Foot and mouth
The manne hear that at the recent Vic Falls gathering of African labour ministers, where much Klippies and Coke was consumed, the labour ministers of both South Africa and Zimbabwe suffered unfortunate incidents involving their feet and mouths.
First, Membathisi Mdladlana made his ill-considered statement, which he now apparently regrets, saying the Congress of South African Trade Unions should not visit Zim and accusing them of treating it like a 10th province of South Africa.
Then there was some consternation amid the merrymaking when the host country’s minister of labour, Paul Mangwana, failed to turn up at the opening session of the conference, despite having been in extremely high spirits at the reception the previous night.
The sycophantic government media rushed to assure the nation that there was no cause for concern and that the honourable comrade minister had merely had to undergo a ”minor medical procedure”.
But Oom Krisjan’s niggie’s first-born’s nooi, who was up in the Great North on business, reliably informs us that the minister lost his top set of dentures during an especially loud guffaw, which sent them flying from his mouth and crashing to the floor.
There is some confusion as to whether anyone actually stepped on them, but Mangwana fled and headed directly to Bulawayo to procure a new set of false teeth, through which wits in Zim say he now lies even more effectively.
The greatest story never told
An advertisement on the SABC’s website for a weekend screenwriting workshop at something called The Writing Studio triggered a fierce debate in the Dorsbult Bar. ”Write the next great South African film,” read the headline, setting the cat among the pigeons. What, the manne asked, had happened to the first great South African film? How had it slipped past unseen? Or was it The Gods Must Be Crazy, and did that imply that the whole question was too depressing for words?
Never having to say lemmer
The Lonely Planet travel guides have been read with much interest by the manne down at the Dorsbult Bar ever since an earlier edition of their South Africa guide assured its readers that the Afrikaans for ”sorry” was ”lemmer”. Flipping through the newest edition, we see that the error has been corrected (albeit without so much as a ”Dear readers, we are deeply lemmer”; but, not yet having learned that Afrikaans is not a language one can just make up on the spur of the moment, the authors now tell us that the Afrikaans for ”freeway” is ”vrymaak”. No harm done, though: Oom Krisjan looks forward to showing lost Aussie lasses the way to the vrymaak …
Sign of the times
As all of Dorsbult knows, young Okkert Windpomp and his new bride Daisy are on honeymoon, finally having saved up enough for two nights at the Formula 1 motel in Mogale City. But times have changed in the town that was once Krugersdorp, and when Okkert’s pa Adolph got back from dropping off the couple in his Valiant, he brought this picture (below) to the Dorsbult Bar for the perusal of the manne. They especially liked the touch of parking a Mercedes under the sign, a case of life imitating criminal artfulness.
Who needs modesty?
An unkind rumour reached Dorsbult this week that English batsman Kevin Pietersen has an impressively high opinion of his own abilities. At first Lemmer was willing to put it down to bitterness from South African fans that they were on the receiving end of a former Natal boytjie’s talents; but, of course, emigrating from KwaZulu-Natal to England is like emigrating from Benoni to Brakpan, and the rumours gained some solidity when he discovered the existence of www.kevinpietersen.com, a website run by Kevvy P and dedicated to, well, himself and his wondrous talents. Kev offers coaching advice, fascinating biographical insights (his parents are called Jannie and Penny), and even the chance for megacorporations to sponsor him. ”Who needs James Bond when you can watch Kevin Pietersen?” asks the scrolling banner at the top of the site, quoting a very eager Times journalist, which leaves Lemmer wondering if the rumours about Little Miss Janniepenny don’t have some substance.
Enemy at the gates
Still at the cricket, Lemmer (who flew to the Visdorp for Sunday’s victory) was deeply disturbed to read a sign above the gate at Sahara Fart Newlands (sorry, but he can’t bring himself to write that stupid name) that read ”prohibited items” in large red letters above a list of offending imports. ”Alcohol, cans, glass. Fireworks. Firearms. Musical instruments. No other dangerous items.” No other dangerous items are prohibited items? It thoroughly ruined the game for Oom Krisjan, who spent the day worrying that security guards at the gate were confiscating six-packs and trombones, but ushering through chainsaws, rabid dogs and vials of plague.
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