There is a classic line in Withnail and I where Richard E Grant's character calls out to a farmer "Can you help us please, we've come on holiday by mistake." I used that phrase many times in the past week while on holiday in my old home town of Cape Town.

We spent the first part of our break with Helen's amazing family in the northern province of Limpopo, in a wonderful town called Tzaneen. I had always thought I held a good knowledge of South African geography, yet I was truly amazed when exposed to the wonders of this beautiful and bountiful  place. The scenery is breathtaking, the people I met were... well real people with no hang ups, hard working and incredibly friendly and generous. I was treated as part of the family from the off and even my idiosyncrasies and sense of humour were tolerated without reprisal. Although apprehensive and aware of the high crime rate and other nasty factors associated with South Africa today, I felt at ease and began to enjoy myself as soon as we had left the sprawling greater Johannesburg area, a milestone for me, as holidays normally turn into nightmares when I'm around. Not this time though, for on the four hour journey to Tzaneen, we were greeted by the spectacle that is the African veld (bush and grassland, land under cultivation and mountainous horizon) and I was immediately reminded of my days growing up in the once proud country of Zimbabwe. At various stages of the trip, varying sizes of lumps in my throat and feelings of regret in my mind flooded over me, at one point the strange feeling of "going home" attacked me but I managed to stave it off when I looked down at my milky white legs... I am anglicized no doubt about that.
While there I was taken fishing and promptly caught the car we had driven in, which was parked behind me. Then I sent a frankfurter sausage about a mile out into the water, while my hook remained dangling about 8 inches off the end of my fishing rod... even the crocodile that had been eying us up from a few meters away let out a laugh at my antics. But hey I was on holiday and we all had a blast... even though I can't show you a pic of the one that got away, yep it eluded me too.

I met Helen's father. He is the great grand son of Cecil John Rhodes the founder of Rhodesia, I was stunned by his likeness to the great man, it was as if the statue had come to life, what an honour. In Cape Town we drove past the Rhodes memorial and In my naivety I turned to Helen and said "up there is the Rhodes memorial, it's a dedication to the founder of Rhodesia"... as if she wasn't aware of it. But back to Tzaneen.

I now call eggs "chicken caviar", thanks to Shelly who constantly had us in stitches. The whole family have an incredible sense of humour. The fact is, I feel honoured to have met Helen's incredible family and I will cherish them as friends for life. Every day was different and those wonderful people went out of their way to make sure I had a fantastic time. But if I am honest I have a bit of an agenda for this blog so forgive my horse.
I started a thought process one night, when we were on our way home after a BBQ and a skinful of red wine. I was in the front passenger seat and noticed a police van ahead, driving rather slowly. I turned to our designated driver and Shelly's other half Corne (pronounced Cor Nay) and said "Cops ahead" he said nothing and started to pass them. As we came up level with them Corne launched into a tirade and screamed a whole bunch of obscenities at them, gesticulating with his arms. "Fucking pork chops, useless corrupt bastards!" he shouted. To my utter surprise they did nothing and we drove home without hindrance. It turns out Corne doesn't like the police in South Africa... nor do the other fifty nine million inhabitants apparently. It has something to do with inherent corruption, favouritism and a lack of civic responsibility to their duties, this does not auger well for the future me thinks. But I was on holiday!

We left Tzaneen happy but knackered after a week of being pampered and treated like royalty; what a lovely place, It is a part of a holiday I shall never forget.
And then we arrived in Cape Town; I hadn't seen my brother Aubrey for over 22 years and it was a truly uplifting experience to shake his hand and give him a hug when he picked us up at the airport. Life is too short to hold grudges and I am very proud to be his brother again. He's doing well in his life too and still fascinating the ladies as he's always done.

Oh look, a high horse!

What can I say about my once beloved mother city. We arrived in the middle of a heat wave and it stayed that way; 36c sustained until the day we left, when it dropped down to a more acceptable 29c... hmph! The city is still beautiful and clean as it always has been, the seas are just a blue as I remember them and the mountain is as awesome as ever. But there was an underlying current of unease in the air, wherever we went. I felt it in Tzaneen too, but I paid scant attention to it. But in Cape Town, a city I know so well, it just didn't feel right. Everything is overpriced, even when shopping on the British pound. There doesn't seem to be the friendliness (bar one or two occasions) that was such a hallmark of the people there and more than once I felt as if I was being scrutinised as a target for criminals. Normal for South Africans but something that I have outgrown and am pleased not to be able to experience on a regular basis here in the Big Smoke. If I am honest, it felt like there were too many people trying to make as much money as they could, for whatever reason, but I expect for the main reason of having a way out... if... when the shit really hits the fan.

And what shit is this you ask? What is your point Boyce? Well my friends, there were many times on my holiday, when I was reminded of Zimbabwe in the early nineties; when it all seemed to be going jolly well and when everyone was upbeat about the prospect of a stable future. We now know that because of the wanton theft of assets and the brutal suppression of the people by the despotic and murderous Mugabe regime, the once revered bread basket of Africa is now a basket case run by a cabal of evil, with no intent of relinquishing it's grip on power... In South Africa in one province alone some 2.2 billion rand (£180 million) has been misappropriated, the ANC government are doing everything they possibly can to stay in power and there seems to be a genuine dislike of anything that does not reflect/support the spoils "revolution" or the wishes of, what seems to me, to be an elite few. My point? I am not entirely sure but hopefully I am just being paranoid, hopefully South Africa will not degenerate into just another African disaster, hopefully peace and prosperity will be the winner for all in that truly remarkable land.

Perhaps one day I will be able to holiday there again, to enjoy the creation that was first envisaged when Nelson Mandela spoke to us from Plein Square all that time ago, until then I will concentrate on planting my tomatoes and cucumbers, while writing my little books and generally being a pain in the arse for the British government. It is a choice for democracy and human rights, one of peace and freedom over violent oppression, sanity's choice by a man of dubious mentality if you will... but it is my lifestyle choice, I have won the right to it.

Hey Ho.
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2012... hmm 01/03/2012
 
Hello, welcome to 2012. Please don't worry the world is not going to end this year... I have it on good authority because I purchased a tin of baked beans for brekkie this morning and the sell by date is "03/13" so the prophets of doom have got it wrong... again.

It has been quiet here at Cafe Boyce. Our new year celebration consisted of a tub of ice cream and a bottle of champers in bed while we watched Big Ben explode in a magnificent display of colour and sound... on the box. The thing is we had a rather big bash on the 30th so we were a bit knackered the next day and to be honest, we just couldn't be bothered to go and stand in the cold with the other 250 000 people on the embankment to watch the firework display and besides, the police sent out a message on the news for citizens to stay away, apparently there wasn't any more space. Now if the government could just get that message across through the UK immigration department...  
It was nice though because when we needed to wee, there was a loo. We walked around in our knickers and we didn't need to put on make up or dress up warm, plus there were no customers so there was no pressure to deliver the magnificent food, which is (rightly so) associated with this fine establishment. In other words we just chilled and enjoyed a quiet time on just another day. Our new years kiss lasted a bit too!

Breaking news! As I write this ( 11am on 03/01/12) there is a rain storm with a gale blowing across London, wind speeds seem to be reaching 70 mph and it reminds me of a black South Easter roaring over Table Mountain in my old home town. The weather people on the BBC are issuing a warning for flooding and wind upheaval and there is a general feeling of trepidation in the air... hang on I just need to go double check the date on that can of beans I bought this morning. End of breaking news... actually there is just a drizzle and a slight breeze now... no need to panic.

It's ok, the date hasn't changed, the world will be alright. And that is another message which needs to be communicated as quickly as possible to our population at large. For the past couple of weeks there have been a few fuckheads who have taken it upon themselves to kill their families and then themselves. It is a pattern that I have witnessed before in South Africa in the eighties and early nineties before the dawn of The New South Africa. It seems that when things get tough and it doesn't go their way, some heads of households (usually men) think it is better to annihilate their loved ones with a shot gun or a carving knife, then blow their own brains out or slit their own throats... so that they can all be together in heaven without the worries of their place in the world. Hmm.

This has happened a few times in the past weeks here in the UK. So let me just remind anyone reading; murder and suicide is a very naughty thing to do and the universe doesn't like it and your soul will not rest or be transferred into another body for a very long time and perhaps never. And anyway, even though it seems very bleak and things are very hard for millions of people living on this planet, coupled with the stupid prediction that this is the last year of global existence, trust me things will change for the better - because in universal terms: THIS TOO SHALL PASS. Now put your weapons away, give your wife a hug and a bonk and take the kids to the ice cream parlour, it is the right thing to do. If you don't believe me, go check the sell by date on the canned goods in your local supermarket.

And have a wonderful year ahead!

ps. off to my beloved Cape Town via my new family in the north, I hope to bring back a heart warming tale of adventure and love.

pps. Jesse The Doll is on target for publishing later this year and I am writing a bit about my life in a thread on here. I am using silly language but it is quite fun and I'll update it as regularly as possible, the title is "The Lost Profit" a bit further back in this blog.

Hey Ho.
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It was a cold, wet and windy night… actually for late October it wasn’t that cold and to be fair it was not that wet either. Also it wasn’t technically night time being only 5.30pm nor was the wind a problem, more like a gentle breeze really. The weather reporter, who happened to be a young lady fresh out of university and lucky to have landed a position with a national broadcaster, had predicted such a night for the opening of this story, however as can be seen by the evidence, the information given to her by the meteorological office was not entirely accurate… as usual. So in fact it was quite a pleasant Saturday evening with a slight chill and a mild breeze in the air, with the possibility of a light shower later on - as the man made his way home from the pub.

She lay face down in a shallow puddle on the road side; wet, muddy, unclothed and unloved. Only the slightest glint of her golden painted hair shone out in the dim, early evening light but that one little sparkle was enough to catch his eye. Having said that, he had had quite a few pints so in his inebriated state with his head lolling around from side to side on his shoulders - instead of being nice and rigid with eyes fixed to the front like a sober man - anything slightly strange, silly or out of place within a 180 degree arc of his face would have come to his attention. How the brain then processed that information was of course an entirely different matter. In this instance the cerebral inference triggered a deep seated instinct, coupled with a spur of the moment reaction and he stooped down to pick her up. As he grasped the little doll in his hand and looked into her commercially angelic face, he immediately felt a fondness… an attraction to her, so he took her home with him, washed her under the kitchen tap and named her Jesse – because she looked like her name could be that. Then he placed the pretty but naked plastic toy on the edge of the sideboard and put her in charge of all the loose change from his pockets, before stumbling off to bed where he passed out and forgot all about the awful performance of his beloved Liverpool F.C. who had earlier crashed to a two nil defeat to Stoke city, thus contributing to his drunkenness.

Jesse stayed on the sideboard for a few days and because the man seemed to like visiting the pub most evenings after work, she was soon surrounded by more money in coins than she had ever seen, which actually was not a very good thing, because even though she was only a manufactured compound in the form of a doll, this introduction to such wealth could have easily corrupted her wee mind… and it did.

With no explanation at all for the thought process (for this was an absolute impossibility) but only for the sake of continuity, (excluding moral principal) one day Jesse was making plans to do a runner with the cash, when because of the onset of winter, the central heating was turned on. Being that she was placed in a position very close to the front of the living room vent, the radiated heat took a terrible toll upon her frame and melted ugly blemishes into one side of her body. If she had been of human form, the damage to her could very easily have led one to believe that she had been burnt in a most awful accident, for her scars clearly resembled those associated with the results of a fire. As it was, before the first cycle of the thermostat clicked in, Jesse ended up looking somewhat disfigured and in fact a little perturbed. The man, although once again drunk, happened to notice this when he returned home later that night from the pub and she was thrown into a bin bag full of garbage, which was then despatched down a chute to the bins five stories below.

The next day the bin men arrived and collected the refuse from the apartment building where Jessie had briefly lived as the keeper of the loose change. Now partly melted and disfigure she found herself pushed midway into a black bin liner, where she was sandwiched between an empty microwave beef casserole container and a quarter loaf of sliced wheat germ bread, which had turned mouldy after sitting unused in her temporary host’s kitchen for over five days. It was uncomfortable for the little doll as the bin men snatched up the bag and then roughly tossed it into the back of their heavy garbage compacting lorry. It became even more uncomfortable when the compactor was switched on and a phenomenal amount of hydraulic pressure was applied to the contents, squashing it to one fifth of its original size. If Jesse had been an air breathing entity, then at this point in the story her biological existence would have been snuffed out. Assuming of course that as an air breather she would have survived the roasting by the heater and her original ordeal, which had left her face down in a puddle. As it turned out, Jesse had inherited a mouldy pubic tuft and her forehead now had the word “role” lightly imprinted on it and across her tummy another imprint read “Use by 14/”. Of course none of this would have made any sense to her as the lorry pulled off and headed to the dump, so it was just as well that she did not have access to a mirror.

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And verily as the sun began to set on the horizon the man did pack his small shoulder bag with a few essentials, then donning his super pro's upon his feet, he gathered up his visa stamped passport and headed for the bridge known as Beit.

After a journey of note the man did come to the bridge and then turning for one last time before crossing the mighty river known as Limpopo, he silently bid farewell to the land of his birth. "Good bye Zimbabwe" he uttered softly as he strode across the span southward.

And so it was that as his feet landed upon the soil of the south, it was felt a collective breath and a feeling of "and now?" across the land; but it was a very short breath and the feeling of "and now?" lasted only a moment as the people went about their business. But still the man came, step by step.

First he was come upon the place known as Highveld but his visit there was fleeting and nothing of importance occurred. Then after some days and nights the man did come to the sea, to the place known as Wilson's boat yard.

As the night approached he began his inquiries, asking of the sailors there. "Do you know of the skipper Dave and the navigator called Peter?" And the seamen replied that they did know of these men, for they were the sailors of "Cufflinks 2" the boat of three hulls. A smile came across the face of the man and he did silently rejoice, for to find this boat and these men was his intent.

And so as the night set in the man did wait by the gates of Wilson's, for the men he sought there were not to be found in the yard, as they had taken to the tavern of Belgica, where small beer was to be supped and where the lights were dim.

The man was content as he sat waiting for the sailors of Cufflinks 2, his mind was at ease now that he no longer faced the jail cells of Zimbabwe. trouble had occurred in his land but now he was almost free from the threat, which had lurked like a beast in the shadows. He was deep in the thoughts of peace when a sailor from the yard passed by and did ask of him. "What are your thoughts of this place young man?" To which he replied. "The cockroaches are big."

It came to pass then that the skipper Dave and the navigator Peter did return from the tavern of Belgica. The man saw them approach through the gates but did not rise from his place on the bollard where he sat. Instead he let them near before he called out, "Hello you wankers." And a joyous cry rose from both as they recognised the man who had come from their homeland, "It is our man from home!" they laughed as embraces were exchanged in affection.

And verily they led the man to the multi hulls of Cufflinks 2 and there beer was opened and drunk in celebration at the completion of the crew. "You shall be the cabin boy and together we shall sail the ocean of Atlantic" they decreed amidst the smiles and the banter, which is common amongst the natives of Zimbabwe.



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I have lost my sense of humour. It was last seen chasing an effing great headache towards the dark cavern behind my sinuses - but only after dumping a truckload of mucus over my lungs. Perhaps I shat it out in one of the hot... nay boiling volleys being fired from the muddy squirt gun, which has purchased the franchise to my arse. I don't know where it has got to, I just don't know.
For tis that time of the year again, when only six weeks after having the flu jab, we are struck down with a bug so violent that it causes a conundrum of note. To wit; where to start with the tissue after an instantaneous cough, sneeze and follow-through. Oh the pain of the dreaded lergi...

Still, mustn't complain too much. For no doubt my health will return one day and I shall once again be able to laugh at all things. (including Islamic fanatics)
Which is more than I can say for the people of Great Britain who have shown their true colours by rounding on one Jeremy Clarkson, the presenter in chief of Top Gear. He made a joke about the striking public sector workers who are demanding that their pensions be protected no matter how much the country declines in face value. It was plain to see that the man was kidding when he spoke on live television but the oh so "holier than thou" whimps who run everything flew into a rage and threw their toys out of the cot, their sensibilities having being scarred by his rhetoric. Fucking get over yourselves. The only reason the UK still exists is because we were able to laugh in the face of the ridiculous. Be that the French, Nazi, Russian or Al Qaeda ridiculous. That's what we do, we laugh at absurdity, we laugh at those who are so far up their own arses, they actually believe the shit that comes out of their mouths. Idiots.

Anyway tis the season to be jolly and all that. The tax man sent me a refund for £630. Now don't get me wrong, I am grateful for this money, especially at this time of the year... but come on. Can they afford it? All I hear is how much finacial shite we are in, how much everything has to be cut and how much more it is all going to cost us in the long run, how if we don't all tighten our belts, we are liable to end up like Ethiopia or worse, Zimbabwe. If they are sending out refunds like that to wasters like me, then what are the middle classes and super rich getting? I can only guess. Anyway I have banked the cheque and if they have made a mistake and want it back next year, I'll pay it back at £5 a week... eff em.

Cafe Boyce is adorned with Christmas decorations for the first time since we took over the lease and renamed the place. Influenced by H.C. Barnes of course. We have a fibre optic tree, holly, tinsel, bells and snow flakes hanging from the ceiling. It is a humbug I tell you and not very Jewish either. I much prefer the Dickensian bleakness of Christmas, then I don't get my hopes up for a happy new year and I can go about my business suitably sullen... a humbug I tell you.

So with the rapidly approaching end to 2011, I suppose I should take this opportunity to wish you all a happy ho ho, a haughty haha and a hehehehe. We are off in the new year to bring misery to The New South Africa (compliments in part to the tax man) and if the fancy takes me I might continue writing a bit next year. Jesse The Doll is in construction at this time and if all fits well, then we might have a new book at some stage in the summer... after the Olympics... (don't get me started) If not then the three of you will have to find some other idiot to bore you into tackling the next bottle of tequila. I don't know why I bother.

Seriously though. Thank you all for the amazing support this year; The Kenyan Singer was very well received and although it lost money, (nothing changed there) I am told it brought a few smiles to a few faeces... faces.

Hey Ho!

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What a wonderful contrast to last year! November 1st and I can still walk around in a T shirt and undies without freezing my goolies off. I suppose I should have stayed indoors though because now I've got this public indecency charge to deal with. What irks me the most is that the constable said it wasn't so much about what was on display, as none of the Women's Institute ladies could accurately give a description of the offending sight... thing ...actually now that I think about it, it must have been very cold when I went out to get the papers. Hmph!

But in the grander scheme of things our weather at the moment is superb compared to the freezing winter of last year... which started in September and only ended in June this year. He said, plucking another penguin. I know it will change! All I'm saying is that I am trying to enjoy the mild interlude, thinking about a braai (BBQ) if it holds out. OK, so maybe I have nothing else to talk about. Maybe I shouldn't have started this blog if I hadn't quite thought it through, or as you may suspect have nothing of interest to say... oh my god, I'm dying here!

(20 minute coffee, toast, smoke and poo break over)
Right, what I was trying to say was that I started my new manuscript last week. "The Adventures of Jesse the Doll... cont." I am two paragraphs in with the rewrite and even though I have the completed first draft, in print, in front of me; I still can't get anywhere with it! It haunts me day in and day out, I wake up in sweats after having nightmares about it... and my failure as a writer. My constitution has gone for a Burton and my intake of comfort food, coupled with the accompanying increase in fart production is soaring. I am in a mess and have just proved it again by sitting down at my desk with every intention to write even one more line of it; but with a blank stare and a holding of breath, I have ended up on here... with you. Talking shit. Look, can't you do me a favour and eff off. No offence but it's working on my nerves a bit... come back when I'm a little more settled, yeah?
Condescending prick.
... oh sorry I thought you were gone. What? What me? No, no I was talking about myself, I love my readers... all flipping 3 of you... oh look at the time, must rush, byeeeeee!

(00)

~ ^  ~
(__)

Phew that was close. Now, have I told you about the new hat I bought? Its the dogs fucking bollocks mate! Hahahahahahaha! Oh look a butterfly.

Hey Ho

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Sometimes I like being right. It wasn't too long ago in this blog's history that I wrote something about how I thought Gaddafi and his sons would be well served with a bullet to the back of the head. Well as we all now know, it has come to pass and the mad dog finally lies buried (minus his grey matter) in the desert next to his nut case son Muttasim, only the cartoon which is Saif al Islam and the younger "arty" one still breathe of our air. Of course the word "arty" is used to describe any young Muslim man who may have committed the capital sin of fancying another young Muslim man. But as we know, there are no gay Muslims and if any are born and make the mistake of getting caught being a poof, they are soon dispatched via a head removal to spend eternity in hell. Unless their father happens to be a dictator of note, which is why the "arty" one is still alive in his late twenties. I'd be just a tad more careful of who I hang out with now if I were him. My advice would be for him to try and hook up with Kim Jong Ill's "arty" son, they may have a slightly better chance of survival together in Japan... I wouldn't hold my breath though.

And what of the "new" Libya. We now hear of a movement to steer the country onwards and upwards into adopting Sharia law. How bloody marvelous. After thousands of deaths, untold destruction and misery they are now thinking of putting themselves back another 300 years. Why not go the whole hog and ask Nigeria or Iran for "how to" advice on this matter.

Normally I wouldn't be bothered by an Arab nation and their sovereign right to live in the dark ages. To sentence women to a hundred lashes for daring to get raped, or to stone them to death for daring to fancy a younger bloke than their scraggly bearded, ugly, foul smelling, physically abusing, thirty year older husbands... in the same killing zone where a decapitated "arty" teenage boy lies.
I am a bit bothered though because I have witnessed their revolution as it has unfolded. I have had it shoved in my face for the past eight months, the uprising, the reprisals, conclusion and executions et al. And if the track record of such revolutions is anything to go by and Sharia law is adopted, it is likely that I shall have to witness a hell of a lot more violence, murder and general disregard for the human condition for a long time to come.

However, now that I think about it, I have what many of those poor buggers will never have. I have a choice and if and when I want to defy them, I can just pick up the remote, change the channel or switch the bloody thing off - or I can defy them in an educational way and turn straight to the crossword page. Why must I worry? Let them get on with their lives and as long as they let me get on with my own, be that arty or not, then the world will be a better place... but will they?

Hey Ho.

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Forty nine years ago my dad died... I was born 6 months after he was buried so I never got to know him. To this day I sometimes wonder how my life would have been with a father in it. I can't stand it when people say they have no regrets about their lives. You see mine is filled with regret and envy and jealousy, if I could do it all over again I would change just about everything. And don't get me wrong on this, I am not blaming anyone (including my concept of God) for my self pity... ous... ness... ness. In my mind no one is to blame except me... And maybe Robert Mugabe and the idiots who invented Jesus Christ and Mohammed and Mary and all the other names for whom mankind has unnecessarily perished in our millions. But these people and what they stand for are secondary to my concept of great people - even when it comes to having an influence on shaping my personality or a force in directing some of my actions (many bizarre) in the past. Yes I am squarely to blame for most of the shit I caused... but c'mon I had to get my ideas from somewhere?

And what is blame anyway? When broken down, all it really means is that I don't really give a continental about anyone else I come into contact with. It means that no matter what influence they have on me or I have on them, be that positive or negative, all I have to do is say "my fault" or "their fault" and walk away. Fuck em, they screwed up. Either they got too cocky with me or I dropped them in the shit. Which is what happens billions of times every day around the world. People get let down, which brings me back to the crux of this blog.

When I was 13 years old I read The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy and then the series of books that came after that. I firmly believe that Douglas Adams had a huge part to play in shaping my sense of humour, but before I could get to meet him he went and bloody died. The same thing happened to me and Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers, Kenny Everett, John Candy and Heath Ledger... to be fair though it wasn't Heath's sense of humour I loved. Anyway that's not what this is about. What I am trying to say is that all through my life, there have been people - directly or indirectly - who have had an impact on (influenced) my personality and yet through no fault of my own, I will never get the chance to shake their hands and thank them for it. And that is bloody unfair and I fucking regret it.

R.I.P. Steve Jobs.

Hey ho.

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Hahahahahaha. Hello.

I feel like being silly today. Don't you just love it when you wake up and find there is no shit on the brain to deal with. I opened my eyes this morning and instead of groaning or moaning or closing them again, I just lay there thinking; "Hey, its gonna be ok today."

I think my demeanour has a lot to do with yesterday. I finally plucked up the courage to walk away from my part time job as a P.A. - I've been wanting to do that for years but never had the balls to tell my "principal" that his insults and his jibes and his inability to pay me really hurt my feelings. But yesterday was the last straw and after another of his pokes at me with a sharp stick, I excused my self and went home, where from behind my keyboard, I constructed an e-mail. I won't go into detail but I basically told him to fuck off and take his horse with him. It felt horrible at first but after a little while I realised I had done the right thing and this morning I felt liberated when I woke up, free of responsibility and clear of conscience. I shall still be poor but a little happier me thinks.

I am available in London at £25 per hour part time... if you know anyone who is looking for a mug.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside, oh I do like to be beside the sea! Oh look a butterfly!

My latest little book went out a couple of weeks ago. That was a mission. And of course after getting all the promo copies out I was hoping for an amazing reaction from all and sundry - offers of publishing contracts, invites to premiers, lunches and royal palaces.

What I got was;
"This is a very weird stroy from a very weird writer"
"The best thing about this book is the cover design"
"Believe me, this really is a load of crap"

Oh well, I guess it's back to the drawing board, but hear me oh critics,
I SHALL NEVER GIVE UP!
Fuck em, I have a right to try and that I will do until my last breath.
My new book is called "The Adventures of Jesse the Doll... cont" and I finished the first draft two years ago. I shall be busy constructing it now and hopefully it will be available towards July next year... it is a bit weird, but hey I am a weird writer! 

For those who live in the big smoke and are thinking about making a trip home to SA around January, British Airways have some incredible deals on offer and my man at Dial a Flight pulled off a little piece of magic for me yesterday. We fly out in early Jan for a couple of weeks. The price is similar to what I paid in 2003. Fantastic!

Well that's me folks. I am now off for a well deserved poo and a read of the paper, then I shall see if the missus is up for a bit of a kufuffle... I might check first actually and if she isn't up for it, I'll have a quick fiddle on the loo, yes, I KEEP THE DOOR CLOSED. Perhaps afterwards we'll take a stroll to the market and buy some cheese and shoelaces (great market)

Thanks for the continuing support... cheques and postal orders are more than welcome in these very hard times!!!

Hey Ho.
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At 1pm today, God willing, I will meet my friend Mike at a local coffee shop and we'll take a walk up the road, where we'll cross over the Vauxhall Bridge, which spans the mighty Thames river. Then we'll negotiate a one way system and come out near the gates of The Oval cricket ground, where we will enter and watch the English take on the Indians in a day night cricket match. By the time the first ball is bowled, New Zealand would have already thrashed Tonga in the opening game of the 2011 Rugby World Cup. I am so blessed to be able to feel part of and witness two of the greatest sports known to man. My passion for these games runs deep and it is a real part of who I am.

And yet there are hundreds of millions of people who couldn't give a fuck about what happens in my world of sport today. They are either too busy trying to wipe each other out because of an interpretation in a "holy" text written by some fuckhead scribe way back when, or they are too busy trying not to starve to death becaue they have been unable to manage their resources, due to over breeding, idiocy or idleness. Their world is a billion miles away from mine and I have no wish whatsoever to be part of it or to enhance their suffering or infact to try and fix their broken lives.  Yet because of propaganda, an unwillingness to be part of a much greater, peaceful and harmonious world and a subservience to an  indoctrination which is evil and inhuman; many of these people hate me.

You see, through no fault of my own, a whole bunch of my aforementioned fellows will point their fingers at me as I stroll across the river, rolling a cigarette (the finest hand rolling Virginia tobacco no less) and accuse me of living the life of Riley while they suffer. They will hate me because I will be wearing a branded shirt and some sexy shorts. They will hate me because I am able to freely walk the streets of my neighbourhood without worry or fear, they will hate me because I am white, because I love sport and because I like and practice sex to satisfy my desire. They will hate me because I have bread and milk in my kitchen and this morning I had a delicious cup of coffee to help kick start my day. I am detested for living in one of the greatest democracies in the world, for daring to think that there is more to life than bowing down to some fictional Idol, to cut a story short, I am hated for being me.

And that is ok.

Because what I wanted to say in this blog was that; with no malice or hatred in my heart, I couldn't give a fuck about them either. I am going to watch the rugby, I am going to watch the cricket, I will wear my branded goods, I will smoke my cigarette, enjoy my beer... have loving sex if I am not in the bad books when I get back, eat a bacon sandwich and generally do anything (within my capability) to please me and make my life feel worthwhile.

And on Sunday morning just before 10am (USA Time), I will pause with reflection and try to remember the events of 10 years ago. Just one of the many events which has translated the words - Hatred and Evil - into plain English for me. 

And so it is that I am truly grateful that my vocabulary consists of words like "Penalty" "Howzat!" and "Fancy a shag baby"

Hey Ho.
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