Letter from South Africa

[Phssthpok]

.....it's Cape Town and it's 22:15 (that's 10:15pm for the sun-dial wearing Northerners), if I look out of my modest hotel's bedroom window the magnificent vista of Table-Top mountain glistens in the sharply focused moonlight and nostalgically reminds me of Australia's stupendous Ayres Rock, both of which, incidentally, are similarly equidistant from the burning equatorial line. Sipping on a glass of Castle beer I'm acutely aware my posterior feeling every centimetre of the 6500 kilometres I've ridden in the last two weeks.

.....my journey began in Johannesburg (Jo-berg) a little over 14 days ago. To date I've had unrelenting sunshine, ridden to Bloemfonten, East London, Butterworth (Transkei), Port Elizabeth and Cape Town via the orgasmically gorgeous Garden Route. I've had cattle killed in my honour, been involved in a gun fight inside a Shebeen in Sowetto's notorious "gang parade" and been molested by a randy Giraffe after my bike broke down in the Pilanesberg Game Reserve. One of the more surreal moments occurred when I wandered into an East Gate bar in Santon (Jo-berg suburb), still slightly tipsy from the bottle of Amarula I'd consumed over a light supper of sliced Ostrich breast salad. The bar was sparsely populated with the dregs of office workers who's obviously decided their respective spouses were too ugly to warrant the trip home. Shrugging off my fly spattered leather jacket I order a bottle of Castle and settled myself down to wait for my new female friend. After about 30 minutes an old guy wanders on the bar's modest stage, carrying a guitar and bottle of Evian, announces he's Roger Whittaker and immediately breaks into a lacklustre rendition of Whittaker's seminal "Mexican Whistler". Now, I'm not one to knock a guy when he's down, but even I knew old Roger was buried at the family ranch under the leafy brow of  Lemon Tree. Being a well 'ard biker type I decide I'm not having some geriatric upstart soil the good name of Old Rog' so I wander over the to stage, wait till he's in mid-whistle, then poke him in the chest and say, "I think it's in very bad taste for you to be impersonating the late and, arguably great, Roger Whittaker." Of course, the management don't appreciate my disturbing the "act" so they decide to eject me. A fight ensues and one of the last things I remember was of Roger's doppelganger smashing his guitar over my head. The next day the paper are full of a story about some drunk Australian attacking the legendary Roger Whittaker, who was apparently playing a number of low-key events in preparation for a national tour. Maybe Elvis really is working in that chip shop.

......tomorrow I'm going to be riding north to Port Noroth, in search of the rare and elusive Buttercup Bottomed Baboons which caused Charley Darwin to rethink his central thesis on the evolution of the species. In the meantime, I hope you're all keeping well and I'll up-date you if I can find a way to recharge my portable's batteries.

[Blatman]

Very very cool indeed. What are you riding? I mean, I hope it's a proper bike, and not a Harley

[Nick M]

After about 30 minutes an old guy wanders on the bar's modest stage, carrying a guitar and bottle of Evian, announces he's Roger Whittaker and immediately breaks into a lacklustre rendition of Whittaker's seminal "Mexican Whistler". Now, I'm not one to knock a guy when he's down, but even I knew old Roger was buried at the family ranch under the leafy brow of  Lemon Tree. Being a well 'ard biker type I decide I'm not having some geriatric upstart soil the good name of Old Rog' so I wander over the to stage, wait till he's in mid-whistle, then poke him in the chest and say, "I think it's in very bad taste for you to be impersonating the late and, arguably great, Roger Whittaker." Of course, the management don't appreciate my disturbing the "act" so they decide to eject me. A fight ensues and one of the last things I remember was of Roger's doppelganger smashing his guitar over my head. The next day the paper are full of a story about some drunk Australian attacking the legendary Roger Whittaker, who was apparently playing a number of low-key events in preparation for a national tour.

Errrr.....

http://www.rogerwhittaker.com/index.html

[Blatman]

Phsstpok is clearly a *huge* RW fan, with a keen eye for the latest developements in his career...

Or he's a good deal more p******** than he thinks....

[Nick M]

I'm still chuckling away to myself about it      

[Blatman]

Certainly brightened my evening...

[Phssthpok]

......Friday, September 3rd, 23:13hrs and I'm still in Cape Town. I had to postpone my trip to Port Noroth because of "mechanical" problems with the rancid Harley Ferguson I'd been loaned. In temperatures approaching melting point I had to pushed the bike from my hotel on the M62 to Stealership on Buitengracht Street, which, believe me, is no mean feat in flip-flops, lycra shorts and chaps. The head mechanic seemed to think I'd stripped a gear so, with the rest of the day to waste, I left the bike with them and made my way to the Waterfront trying to look as cool as one could on the courtesy Honda 50 they'd let me use while the Harley was being sorted out.  

.....for those who have not visited Cape Town's sublime Waterfront, it's reminiscent of Fisherman's Warf in San Francisco, but instead of looking across the bay at Alcatraz penitentiary you can just about see Robin Island, where Nelson Mandela spent most of his long incarceration. For those of you who have not been to Fisherman's Warf either, can I humbly suggest that you give Butlins a miss this year and get out more. Anyway, I was wandering around the Waterfront when I was approached by a man calling himself Zuhri Zahur, who looked like the love-child of Nina Simone and Iggy Pop, offering me the 2 hour trip of a lifetime aboard a his pint-sized shrimping boat where I would be able to view the Southern Right Whales (world's largest up to 85.000 kg) at almost petting distance. Normally, if I want to pet something large and wet I just stay in the shower for an extra 15 minutes, but I had time to waste so I took him up on his offer and paid 350R for the dubious pleasure.

......the boat indeed was small, and together with my 12 fellow sailors, we set off on choppy waters while Zuhri waxed forth lyrically in Swahili about the bounteous nature all around us. I'm not the worlds best sailor and within seconds I was bent over the side of the good ship chunder depositing my breakfast, complete with the obligatory bits of carrot, into the sparkling azure waters. Of course this unexpected feast enraged a flock of starving sea gulls who proceeded to dive bomb the boat trying to get at the slick of eggs and bacon. Such was the ferocity of their attack Zuhri was forced to abandon the trip and beat a hasty trip back into the safety of the harbour. We were about 30 meters from the dock when my supper decided to make an encore right next to an extraordinarily pungent sea-lion and it's equally malodorous pup. For those of you who have not been face to snout with a voracious sea-lion, imagine Vanessa Feltz in a hairy wet suit barging her way to the front of a kebab shop queue. Ignoring the plaintive cries of it's suckling pup the sea-lion tried to throw it's huge girth into our tiny boat. While my heaving stomach was working it's way towards yesterday's lunch Zuhri fended the beast off by beating it on the nose with a packet of beef Biltong. The moment we hit the dock I was out of the boat and onto dry land, instantly the mal-de-mer disappeared and was replaced with an over whelming desire to drink beer and eat peanuts.

......the Green Dolphin bar is just off the Victoria and Albert arcade and made a welcome sanctuary from the sun, gulls and sea-lions. Business was slow so Guntha, the Canadian barman, sidled down my end of the bar and asked about my travel plans, although more than once I caught him sneaking a glance at my lycra and chap clad legs. I told Guntha about my intended trip to Port Noroth, in search of the rare and elusive Buttercup Bottomed Baboons. Rolling his eyes he swore on his mother's grave (well, he would have done if the intemperate old girl wasn't still in the land of the living so serious cussing would have to wait) that the Baboons were a myth perpetuated by the inhabitants of Port Noroth in order to entice ecologically minded tourists to their lacklustre town. As I left he bar, the sun was setting and I was beset with a yawning tiredness. Guntha might have been telling the truth, but there was only one way I was going to find out.  

......before I turn in for the night I would just like to apologise to all my Northern chums for the throw-away remark I made yesterday about them wearing sun-dials. As you all know, sun-dials would be of no use whatsoever anywhere north of Oxford. Finally, I received a number of vitriolic emails concerning the mortal status of Roger Whittaker. One in particular caught my eye, it was from Norman Frond, the outraged president of the Roger Whittaker fan club UK. The plethoric Norman claims that, no only is Roger still alive he has been booked to appear on Richard and Judy. Of course a less kindly sole than myself might suggest that this in itself is no definitive proof of life, but I won't because I'm not that kind of guy. Goodnight.

[Nick M]

I told Guntha about my intended trip to Port Noroth, in search of the rare and elusive Buttercup Bottomed Baboons. Rolling his eyes he swore on his mother's grave (well, he would have done if the intemperate old girl wasn't still in the land of the living so serious cussing would have to wait).....

Are you *sure* she's alive ??

I mean, your track record on this sort of thing isn't exactly great is it....  

[James]

LOL        

make it stop PLEASE!! my side cant take anymore!!!

[Fat Albert]

Pisspot

Last time I was in Capetown I found I didn't have any time for madame hand and her five lovely daughters let alone time to be creatively amusing on a message boored even tho it's impossible to walk anywhere without tripping over an internet cafe offering 4mbit links for £0.50/hour

I suggest you follow your own advice and get out more especially when the entertainment is sooooo cheap.

PS once spent a couple of nights in Mossel Bay, a bit like Bournemouth but without the rain and the synagogues. A one bedroom apartment with sea view was £5k. A four bedroom villa with pool was £30k. I was tempted, I could have built the synagogue

[oldman]

I just got p******** in front of the box again last night....maybe I should get out more

[Phssthpok]

......Monday, September 6th, 18:20hrs, getting drunk with "My perfect cousin" somewhere on the Western Cape. To be painfully honest, my day didn't start well. About the only thing that went smoothly was my rapid decent to pavement level after I'd slipped on the prodigious bowel motion of some rabid dog on my way to the Harley Stealership on Buitengracht Street. It wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't landed butt first in the dog poo, but I did, so it looked for the world like I'd just soiled myself. Of course, the taxi drivers wouldn't let me in their cabs, the bus drivers refused to open their doors, so I was forced to walk 3 kilometres trying to ignore the honking and overt sniggering of passing motorists. Maybe I should have been thankfully I was wearing buttless chaps so "only" the lycra shorts needed changing.

.......once at the Stealership I was given tepid coffee and asked to wait outside while they sorted out a clean pair of shorts and wheeled my, hopefully, fixed Harley around from the workshop. The style-challenged shop didn't stock florescent lycra shorts, but the helpful clothing manager (who looked uncannily like Max Bygraves) unearthed a genuine pair of Harley Davidson branded leatherette leiderhosen. Very "last year" I thought, but chic-beggars can't be choosers so I diplomatically retired to the Rest Room and changed into the strange Swiss apparel, dumping my chaps and shorts in the bin on the way out. The good news was, the Harley was running. The bad news was, they'd lost the saddle and had duck-taped a Teddy Bear onto the rear mudguard to act as a temporary cushion. Normally I'd have demanded a replacement and finger-poked the lackadaisical manager in the chest until he acquiesce to my perfectly reasonable unreasonable demands, unfortunately it's difficult to be assertive in dung-brown leiderhosen, so I slunk out of the shop throwing muttered insults over my broad shoulder.

......back at the hotel I was packing up my meagre belongings when the po-faced bell-hop knocked on the door, pretended not to notice the leiderhosen and curtly handed me a letter. The badly spelt missive was from a group calling themselves "The Friends of Roger Whittaker", their semi-illiterate scrawl informed me that a Fatwa had been taken out on me for saying the Great One was belly up. The letter writers also claimed they'd kidnapped my saddle and would feed it to the voracious sea lions  unless I printed a full and frank retraction on this very site. Normally I'm not affronted by mental defectives, but the letter ended with a rather ominous footnote: a drawing of a dog defecating on the pavement. It was time for me to leave Cape Town

......I quickly packed and left via the historic Route 62, headed West, towards Port Elizabeth; the baboons would have to wait until  I'd managed to rid myself of the cursed Fatwa, and the only way I was going to do that was to take a picture of Old Roger's grave so his devotees would accept the simple fact he'd whistled his last.

......out on the open road, trying to make myself comfortable on the Teddy Bear, I couldn't help notice the similarity between Route 62 and the USA's Route 66; although the African version was thankfully devoid of the hoard of pony-tailed, ex-60's, geriatrics I'd encountered on every inch of Route 66. Now, as Elton John will tell you, I'm not one to name drop but, I swear I met Feargal Sharkey. I'd been on the road for about 5 bum-numbing hours when I pulled into a nondescript settlement called Oudtshoorn, for petrol, a pee and a bite or two of Biltong. While I was in the toilet, ineffectually trying to unbuckle the leiderhosen, I noticed a poster on the grimy wall claiming that Oudtshoom was the World's Ostrich Capital. As I couldn't face getting back on the teddy bear for a while I decided to check out the over-grown chooks.

......for the very few of you who haven't had the pleasure of viewing, from close quarters, a mangy flock of smelly, noisy Ostriches as they scratched around a dusty field the size of a football field let me just say this, watching a particularly slow drying paint form a skin in the company of Ian Duncan-Smith while he theorised on male-pattern-baldness would be infinitely more interesting. So. there I was, gradually falling into a deeply hypnotic state when someone roughly prodded my arm and grunted, "Great the leiderhosen, mate." I turned to find myself looking into the piggy eyes of Ex-Undertones warbler, Feagal Sharkey. Now, I'm no great fan of the band once hailed by the NME as the ".....best thing to come out of Ireland since Val Doonagan", but I was very, very sober and Feargal was waving about very, very large and impressively full bottle of JD.

[taffy]

LOL

Nice one , my kinda humour!    

Rob