgPlett: 'Fukkin poes! Heow tha feck you oakes workin'? Computer system's seen ut's nought, staff r' feckin' kuck, manager's in his toot and all Uh wan' is a feckin' Russian chaana. (turns to me). Chaana, howzit, I'm Lorrie, laak tha feckin' truck.' Translation: You horrible person! How do you people operate? The computer system is broken, the staff are useless, the manager is both frantic and drunk and all I want is a coke and vodka. Hello, how are you? My name is Lorrie, like the big delivery vehicle. On New Year's Eve, a fight broke out at The Deck. In the Israeli contigent (you cannot join unless you are bald, fat and your nose extends longer than two metres). The reason? Well, it's obvious - someone decided to give the poor waiter a tip, much to the disgust of the rest of the table. But my luck happened on the most glorious day. January 1st, 2003. Imagine that you are hopelessly drunk, standing at a beautiful bar in perhaps the most beautiful pavilion you've ever seen at 4pm in the afternoon, with two stand-up gentleman in the form of Peter Pan and Goolam and you feel that Izzey Miyake swallowing you in a sobering tidal wave of smells and images. Her. Oh yes. Blocking her path to the bar. Staring at the small scar on her cheek. Stolen lines of, 'And it's the imperfections, the little inconsolable peccadilloes that make women so uncontrollably attractive.' Sorted out. Oh yes. Smiles, hands around the corner, aces up sleeves and masterful honey strokes. Her partner, well, Fritz or whatever (he's German) had a little incident with a coke-whore the night before (sad story actually). He's fifty, incredibly wealthy and is not against the idea of a little dabble here, a little dabble there (Bolivian marching powder or Sheren (Sharon) from Randpark Ridge). I offer my arm, I get a number, as well as an appointment with Dr. Polo Lounge at The Westcliff. Friday the 17th. Tell me, Fritz, do you like apples? And that, in all its simple and destined beauty, was a very fucking clever thing to do indeed. I'm on the phone to Shaynne as soon as I land in JHB. 'I have disproved the theory! Simon 1, the cynical Gauteng romantic spoilers 1. Beautiful women can be seen more than once'(in the background, all I hear is, 'Ag, Shaynne man, plis baa me anether waat wine en epple sourz, plis? Before he puts the phone down, all I hear is, 'Look Sheren, stop feckin' husslin' me, Ah’ll buy this whole fuckin' place!'). Needless to say, Gareth Cliff ruined my evening on my return. We'll see about ‘old hag’, you publicity-addicted ManWhore. Later that night I find Shaynne in the Fontana Chicken Roastery, threatening the manager. We sit down and I tell him about what that bastard said about my previous and next life's wife. 'Whaaat??!! Thet feckin' albino dishc joki poes! Nex taam he ensults her, tell 'im Ah'll be straaiight to Roodepoort chaana, to his heouse en Ah'll gooi hes ma somethin' to heng her towels on.’

Simon Reader is a producer and consultant for a South African communications company. He intends to complete his first novel within the next year.The views of the writer are his own and may not be supported by the website- Editor

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