gespieëlde kroeë, sit my geld neer en kry 7,5 miljoen whiskeys. Een sluk toe’s ek dronk.
Nou loop soek ek weer my seat. Maar nou’s daar miljoene. Rye en rye. Langs mekaar, bo-op mekaar. In daai gat is ’n massa doenig met stokke, op die verhoog is ’n leërskare dik matrose en swart Suzuki’s aan die sing.
Sit! skree die mense.
Ek sê, Julle’s lelik met my.
Stil! skree die mense.
Ek sê, Hoekom teel julle so vinnig? Waar’s my plek?!
En toe klim duisende matrose van die verhoog af en ek sien hoe hulle hulle arms na my toe uitstrek en ek voel hoe haal hulle my bril af en toe staan daar net een. En dis die ou dikke. Maar dis die mooiste matroos wat ek nog ooit gesien het.
En voor almal vat hy my twee hande vas en hy sing vir my ’n aria uit Madame Butterfly van Puccini.
Jellie
Eendag was daar ’n groot konsternasie in die land. Die koning se kop was moeg. En al die ministers gryp die koning. Hulle jaag af na die hospitaal en hulle skree, Dokter! Dokter! Help ons! Die koning se kop is op en wie gaan nou al die besluite neem? En die dokter sê, Moenie worry nie, Ministers, ek het ’n splinternuwe brein op ys.
Maar dieselfde oggend het die kok in die hospitaal se kombuis ’n groot bloedrooi jellie gemaak en toe hy die ding wil bêre, is die hele yskas vol. Hy stap toe die lang gang af, en daar onder in die groot koelkamer sit hy die jellie neer.
En daar sit die jellie en word vreeslik hartseer. Ek meen, hoe gaan jy voel as jy weet lunchtyd word jy opgeslurp deur een of ander ou vrou met ’n swak blaas? En die jellie sê vir homself, Ek wil iets beteken. Ek wil my plek vol staan in vandag se samelewing.
Net toe kom die dokter uitasem daar ingehardloop om die koning se nuwe brein te gryp, en die jellie spring met ’n hartstogtelike boog tot in sy arms. Die dokter kyk nie twee keer nie, hy skree, Ek het hom! En hy hardloop die gang af en opereer en hy opereer en die volk hou hul asems op.
Vir dae en nagte het die koning in die hospitaal gebly en toe op ’n sonskyndag is die koning mooi gesond. Die ministers reël ’n groot Parlementsopening met orkeste en optogte en kanonne en vreeslik baie balloons. En daar staan die koning en hy salueer al die goeters wat by hom verbygaan. Maar van al die staan in die son begin die jellie in sy kop toe nou ’n bietjie smelt, en toe hulle uiteindelik in die Parlement kom, kan die koning aan niks dink om te sê nie. Daar sit almal en wag, en hy kry nie ’n woord uit nie.
En die ministers sê, O Koning, die mense in ons land baklei al ’n bietjie onder mekaar. Sê nou iets. En plrrt! skiet ’n stuk bloedrooi jellie by die koning se oor uit.
Die Minister van Verdediging is nou heeltemal uptight. Hy sê, O Koning, hier gaan ’n oorlog kom en ons gaan dit nie kan keer nie. En plrrt! kry hy ’n stuk jellie teen die voorkop.
Nou is die ministers heeltemal histeries. Hulle skree, Meneer die Speaker! Meneer die Speaker! Help ons! Wat het ons nou nodig?
En toe Meneer die Speaker opkyk, kry hy ’n blop jellie op sy bolip. En hy’t so ’n tydjie gesit, toe sê hy, Ek dink, nè, ons kan doen met bietjie custard.
Mailbox
On Tuesday nights at quarter to seven Mr Fazakas rubs himself against the mailbox. It’s a thick pole with a huge golf ball on top and out of the golf ball comes another pole and on top of that is a piece of cardboard with birdseeds.
Mr Fazakas holds on to the pole at the top and crosses his legs round the bottom one. Then he throws his head back and wiggles against the golf ball. Sometimes he makes noises and calls the golf ball Vanessa.
Mr Fazakas is Greek and very attractive. The ones that were born overseas get ugly at about thirty, but the local ones stay nice till fifty. But Mr Fazakas doesn’t know he’s still nice, so he’s with the mailbox.
At nine minutes to seven Stephnie Landman, Douwlina and thick Elsbet walk past.
Pervert, says Stephnie Landman.
Ja, says Douwlina, His inner self is suppressed. It’s people like that who end up at the Gilbert and Sullivan society.
Then they reach the corner and thick Elsbet says, I wanna be a golf ball. And then they turn left.
I don’t walk past. I stay at the fence till he reaches climax. He does it with a rattling movement, then the birdseeds fall on his head and when he’s finished he just hangs there like an attractive baboon with dandruff.
Then I run, because it’s four minutes to seven. That’s why I never sing the scales at choir practice, because I’m out of breath. Me and Mr Fazakas. But he has the fun, I just watch.
Choir Practice
I belong to the choir that sings “Abide with Me” the falsest in the world.
At the back there’s a row of men, we sing sharp. At the front there are two rows of women, they sing flat.
And at the organ is Miss Wilna, the pale person. She’s one of those people you never find in groups, there’s always just one in every town. They’re completely white and when they make quick movements, parts of them turn pink. She can’t be very good, otherwise she wouldn’t have to teach in this town and have this choir. But still, she must know something about music if she finished her degree. So it must be tough.
Sometimes I think she uses cocaine to give her guts, because then she makes us sing without the organ. And that’s something unbelievable.
When it’s very false, I get a hard-on. It’s like when you know something is wrong or it’s really bad, but you can’t get enough of it. It turns me on so much I go crazy.
The best part is when Miss Wilna gets up to conduct.
Miss Wilna is single, so she doesn’t come to practice in her day clothes.
She dresses up in different outfits that she makes every week. Nobody knows why she does it, the choir has only got married men and me.
When she conducts, it starts slowly. First she makes triangles so we get the beat, and then she goes up and down for loud and soft, and then comes the hand thing for emotion. That’s where the bosom starts.
Miss Wilna has got two of those incredibly round breasts that very pale people have. So when you look at it you can’t ever look away again because you’re trying to figure out where the nipples would sit but that could be anywhere, so you become hypnotised completely.
And the more she conducts, the wilder the breasts become until you think they must be looking for the nipples too, because they’re all over the place and then you’re so hypnotised, you just stand there, producing this mass of loud noise that’s so bad, Miss Wilna turns pink and goes completely crazy till eventually that bosom heaves the choir to heights of falseness that would be unthinkable in bright daylight.
And it’s every Tuesday. It’s like we can’t get away from it. We’re just there, stuck inside all this noise, and we just stay there. It’s like Miss
