The Idler, Friday, September 21, 2012

Estcourt shoot-out

 

YESTERDAY we featured the account of an unfortunate incident on a guinea fowl shoot at Otto's Bluff, near Maritzburg, when a fellow had his toe shot off and it got eaten by his bull terrier.

 

Today, in the interests of gun safety, we look at another incident, this time at Estcourt. It had something of the qualities of a duel.

 

It was another guinea fowl shoot. It had been a long day out in the fields. This fellow had been having a wretched time, failing to bring down a single bird. He got a ribbing when they gathered afterwards for a few beers.

 

"You know what? If I bend over 100 yards away you couldn't hit my backside!"

 

This was fighting talk. After a few more beers and a bit more taunting, the original challenger marched away 100 paces and bucked over. Somebody handed the other fellow a shotgun.

 

What he didn't know was that things had been doctored. The shot had been removed from the cartridges in the gun. Another clean miss was about to be recorded.

 

But the chap with the gun opened it before taking aim. It was loaded with buckshot cartridges. A bit drastic, he thought, so he switched the buckshot for two birdshot cartridges from his own belt.

 

Then he drew a bead and – Whammo! – the guy bending over got two barrels of birdshot up the Khyber Pass, as they say in the classics.

 

The nurses at Estcourt hospital spoke about the case for a long time afterwards as the Tweezer Marathon.

 

Durban boy

 

THE ENGLAND cricket selectors have selected Nicky Compton to tour India – and not before time. He's been top of the county batting stats for a while now.

 

Nicky is, of course, a Durban boy. His grandfather, the great Denis, was a maestro batsman for England as well as a top-flight footballer for Arsenal. His Dad, Richard (also known as "the Compton Boy") and his uncle, Patrick, were both of them gifted cricketers but had the misfortune to grow up in South Africa in the era of sports isolation.

 

Patrick is cricket scribe on this newspaper. Richard is a former newspaperman who now makes a nuisance of himself in the PR field. Both were stalwart members of the Durban Press XI (until the kit got sold by mistake on a charity jumble sale).

 

Nicky will acquit himself well, we can be sure of that. He won't send silly text messages to the opposition.

 

The only slight concern is that, what with Hashim Amla and now Nicky, the side is getting packed with DHS blighters.

 

 

 

Crowned eagle

 

ZOLTAN de Rosner, of Pennington, says one of his neighbours has come up with a stunning counter to the monkey infestation, which seems to be as bad down the South Coast as it is in Durban.

 

"He's recorded our resident crowned eagle's cry and when the dear little souls appear he simply turns this on and away they scurry. Monkeys are this large bird's prime diet so get yourself a similar recording or, better still, get yourself a crowned eagle."

 

Now there's a thought. What a stir in the Street Shelter for the Over-40s if I go in with a crowned eagle on my shoulder.

 

Cock Robin

 

MY STARGAZING correspondent, Richard Siedle, is looking for the words of the Fanagalo version of Cock Robin.

 

I'm able to supply the chorus but it's a long time since my rugby club days and I can remember only fragments.

 

Is there anyone out there who can supply the full thing? "Who saw him die? … Who'll drink his blood?" – that kind of thing.

 

I think Richard is arranging a sing-song to celebrate Nasa's groundbreaking current exploratory mission to Mars.

 

Sex life

 

OVERHEARD in the Street Shelter for the Over-40s: "How's your sex life?"

 

"Like Coca Cola."

 

"You mean lively and full of bubbles?"

 

"No. Was Regular. Then Light. Now Zero."

 

Tailpiece

 

"Boy, I was sozzled last night!"

"Not as bad as me."

"Much worse. Did you see the girl I went home with? What a horror!"

"Did you see the girl I went home with?"

"Didn't your wife pick you up?"

"Yep."

"Fair point."

 

Last word

 

Opera is when a guy gets stabbed in the back and, instead of bleeding, he sings.

Ed Gardner

 

The Idler, Thursday, September 20, 2012

Perils of a cuddle

HERE'S yet another story of a hunter being shot by his own dog. It seems to happen with regularity these days.

A French hunter – his name is given only as Rene – was out in the wilds with three Blue Gascony basset hounds in the Dordogne region when one of the dogs affectionately jumped on him "for a cuddle". The dog unfortunately pulled the trigger on his master's shotgun, which blasted his right hand.

Rene was helicoptered to hospital in Bordeaux where his hand had to be amputated. But he doesn't blame the dog. "I should have had the safety catch on." He still describes the dog as "adorable".

There's a moral here. If you're going to cuddle anything – a woman, a dog or whatever – make sure the safety catch is on.

Another case

THE ABOVE recalls another amputation story involving firearms and dogs. A man known as the Poison Dwarf – with whom I played club rugby – was on a guinea fowl shoot at Otto's Bluff, outside Maritzburg.

He was using an old-fashioned hammer shotgun. They were taking a tea break and the Poison Dwarf was leaning on the butt of his gun, the muzzle pressed against his boot, as he swigged from a mug of tea.

Somebody walked past wearing a chunky jersey. The jersey caught on one of the shotgun hammers, lifted it then – Wham! – the end of the Poison Dwarf's boot was blasted

They managed to get the boot off him. The middle toe was severed completely. Throwing the severed toe into the back of a bakkie, they rushed him to Grey's Hospital to see if a stitch-on job was possible. As the bakkie pulled off, the Poison Dwarf's faithful bull terrier bitch jumped on the back.

They were haring into Maritzburg when the driver glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the bull terrier swallowing her master's toe.

Amputation complete. And in this case also, nobody doubted the love and devotion of the dog.

 

Linwood Villa

KIM McCARTHY, of Amanzimtoti, is looking for information from the 1950s about that neighbourhood just off Smith Street where the old Hotel D'Urban still stands.

Her 82-year-old Dad is writing his memoirs on Koh Samui island, Thailand, where he now lives, and recalls his early 20s when he lived in Smith Street in an establishment called Linwood Villa.

It was already a heritage site in the 1950s, located across the road from the Hotel D'Urban. It was owned by a Mr Green and had apparently been built by the Cato family.

"Could you direct me to somebody knowledgeable on old Durban history who could tell me exactly where this place is, or was, so that I can give some feedback to my Dad on its current status?"

These memoirs should make good reading. Which chapters will be the more vivid – Smith Street in the 1950s or contemporary Thailand?

Can anyone out there help Kim with information about Linwood Villa?

 

 

Tailpiece

THIS fellow dies and goes to hell. In the netherworld he discovers there's a different hell for each country. He decides to choose the least painful to spend eternity.

He goes to the German hell and is told they put you in an electric chair for an hour. Then they lie you on a bed of nails for another hour. Then a German devil comes in and whips you for the rest of the day.

He doesn't like the sound of that so he moves on. But it turns out the American hell and the Russian hell are much the same.

Then he comes to the South African hell. There's a long queue. He's told they put you in the electric chair for an hour, then they lie you on a bed of nails for an hour, then a South African devil whips you for the rest of the day.

"But that's the same as all the others. Why are so many people queuing to get in?"

"Because Eskom is struggling and there's never current for the electric chair. The nails were paid for but never delivered, so the bed is comfortable. And the South African devil is a government employee. He won't come to work until he gets his 12% increase, which of course will never happen."

Last word

I don't give a damn for a man that can only spell a word one way.

Mark Twain

 

The Idler, Wednesday, September 19, 2012

What about the by-laws?

"A HORSE, a horse, my kingdom for a horse…" Archaeologists digging beneath a car park in Leicester for the remains of Richard III believe a skeleton of a man who had been shot with an arrow could be that of the King of England who died after being unhorsed in the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485.

The skull shows signs of trauma consistent with wounds incurred in battle, and the man also had a curved spine - matching contemporary descriptions of the king as being a "crookback" who had one shoulder higher than the other.

Bones unearthed during the dig have been sent for DNA testing to see if it matches the DNA of a Canadian-born man known to be a direct descendant of Richard III.

Richard is thought to have been buried in Leicester after the battle, beneath the Church of the Grey Friars. (His defeat saw the rise of the Tudor line). A team from the University of Leicester has been excavating the site in recent weeks.

Amazing what they can do with DNA these days. And its as amazing in its own way that the burial site of the last of the Plantagenet kings of England should end up as a parking lot. It's as if Westminster Abbey were to become a bowling alley.

That descendant of Richard III must watch out that the local council don't hit him with some kind of fine for contravening the by-laws. They take a dim view of people getting buried in parking lots.

 

 

The heavies

MOUSTAFA Ismail, of Franklin, Massachusetts, is a muscleman to beat 'em all. The Guinness Book of Records credits him with the world's largest biceps and triceps - a total circumference of 64.8cm (25.5inches), which gives his arms a greater circumference than the average human head.

Professional sumo wrestler Sharran Alexander, from London, is named the world's heaviest sportswoman, weighing in at 203.2kg.

Moustafa and Sharran sound just the pair that is needed to sort out the bother at Marikana mine.

Owlish monkeys

A NEW SPECIES of monkey – the Lesula - has been identified in the Congo. Its face looks very much like an owl's and it lives in a remote forest range where it feeds on leaf stalks, fruit and flower buds.

It keeps very much to itself. It does not raid people's homes for sweets and nuts; it does not dive into swimming pools or raid fruit trees and herb gardens. It does not tease Irish terriers to distraction.

Hmmm. Not at all like our vervets. Should these owlish monkeys not be introduced to Durban where they could at least teach our local species better manners by example? Could they be hired as a sort of monkey mercenary force to keep order in the treetops?

Probably not. These Lesulas are quite clearly intellectuals, no match at all for our hooligan vervets. A luta continhua!

Red wine

OVERHEARD at the Street Shelter for the Over-40s: "Never have red wine with fish. I tried it and my fish died."

 

Tailpiece

 

A YOUNG Scots laddie and lassie are sitting on a low stone wall holding hands, gazing out over the loch.

"A penny for your thoughts, Angus."

"Well, I was thinkin'... perhaps it's aboot time for a wee kiss."

The girl blushes, leans over and kisses him lightly on the cheek. He blushes. The two again gaze out over the loch.

"Another penny for your thoughts, Angus."

"Well, I was thinkin' perhaps it's noo aboot time for a wee cuddle."

 

She blushes, leans over and cuddles him for a few seconds. He blushes. The two again gaze out over the loch.

"Another penny for your thoughts, Angus."

"Well, I was thinkin' perhaps it's aboot time you let me put my hand on your leg."

She blushes, takes his hand and puts it on her knee. He blushes. They again gaze out over the loch.

"Another penny for your thoughts, Angus."

"Well, noo my thoughts are a wee bit more serious."

"Really?" she whispers.

"Aye."

She looks away in shyness and begins to blush furiously. She bites her lip in anticipation.

He adds: "Dae ye nae think it's aboot time ye paid me the first three pennies?"

 

Last word

A superstition is a premature explanation that overstays its time.

George Iles

 

The Idler, Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Mars exploration - latest

 

NASA'S rover exploration vehicle on Mars is going about the place sniffing the atmosphere, digging in the dirt and sending back photographs. Fascinating stuff, no doubt, but where is it getting us?

 

Stargazing correspondent Richard Siedle brings us up to date on the latest and answers some of the questions.

 

Why, he asks rhetorically, is mankind going to so much trouble and expense to explore Mars and other planets? He cites astrophysicist Carl Sagan.

 

"While Mars has limited oxygen, no liquid water and high ultraviolet flux, all these problems could be solved if we could make more air. With higher atmospheric pressures, liquid water would be possible. With oxygen we might breathe the atmosphere, the ozone would form to shield the surface from solar ultraviolet radiation.

 

"This could be achieved if we find a way to vaporise the polar ice caps by heating them. The best way, Sagan says, would be by planting dark coloured plants such as lichens on the polar caps, which would root and multiply until the polar caps are covered.

 

"The ice will then slowly melt and irrigation canals could be built for the water to flow into the barren regions and slowly the surface of Mars could be transformed into a habitable environment.

 

"I don't know what Nasa are thinking about but this is a fantastic thought especially if our own world becomes too polluted due to global warming and overcrowding."

 

It's good to know the thing is not aimless; that Nasa have a concrete plan. But surely they need somebody to oversee on the spot and report back on this no doubt protracted process of lichens melting the polar icecaps on Mars.

 

Who better than Ju-Ju? He seems to be at a bit of a loose end these days.

 

Monkey war

THE WAR ON monkeys ebbs and flows like a Tolstoy novel. One reader tells me I'm wasting my time squirting the garden hose at them because they love water; they actually perform swallow dives into her pool and swim lengths doing butterfly, Australian crawl and backstroke.

Now Hettie Crous tells me I'm doing exactly the right thing. She herself squirted her monkeys with the garden hose. It took a long time but eventually they got the message and they now give her garden a miss.

Garden hoses, bagpipes, Irish terriers. A luta continhua!

Gripe sheets

PILOTS fill out a form called a "Gripe Sheet" which tells aircraft mechanics about problems. The mechanics correct the problems and document their repairs. The pilots review the Gripe Sheet before the next flight.

Here are some maintenance complaints submitted by pilots (P) and the solutions recorded (S).

P: Left inside main tyre almost needs replacement.
S: Almost replaced left inside main tyre.

P: Test flight OK, except auto-land very rough.
S: Auto-land not installed on this aircraft.

P: Something loose in cockpit.
S: Something tightened in cockpit.

P: Dead bugs on windshield.
S: Live bugs on order.

P: Autopilot in altitude-hold mode produces a 200 feet per minute descent.
S: Cannot reproduce problem on ground.

P: Evidence of leak on right main landing gear.
S: Evidence removed.

P: DME volume unbelievably loud.
S: DME volume set to more believable level.

P: Friction locks cause throttle levers to stick.
S: That's what friction locks are for.

P: IFF inoperative in OFF mode.
S: IFF always inoperative in OFF mode.

P: Suspected crack in windshield.
S: Suspect you're right.

P: Number 3 engine missing.
S: Engine found on right wing after brief search.

P: Aircraft handles funny.
S: Aircraft warned to straighten up, fly right, and be serious.

P: Target radar hums.
S: Reprogrammed target radar with lyrics.

P: Mouse in cockpit.
S: Cat installed.

P: Noise coming from under instrument panel. Sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.
S: Took hammer away from midget.

 

 

 

Tailpiece

A MIND reader is at a nightclub and jots down the thoughts of the musicians in the band.

Lead guitarist: "Wow! Look at all those chicks! Must chat some of them up in my break."

Drummer: "Wow! Look at all the people! Lotsa boodle tonight!"

Keyboard player: "These other three idiots don't realise what a genius I am."

Bass player: "C … G …C … G … C … G …"

Last word

Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain.

Friedrich von Schiller

 

The Idler, Monday, September 17, 2012

Heyneke's shove ha'penny   WHAT a display of two-dimensional ineptitude by the Boks on Saturday. But some are blaming the venue. When you play rugby at a place with a name like Forsyth's Barr, the fellows don't know whether they're supposed to be playing darts, shove ha'penny or bok-bok.   "Looks at the scoreboard, man!" Springbok Boy Louw used to riposte in days of yore when the game plan was criticised. Well, we's looksing. And it doesn't looks so good.   The old order changeth, yielding place to new … in New Zealand, kick and chase rugby – as developed by the Blue Bulls - shows itself to be absolutely passé. In Kimberley, the Griquas grind the once-mighty Blue Bulls Currie Cup side into the devilthorns and dust.   The old order changeth … but nobody's told Heyneke.   Paddyfield   MEANWHILE, rugby made a splash in Durban with the first-ever Currie Cup match in a paddyfield. Our blokes showed themselves to be more adept at converting to being water buffalo than Western Province did and at times seemed to be actually enjoying themselves duck-diving and throwing about that large, slippery, oval-shaped piece of soap they call a ball.   Also a first – I'm sure – was Province finishing with 12 men on the field. You couldn't help laughing in those final moments as five Province guys scrummed down ankle-deep in water against our eight, just 5m from their line.   But the Province fellows didn't find it at all funny. In fact it was their total lack of humour that earned them two red cards and one yellow.   A sad day for rugby. Ha, ha, ha! Hee, hee! Hoo, hoo, hoo!   Oh dear!     Guerilla war   DURBAN'S vervet monkeys have adopted diversionary tactics in their guerrilla war. Last week Mandy le Roux told us how they keep invading her pool area.   Since then they've stepped things up, While she was chasing a group of them from her herb garden, the main force was going in through the front door of the house. They chowed jelly tots, chocolate-coated peanuts and liquorice balls set up on a table near the TV set and made off with a dispenser of dental floss.   While I suppose it's encouraging to know that monkeys are sticklers for dental hygiene, most of us probably would still prefer that they don't invade our homes to practise it.   Mandy says my idea of playing the bagpipes seems unlikely to work either. Somebody regularly practises on the bagpipes in her area, south of Durban, and if anything it has activated the monkeys.   Sadly, I have to agree. With the monkeys in their present mood, the bagpipes would probably just prompt them into derisive performances of the highland fling. Perhaps I will have to get another Irish terrier after all.   Horror attack MIND you, my old friend Derek Taylor advises against such a course. He says he still bears the scars on his arm from when – while still a baby – an Irish terrier tried to bury him alive in a flower bed. "I was reclining in my pram in the garden at the age of seven months, when an Irish terrier named Mick, owned by my dog-loving but ill-informed mother, reared on his hind-legs and extracted me from the vehicle by the left arm. I can still show the tooth marks to this day. "I gave voice. My mother hastily abandoned the fag, cup of tea and novel in which she was indulging and retrieved me from a shallow hole in a flower bed near the pram. "In later life when I inquired about this incident, she explained: 'He wasn't trying to hurt you. He was jealous and just trying to bury you.' "Do you really wish to turn your garden into a cemetery for vervet monkeys and the smaller human beings belonging to your neighbours? I advise against it." I don't want to offend Derek, but you can't fool Irish terriers. They know a monkey when they see one.

 

Tailpiece

PADDY arrives at a fancy dress party a little the worse for wear and with a girl draped over his back. He announces that he's come as a tortoise.

Host: "Who's that on your back?"

Paddy: "Dat's Michelle."

Last word

The worst sin toward our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that's the essence of inhumanity.

George Bernard Shaw

 

The Idler, Friday, September 14, 2012

More monkey biz

 

IT SEEMS I'm wasting my time squirting the garden hose at vervet monkeys. Reader Mandy le Roux says she lives on the edge of the Stainbank Nature Reserve, where the monkeys have beautiful indigenous forest in which to forage, yet they won't stay out of her garden.

 

And they seem to love water. They even dive into her swimming pool, treating the pool area as a holiday resort.

 

Yes, I get her point. I was beginning to doubt the hose-squirting tactic anyway because the monkeys were starting to turn up wearing shower caps and carrying towels and bars of soap.

 

What do I do? Get another Irish terrier? Take up playing the bagpipes? How does one discourage these pests?

 

Meanwhile, my advice to Mandy is to get Chad le Clos around to take a look at those diving, swimming monkeys. This could be Olympic talent just waiting to be harnessed.

 

 

Bagpipes it is

 

THERE is probably no better deterrent to monkeys than an Irish terrier. Mine hated them with a passion. He would leap into the lower branches of the trees trying to get at them; he would run up perpendicular walls at them until the law of gravity asserted itself, the whole time shrieking with fury.

 

They would never have dared run on the lawns and open the birdseed bins the way they do now.

 

But there is a downside with Irish terriers. Mine was barred from three pubs for bad behaviour. He had a police record for disturbing the peace. And he was so astonishingly handsome – wiry ginger hair and athletic in build – that pretty girls would stop me and get into conversation about him and ask if they might pat him. It could become very tedious.

 

So maybe I'll try the bagpipes after all to drive away the monkeys. I'll first consult the neighbours, find out which tunes they like.

 

Sex changers

SCIENTISTS have discovered a cross-dressing mollusc in the Antarctic. They'd known about the bivalve Lissarca miliaris since 1845 but only now have scientists from the National Oceanography Centre in Southampton, England, discovered its astonishing scecret. Some of the males change sex to efficiently reproduce in the extremely cold ocean.

 

"Hermaphroditism is not necessarily uncommon in Antarctic bivalves, and with many species still to study there may be many more to describe," says researcher Adam Reed.

And not just in the Antarctic. He should take a look at what goes on in some of the less inhibited bars of Durban. Hoo boy!

Love padlocks

THOUSANDS of "love padlocks" on a Roman bridge are being removed with bolt-cutters in order to protect the ancient structure. Couples have been decorating the Ponte Milvio bridge on the river Tiber with locks to symbolise the locking of hearts,

But the  city authorities now say rust from the locks, which hang off chains, is harming the fabric of the ancient bridge. The locks have to go.

But it's causing a bit of a fuss. The city authorities are accused of lacking romantic sentiment.

It somehow reminds me of an incident involving my old pal Tom Dennen, who writes in occasionally. He used to drive a beat-up old VW which he would park outside his local pub.

As a precaution against theft, he had a chain and padlock which he would pass around the axle and a lamp post. One evening he came out and the chain and padlock were stolen. The car was still standing there.

Tom was so insulted he took off to his native America for quite a while. (I guess I'll be hearing from him again).

 

 

Tailpiece

THIS chap goes into a doctor's rooms and the receptionist asks what he has.

 

"Shingles."

 

She writes down his details and tells him to take a seat.. A nurse aide asks what he has.

 

"Shingles."

She weighs him and measures his height. She tells him to wait in the examining room.

 

A a nurse comes in and asks what he has.

 

"Shingles."

 

So she gives him a blood test, a blood pressure test and an electrocardiogram. She tells him to take off all his clothes and wait for the doctor.

The doctor comes in and finds him sitting patiently in the nude. He asks what he has.

"Shingles."

 

"Where?"
"Outside on the truck. Where do you want me to offload 'em?"

 

Last word

Reason has always existed, but not always in a reasonable form.

Karl Marx