And now for the 3rd chapter in my fathers chronicles of a semi misspent youth...
Chapter 3-Dance a little bit to the Bop, to the Bop.
Saturday night was session time. Sports Clubs raised money by organizing dances where people danced to records played on a radiogram, a combination of radio and record player built into a cabinet with a speaker. These record players could play 78rpm shellac discs stacked onto a pin in the centre of the turntable or LP’s (long players-33 1/3rpm records only recently obsolete). Some could play EP’s (extended play records turning at 45rpm with two cuts per side) but the point was you came to jive, meet girls and pose with your mates.
People also organized Saturday night parties for invited friends and if you were brave, to took your own records to add to the music. The 78rpm shellac discs broke easily if they were dropped or mishandled. This didn’t stop people from bringing them though.
It was very important to make the proper entrance to these events. We’d arrive on five or six bikes and sit and rev the motors a few times before cutting the engines. This let everybody know that the bad guys had arrived, and we’d gather outside before walking through the door. Three paces through the door and you’d stop, check out the scene and comb your hair to show that you were the brekers who had come on the bikes. Once all the gang were through the door and had checked the hall for potential enemies from other towns, you’d have to find space on the chairs arranged around the room. The best scheme was to find some mates and move things about or intimidate some lesser unfortunates into moving.
Now came the interesting part. The unaccompanied guys sat on one side of the hall and the babes on the other. You’ scope them out, walk across to the chosen one and tune “Howzit, do you wanna dance?” With luck she’d say ”yes” and you were away.
Jiving had a little more contact than today’s popular dance styles with about five basic moves. Good dancers put their own variations into these moves and if a couple were dancing well, the other dancers would form a circle around them, clapping in time to the music and shouting encouragement.
By mid–evening some jollers would be smoking those strange cigarettes again and would be getting very restless and loud. Booze wasn’t allowed at these dos but some okies smuggled in their own dop in a half-jack bottle wrapped in brown paper. I never discovered what the brown paper was supposed to achieve, it was pretty obvious what they were up to, but I guess it made them feel terribly devious and bad. “Check me out, ous, I’m drinking this dop and nobody knows because it’s wrapped in brown paper”.
By about 11 o’clock the ous would be a bit smoked and would decide to go and soek some grief in town. Out to the bikes and five or six of us rumbling slowly through the streets, looking for trouble. Riding past the Plaza scopes, the Town Hall looking for anyone checking us skeef and on to other known session venues to find a party to crash.
The best jol was to ride to another town and pull up outside a session where a lot of bikes were parked. We’d sit on the bikes revving the motors and watching the entrance. The local jollers would burst through the entrance to answer the challenge and go for their bikes. Inter-town rivalry was intense and often led to some serious boxing in the streets as the manne sorted out their territorial conflicts.
We’d wait until they’d almost got started, drop the clutches and thunder off into the night. Hurtling down Main Reef Road at midnight sitting behind a half gerookde breker with no fear, pursued by ten irate Germiston ducktails is not the sort of thing you tell your mother about. Fortunately we never got caught and we’d rock up at the session with adrenalin pumping through the system. I never needed boom or dop, they only slow you down and, even better, adrenalin doesn’t give you a hangover.
Another great joll was going to the ‘scopes in Johies, especially to an Elvis movie. Jailhouse Rock brought all the manne out. Unless you rocked up three hours early and stood in a huge queue, you missed out. The street outside the cinema was packed with bikes, at least a hundred, parked at right angles to the pavement which was full of people. Even the press was there, taking photos for tomorrow’s papers. The atmosphere inside was charged with excitement. We were going to see our own boy Elvis. It’s amazing now that one person could stir up such a frenzy of emotion, but nothing like this had happened before. We’d had Frank Sinatra in America but he was an old man now and a crooner to boot, boring when compared to Rock and Roll.
Johnny “Cry Baby” Ray had girls fainting at his shows, but the Elvis phenomenon was our first taste of mass hysteria. When he came onto the screen for the first time, half the girls in the audience screamed with emotion and the guys cheered, such was his presence. He represented the non-conformist rebel we all felt we were. And what’s more, he looked the part, dark, brooding and a loner, misunderstood and dangerous. It was marketing at its most successful.
Coming out of the cinema into the bright street lights, being part of the noise and excitement of the bikes starting up together and roaring out into the city was an experience hard to top even in these much more sophisticated times. The traffic just had to wait while a hundred bikes started up and peeled out into the street. Gene Vincent said it all for us when he sang:
“Say Mamma, Can I go out tonight?
Say Mamma, will that be all right?
They’ve got a rockin’ party going down the street,
Say Mamma, can you hear that beat?
Woah woah woo woo woah woah woo woo woah.”
(Note for everyone else. In south African slang an "Ou" is another word for guy, "Joll" means party or fun and "Cherries" refers to members of the female persuasion)
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Memeshness In The Lair
Just thought I'd add this one in as well seeing as one or two out there didn'y know who else would play.
This might add some more info on ye olde Cave Troll for the interested
WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? No.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? When I last saw Schindlers list and whenever I read the paper and then have to be told its illegal to beat 182 kinds of snot out of our government members
DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? So thats what those squiggles are i was wondering about tha... holy S$)^ that's last weeks due work AAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? A good, well spiced german salami
DO YOU HAVE KIDS? Never in my life will I do that to myself
IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Possibly
DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Not at all... No Really I don't.... yaaahsodoff....
DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? No.
WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Again.... Yes, would prefer to try base jumping though
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Woolworths in SA have a wonderful chocolate and muesli cluster thingy... add choc nesquik and milk and off you go
DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?Untie or unbuckle depending if its a shoe or boot
DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? Strong but not enough yet for my liking
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? Cherry Vanilla
WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?I try not to but usually attitude and their ability to speak english (if they are native speakers that is) correctly, and most importantly their sense of humour
RED OR PINK? Black edged with purple or silver
WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? Lets leave that one shall we... My temper is particularly bad
WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My mind
WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? Black and... wait for it... black (predictable or what)
WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE? Cottage Pie with loads of shredded cheese
WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? "Sin" by NIN just ended, "and "gothic Girl" by 69 Eyes is about half way through, next up is "Vampire Club" by Voltaire
IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?Hmmmm the one that happens after you've left the box in the sun and some of them melt together
FAVORITE SMELLS? Leather, A hot engined Racing motorcycle Clean long hair on my Fiance, Antique books and the nose on a particularly good Irish Whiskey
WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? The Estate agent
FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH? Moto gp, world cup cricket and any fighting sport except karate
HAIR COLOR[S]? Black (natural)
EYE COLOR? Green and yellow
DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Yes.
FAVORITE FOOD? Proper sushi but just about anything Asian
SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Scary Movies ( no not typical slasher things where the bad guy should be shot by the end of scene one but vaguely demonic type stuff like prophecy.. hellraiser etc
LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? In a theater? Ghost Rider. At home? BloodRayne.
WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? And once again its.....Black
SUMMER OR WINTER? Winter I prefer the cold so that I am able to think
HUGS OR KISSES? Depends on the mood
FAVORITE DESSERT? Chocolate Delight with Special Secret Sauce (My thanks to Nanny Ogg for that one)
MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Wouldn't have a clue
LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? See the one up there? Yep the same...
WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? Re reading Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and the Athiest Manifesto
WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? Its Green with MECS Africa project support on it in white. Well it was free at work
WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT? The News
FAVORITE SOUND[S]? Unsilenced Motorcycles and good music (goth to the rest of you)
ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Ummmm only one or two songs from the Rolling stones
WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? Antalya Turkey
DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? Er I manage to haul people out if bouts of depression???? oh I can sing... Bass to Baritone
WHERE WERE YOU BORN? Cork Ireland (although Lived almost all of me life in 'orrible South Africa)
WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK? Somebody's??
This might add some more info on ye olde Cave Troll for the interested
WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? No.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? When I last saw Schindlers list and whenever I read the paper and then have to be told its illegal to beat 182 kinds of snot out of our government members
DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? So thats what those squiggles are i was wondering about tha... holy S$)^ that's last weeks due work AAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? A good, well spiced german salami
DO YOU HAVE KIDS? Never in my life will I do that to myself
IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Possibly
DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Not at all... No Really I don't.... yaaahsodoff....
DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? No.
WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Again.... Yes, would prefer to try base jumping though
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Woolworths in SA have a wonderful chocolate and muesli cluster thingy... add choc nesquik and milk and off you go
DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?Untie or unbuckle depending if its a shoe or boot
DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? Strong but not enough yet for my liking
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? Cherry Vanilla
WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?I try not to but usually attitude and their ability to speak english (if they are native speakers that is) correctly, and most importantly their sense of humour
RED OR PINK? Black edged with purple or silver
WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? Lets leave that one shall we... My temper is particularly bad
WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My mind
WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? Black and... wait for it... black (predictable or what)
WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE? Cottage Pie with loads of shredded cheese
WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? "Sin" by NIN just ended, "and "gothic Girl" by 69 Eyes is about half way through, next up is "Vampire Club" by Voltaire
IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?Hmmmm the one that happens after you've left the box in the sun and some of them melt together
FAVORITE SMELLS? Leather, A hot engined Racing motorcycle Clean long hair on my Fiance, Antique books and the nose on a particularly good Irish Whiskey
WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? The Estate agent
FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH? Moto gp, world cup cricket and any fighting sport except karate
HAIR COLOR[S]? Black (natural)
EYE COLOR? Green and yellow
DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Yes.
FAVORITE FOOD? Proper sushi but just about anything Asian
SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Scary Movies ( no not typical slasher things where the bad guy should be shot by the end of scene one but vaguely demonic type stuff like prophecy.. hellraiser etc
LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? In a theater? Ghost Rider. At home? BloodRayne.
WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? And once again its.....Black
SUMMER OR WINTER? Winter I prefer the cold so that I am able to think
HUGS OR KISSES? Depends on the mood
FAVORITE DESSERT? Chocolate Delight with Special Secret Sauce (My thanks to Nanny Ogg for that one)
MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Wouldn't have a clue
LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? See the one up there? Yep the same...
WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? Re reading Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and the Athiest Manifesto
WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? Its Green with MECS Africa project support on it in white. Well it was free at work
WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT? The News
FAVORITE SOUND[S]? Unsilenced Motorcycles and good music (goth to the rest of you)
ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Ummmm only one or two songs from the Rolling stones
WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? Antalya Turkey
DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? Er I manage to haul people out if bouts of depression???? oh I can sing... Bass to Baritone
WHERE WERE YOU BORN? Cork Ireland (although Lived almost all of me life in 'orrible South Africa)
WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK? Somebody's??
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
*Sigh* I wish it were me....
First off an apology for not writing in the last couple of days... Seems me stomach had an invasion of dwarfs with flamethrowers so was not a happy chap... ah well all sorted now.
The folks Flew off yesterday in the wee hours for a pootle around France for three weeks visisting medievil towns and palaces, the beaches of Normandy, beauitiful countryside and of course much of Paris including the awesome majesty of the Louvre....
I want to go too!!!
I know I am possibly a little too old for a temper tantrum but I'm kicking my feet and banging my club on the floor in pure Jealousy!!!
They deserve the Holiday though. Nigh on three decades of putting up with me and 45 years at work has left my father saying enough! He wants to now build his classic racing motorcycles (yes note the plural we have 4 collectively, possibly more on that at a later stage) and maybe get round to fixing the damnedable 1976 Jaguar parked in the garage...
Happy Fathers Day dad albeit a bit late and I hope you enjoy the trip to beautiful France.
Cave Troll
The folks Flew off yesterday in the wee hours for a pootle around France for three weeks visisting medievil towns and palaces, the beaches of Normandy, beauitiful countryside and of course much of Paris including the awesome majesty of the Louvre....
I want to go too!!!
I know I am possibly a little too old for a temper tantrum but I'm kicking my feet and banging my club on the floor in pure Jealousy!!!
They deserve the Holiday though. Nigh on three decades of putting up with me and 45 years at work has left my father saying enough! He wants to now build his classic racing motorcycles (yes note the plural we have 4 collectively, possibly more on that at a later stage) and maybe get round to fixing the damnedable 1976 Jaguar parked in the garage...
Happy Fathers Day dad albeit a bit late and I hope you enjoy the trip to beautiful France.
Cave Troll
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Theatrical Tricks
My soon to be lovely lady wife and I somehow managed to get onto the topic of strip clubs (still trying to work out how that one happened) and as a result I was subsequently mugged down memory lane.
First off I'm not a fan of strip clubs they seem vaguely pointless to me but I had one or rwo friends that dragged me to one on the odd occasion. Nothing of interest happened, one or two guys got thrown out and I fired twenty questions at the dancers but all in all rather quiet.
... Not s this little story though
When I was still a fairly strapping young lad, about 5 years ago, I was studying a completely different field to the one I now work in. I used to be a lighting technician for theatre, concerts etc and studied that. Was pretty Durn good at it too.
As a result, a friend of mine and myself were asked to work in one of the bigger of the above clubs for a ladies night featuring some international dancers to impress the ladies presen. (a good load of money and free drinks were part of the package.
Upon arrival we noticed one or two odd things about the place. The bar was caged. The dressing room was gaurded and locked. The lighting and DJ booth was completely caged with an open section to the side big enough for a waitress to pass a drink through or something of that size...
Right... ok...
This was distinctly odd.. 'Other male orientated venues don't have this so what the Heeeelll is this' we asked ourselves. The owner just laughed and said we would find out in due course.
By the Pantheon did we find out!!!!
It all started out well, we did our setup checked everything and had a drink or two before the start and the Lady viewers started arriving. Now both of us had long hair and semi goatee style whiskers and 2 years lugging heavy lighting and sound equipment had toned us both quite nicely so the ladies gave a few catcalls etc. Nothing unexpected barring some of those comments coming from 70 year old ladies was a touch unnerving.
The show started and the ladies started hitting the bar...
Things got a little wild after that.
As soon as the last item of clothing dropped from the last dancer he promptly fled to the back and they locked themselves in. We had discovered the reason for the locked cages.
The women had been getting wilder as the entertainment progressed. As soon as the show finished they went completely spare, rushing the stage, and trying to get us out of our little hidey hole.
Both of us stand over 6 feet in height and as I say were rather fit but we were both scared out of our soggy little minds! One worthy was even trying to jemmy the lock on our gate with a steel ashtray!
We only climbed out once we were assured that not only had the audience left the building but left the parking lot as well!! we decided to take the owner up on his free drinks part of the payment to steady our somewhat frazzled nerves all the while with him laughing like a heyena the bloody time!!!
Never again
Never ever again...
Cave Troll
First off I'm not a fan of strip clubs they seem vaguely pointless to me but I had one or rwo friends that dragged me to one on the odd occasion. Nothing of interest happened, one or two guys got thrown out and I fired twenty questions at the dancers but all in all rather quiet.
... Not s this little story though
When I was still a fairly strapping young lad, about 5 years ago, I was studying a completely different field to the one I now work in. I used to be a lighting technician for theatre, concerts etc and studied that. Was pretty Durn good at it too.
As a result, a friend of mine and myself were asked to work in one of the bigger of the above clubs for a ladies night featuring some international dancers to impress the ladies presen. (a good load of money and free drinks were part of the package.
Upon arrival we noticed one or two odd things about the place. The bar was caged. The dressing room was gaurded and locked. The lighting and DJ booth was completely caged with an open section to the side big enough for a waitress to pass a drink through or something of that size...
Right... ok...
This was distinctly odd.. 'Other male orientated venues don't have this so what the Heeeelll is this' we asked ourselves. The owner just laughed and said we would find out in due course.
By the Pantheon did we find out!!!!
It all started out well, we did our setup checked everything and had a drink or two before the start and the Lady viewers started arriving. Now both of us had long hair and semi goatee style whiskers and 2 years lugging heavy lighting and sound equipment had toned us both quite nicely so the ladies gave a few catcalls etc. Nothing unexpected barring some of those comments coming from 70 year old ladies was a touch unnerving.
The show started and the ladies started hitting the bar...
Things got a little wild after that.
As soon as the last item of clothing dropped from the last dancer he promptly fled to the back and they locked themselves in. We had discovered the reason for the locked cages.
The women had been getting wilder as the entertainment progressed. As soon as the show finished they went completely spare, rushing the stage, and trying to get us out of our little hidey hole.
Both of us stand over 6 feet in height and as I say were rather fit but we were both scared out of our soggy little minds! One worthy was even trying to jemmy the lock on our gate with a steel ashtray!
We only climbed out once we were assured that not only had the audience left the building but left the parking lot as well!! we decided to take the owner up on his free drinks part of the payment to steady our somewhat frazzled nerves all the while with him laughing like a heyena the bloody time!!!
Never again
Never ever again...
Cave Troll
What the.....
Ah powerfauilures... Great for alittle candellit romance a hot bath with the remaining hot water in the geyser and some grade A cuddling.
All absolutely wonderful ideas for an evenings power failure but not somehow for a week.
Yes people, here in 'Sunny South Africa' someone somewhere close to my work and home managed to blow up a couple of Transformers at the big distributing substation for the area... and it was NOT terrorism but rather poor to non existant maintanance... http://www.iol.co.za/ can show you all the glorius pictures etc, with the story but don't believe their accusations of foul play. The south African government loves doing that whenever they might be shown to be completely bloody stupid.
*sigh*
Am I ranting too much?
Is it too much to expect ye old tax dollar going toward good governance rather than huge parties over at the govs house?
Seems that way
I would protest and not pay taxes but I'll land up in the klink which I'd rather avoid... too big to fit :) heh heh
One of these days I'll post an "If I was President" post but that might get me in trouble with the human rights people... again
Cave Troll
All absolutely wonderful ideas for an evenings power failure but not somehow for a week.
Yes people, here in 'Sunny South Africa' someone somewhere close to my work and home managed to blow up a couple of Transformers at the big distributing substation for the area... and it was NOT terrorism but rather poor to non existant maintanance... http://www.iol.co.za/ can show you all the glorius pictures etc, with the story but don't believe their accusations of foul play. The south African government loves doing that whenever they might be shown to be completely bloody stupid.
*sigh*
Am I ranting too much?
Is it too much to expect ye old tax dollar going toward good governance rather than huge parties over at the govs house?
Seems that way
I would protest and not pay taxes but I'll land up in the klink which I'd rather avoid... too big to fit :) heh heh
One of these days I'll post an "If I was President" post but that might get me in trouble with the human rights people... again
Cave Troll
Monday, June 11, 2007
I'm who?!?!?!?!?!
Hmmmmm... the complete and utter nerd in me suggested that I REALLY wanted to try the this little one out after seeing it on another blog.
The results were rather odd i thought but oh well... I have a lobster on my head then...
Your results:You are Worf
Worf
100%
100%
Will Riker
85%
85%
James T. Kirk (Captain)
75%
75%
Jean-Luc Picard
75%
75%
Chekov
70%
70%
Mr. Sulu
70%
70%
Mr. Scott
60%
60%
Geordi LaForge
60%
60%
An Expendable Character (Redshirt)
60%
60%
Spock
59%
59%
Leonard McCoy (Bones)
50%
50%
Data
48%
48%
Uhura
40%
40%
Deanna Troi
35%
35%
Beverly Crusher
25%
25%
You are trained in the art of combatand are usually intimidating.
on the other hand...
Cave Troll
New site and old stories
\Greetings all
Just changed over to the blogger site from another seems to be a fair whack more user friendly.
Right on with the... whatever...
For those keeping pace with my old mans troublemaking back in the 50's and 60's I give you chapter 3 in the continuing saga:
Chapter 3-Dance a little bit to the Bop, to the Bop.
Saturday night was session time. Sports Clubs raised money by organizing dances where people danced to records played on a radiogram, a combination of radio and record player built into a cabinet with a speaker. These record players could play 78rpm shellac discs stacked onto a pin in the centre of the turntable or LP’s (long players-33 1/3rpm records only recently obsolete). Some could play EP’s (extended play records turning at 45rpm with two cuts per side) but the point was you came to jive, meet girls and pose with your mates.
People also organized Saturday night parties for invited friends and if you were brave, to took your own records to add to the music. The 78rpm shellac discs broke easily if they were dropped or mishandled. This didn’t stop people from bringing them though.
It was very important to make the proper entrance to these events. We’d arrive on five or six bikes and sit and rev the motors a few times before cutting the engines. This let everybody know that the bad guys had arrived, and we’d gather outside before walking through the door. Three paces through the door and you’d stop, check out the scene and comb your hair to show that you were the brekers who had come on the bikes. Once all the gang were through the door and had checked the hall for potential enemies from other towns, you’d have to find space on the chairs arranged around the room. The best scheme was to find some mates and move things about or intimidate some lesser unfortunates into moving.
Now came the interesting part. The unaccompanied guys sat on one side of the hall and the babes on the other. You’ scope them out, walk across to the chosen one and tune “Howzit, do you wanna dance?” With luck she’d say ”yes” and you were away.
Jiving had a little more contact than today’s popular dance styles with about five basic moves. Good dancers put their own variations into these moves and if a couple were dancing well, the other dancers would form a circle around them, clapping in time to the music and shouting encouragement.
By mid–evening some jollers would be smoking those strange cigarettes again and would be getting very restless and loud. Booze wasn’t allowed at these dos but some okies smuggled in their own dop in a half-jack bottle wrapped in brown paper. I never discovered what the brown paper was supposed to achieve, it was pretty obvious what they were up to, but I guess it made them feel terribly devious and bad. “Check me out, ous, I’m drinking this dop and nobody knows because it’s wrapped in brown paper”.
By about 11 o’clock the ous would be a bit gerook and would decide to go and soek some grief in town. Out to the bikes and five or six of us rumbling slowly through the streets, looking for trouble. Riding past the Plaza scopes, the Town Hall looking for anyone checking us skeef and on to other known session venues to find a party to crash.
The best jol was to ride to another town and pull up outside a session where a lot of bikes were parked. We’d sit on the bikes revving the motors and watching the entrance. The local jollers would burst through the entrance to answer the challenge and go for their bikes. Inter-town rivalry was intense and often led to some serious boxing in the streets as the manne sorted out their territorial conflicts.
We’d wait until they’d almost got started, drop the clutches and thunder off into the night. Hurtling down Main Reef Road at midnight sitting behind a half gerookde breker with no fear, pursued by ten irate Germiston ducktails is not the sort of thing you tell your mother about. Fortunately we never got caught and we’d rock up at the session with adrenalin pumping through the system. I never needed boom or dop, they only slow you down and, even better, adrenalin doesn’t give you a hangover.
Another great joll was going to the ‘scopes in Johies, especially to an Elvis movie. Jailhouse Rock brought all the manne out. Unless you rocked up three hours early and stood in a huge queue, you missed out. The street outside the cinema was packed with bikes, at least a hundred, parked at right angles to the pavement which was full of people. Even the press was there, taking photos for tomorrow’s papers. The atmosphere inside was charged with excitement. We were going to see our own boy Elvis. It’s amazing now that one person could stir up such a frenzy of emotion, but nothing like this had happened before. We’d had Frank Sinatra in America but he was an old man now and a crooner to boot, boring when compared to Rock and Roll.
Johnny “Cry Baby” Ray had girls fainting at his shows, but the Elvis phenomenon was our first taste of mass hysteria. When he came onto the screen for the first time, half the girls in the audience screamed with emotion and the guys cheered, such was his presence. He represented the non-conformist rebel we all felt we were. And what’s more, he looked the part, dark, brooding and a loner, misunderstood and dangerous. It was marketing at its most successful.
Coming out of the cinema into the bright street lights, being part of the noise and excitement of the bikes starting up together and roaring out into the city was an experience hard to top even in these much more sophisticated times. The traffic just had to wait while a hundred bikes started up and peeled out into the street. Gene Vincent said it all for us when he sang:
“Say Mamma, Can I go out tonight?
Say Mamma, will that be all right?
They’ve got a rockin’ party going down the street,
Say Mamma, can you hear that beat?
Woah woah woo woo woah woah woo woo woah.”
Just changed over to the blogger site from another seems to be a fair whack more user friendly.
Right on with the... whatever...
For those keeping pace with my old mans troublemaking back in the 50's and 60's I give you chapter 3 in the continuing saga:
Chapter 3-Dance a little bit to the Bop, to the Bop.
Saturday night was session time. Sports Clubs raised money by organizing dances where people danced to records played on a radiogram, a combination of radio and record player built into a cabinet with a speaker. These record players could play 78rpm shellac discs stacked onto a pin in the centre of the turntable or LP’s (long players-33 1/3rpm records only recently obsolete). Some could play EP’s (extended play records turning at 45rpm with two cuts per side) but the point was you came to jive, meet girls and pose with your mates.
People also organized Saturday night parties for invited friends and if you were brave, to took your own records to add to the music. The 78rpm shellac discs broke easily if they were dropped or mishandled. This didn’t stop people from bringing them though.
It was very important to make the proper entrance to these events. We’d arrive on five or six bikes and sit and rev the motors a few times before cutting the engines. This let everybody know that the bad guys had arrived, and we’d gather outside before walking through the door. Three paces through the door and you’d stop, check out the scene and comb your hair to show that you were the brekers who had come on the bikes. Once all the gang were through the door and had checked the hall for potential enemies from other towns, you’d have to find space on the chairs arranged around the room. The best scheme was to find some mates and move things about or intimidate some lesser unfortunates into moving.
Now came the interesting part. The unaccompanied guys sat on one side of the hall and the babes on the other. You’ scope them out, walk across to the chosen one and tune “Howzit, do you wanna dance?” With luck she’d say ”yes” and you were away.
Jiving had a little more contact than today’s popular dance styles with about five basic moves. Good dancers put their own variations into these moves and if a couple were dancing well, the other dancers would form a circle around them, clapping in time to the music and shouting encouragement.
By mid–evening some jollers would be smoking those strange cigarettes again and would be getting very restless and loud. Booze wasn’t allowed at these dos but some okies smuggled in their own dop in a half-jack bottle wrapped in brown paper. I never discovered what the brown paper was supposed to achieve, it was pretty obvious what they were up to, but I guess it made them feel terribly devious and bad. “Check me out, ous, I’m drinking this dop and nobody knows because it’s wrapped in brown paper”.
By about 11 o’clock the ous would be a bit gerook and would decide to go and soek some grief in town. Out to the bikes and five or six of us rumbling slowly through the streets, looking for trouble. Riding past the Plaza scopes, the Town Hall looking for anyone checking us skeef and on to other known session venues to find a party to crash.
The best jol was to ride to another town and pull up outside a session where a lot of bikes were parked. We’d sit on the bikes revving the motors and watching the entrance. The local jollers would burst through the entrance to answer the challenge and go for their bikes. Inter-town rivalry was intense and often led to some serious boxing in the streets as the manne sorted out their territorial conflicts.
We’d wait until they’d almost got started, drop the clutches and thunder off into the night. Hurtling down Main Reef Road at midnight sitting behind a half gerookde breker with no fear, pursued by ten irate Germiston ducktails is not the sort of thing you tell your mother about. Fortunately we never got caught and we’d rock up at the session with adrenalin pumping through the system. I never needed boom or dop, they only slow you down and, even better, adrenalin doesn’t give you a hangover.
Another great joll was going to the ‘scopes in Johies, especially to an Elvis movie. Jailhouse Rock brought all the manne out. Unless you rocked up three hours early and stood in a huge queue, you missed out. The street outside the cinema was packed with bikes, at least a hundred, parked at right angles to the pavement which was full of people. Even the press was there, taking photos for tomorrow’s papers. The atmosphere inside was charged with excitement. We were going to see our own boy Elvis. It’s amazing now that one person could stir up such a frenzy of emotion, but nothing like this had happened before. We’d had Frank Sinatra in America but he was an old man now and a crooner to boot, boring when compared to Rock and Roll.
Johnny “Cry Baby” Ray had girls fainting at his shows, but the Elvis phenomenon was our first taste of mass hysteria. When he came onto the screen for the first time, half the girls in the audience screamed with emotion and the guys cheered, such was his presence. He represented the non-conformist rebel we all felt we were. And what’s more, he looked the part, dark, brooding and a loner, misunderstood and dangerous. It was marketing at its most successful.
Coming out of the cinema into the bright street lights, being part of the noise and excitement of the bikes starting up together and roaring out into the city was an experience hard to top even in these much more sophisticated times. The traffic just had to wait while a hundred bikes started up and peeled out into the street. Gene Vincent said it all for us when he sang:
“Say Mamma, Can I go out tonight?
Say Mamma, will that be all right?
They’ve got a rockin’ party going down the street,
Say Mamma, can you hear that beat?
Woah woah woo woo woah woah woo woo woah.”
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Gun control, A good comment and South Africa; survival for the use of...
Shadedmauve wrote the following comment :
"oh gosh, more stuff about guns coming in handy! is it really as bad and scary as that?? Good luck to your Dad retiring after all those years - he sounds like he deserves a holiday."
Firstly, many thanks on the good wishes to the father.
Secondly a good many internationals that I have come in contact with have asked much the same question so I believe its time for a gun rant/debate/thingy....
But first here's a word from our sponsers in the shape of some statistics to give you chaps out there something to faint in horror over... In 2006 George Bush's 'body counr' of American casualties in Iraq totalled 20 734. That is in a war. In South Africa under Thabo Mbeki for the same period the 'body count' was 18 793 deaths by homicide. That is nearly the same in number of war casualties MURDERED in South Africa in crime alone... we are as bad as a fully fledged war zone!!!!
This Brings me to the ol' gun quibble stage...
Many people will have everyone believe that gun control and adding a lot of beurocracies to the purchasing and/or licensing (depending where you are in the world) will curb gun related crime. The proponents of said statements seem to forget a few points in there overzealous state...
1) Guns do NOT kill people! People kill people! They have done so for thousands of years with bear hands, sticks, rocks, swords, farming tools, bottles, trebuchets, guns, knives, tables, chairs etc. the list is endless.
2) Gun control can be useful if done correctly ie criminal backround checks etc and attaching a gun to an owner but that can be instantaneous NOT take several weeks to process... This also makes for another even bigger problem...
E. Shmuck is a criminal. He mugs, robs, rapes and murders has been involved in cash in transit heists and all sorts of other nasties. He has a gun. Several in fact. He is not going to be bugged in the slightest that his guns are illegal he doesn't even worry about the legal niceties of owning one. He will not got to a gunshop spending 1500 rand on a new gun and a further 500 rand on all the licensing etc.. No, he will simply call the buddy of a buddy and arrange for an AK 47 plus ammo for around 120 rand (thats about $20 by the way people)
So... this means that the current legislation makes illegal arms sales REALLY profitable and much easier while those of us who try to do things by the book to keep one for self defence or sport or collecting may not even be granted a license... Tha’ts just bloody wonderful now isn't it.
Citizens of an ordinary nature who blow thr hrad off of an armed and dangerous intruder (or intruders in SA) are more likely to be dragged to court and then prison for having the temerity to defend themselves and not do it by the book then the guy who murdered 14 people...
3) All of this ties into one thing though and it was mentioned by LawDog as well as others (in fact go and read all he says the links right next to this... off you go, I'll wait...
Read him? Great stuff...(thank you LawDog for writing it all up so well in the first place) as i was saying... The human mind is the weapon what ever is used becomes the tool.... a gun as a knife, is a tool therefor they are not the root cause of all the evil! Yes you can defend yourself by other means but also, YES owning a gun in this modern day is neccessary because it does put you on a more or less equal footing with the shmuck.
Before my fiance moved in with me i did get into some hairy situations whereby someone wanted to redistribute my possesions and have been armed but i have done a few courses in martial arts and adopted a lot to make it useful so i have come out on top but with being deaf when i take my implant off when i go to sleep and my loved one in the house i feel it imperitive to own one for any dangers that may arise.
And yes I am a paranoid Troll!!!!
Cave Troll
"oh gosh, more stuff about guns coming in handy! is it really as bad and scary as that?? Good luck to your Dad retiring after all those years - he sounds like he deserves a holiday."
Firstly, many thanks on the good wishes to the father.
Secondly a good many internationals that I have come in contact with have asked much the same question so I believe its time for a gun rant/debate/thingy....
But first here's a word from our sponsers in the shape of some statistics to give you chaps out there something to faint in horror over... In 2006 George Bush's 'body counr' of American casualties in Iraq totalled 20 734. That is in a war. In South Africa under Thabo Mbeki for the same period the 'body count' was 18 793 deaths by homicide. That is nearly the same in number of war casualties MURDERED in South Africa in crime alone... we are as bad as a fully fledged war zone!!!!
This Brings me to the ol' gun quibble stage...
Many people will have everyone believe that gun control and adding a lot of beurocracies to the purchasing and/or licensing (depending where you are in the world) will curb gun related crime. The proponents of said statements seem to forget a few points in there overzealous state...
1) Guns do NOT kill people! People kill people! They have done so for thousands of years with bear hands, sticks, rocks, swords, farming tools, bottles, trebuchets, guns, knives, tables, chairs etc. the list is endless.
2) Gun control can be useful if done correctly ie criminal backround checks etc and attaching a gun to an owner but that can be instantaneous NOT take several weeks to process... This also makes for another even bigger problem...
E. Shmuck is a criminal. He mugs, robs, rapes and murders has been involved in cash in transit heists and all sorts of other nasties. He has a gun. Several in fact. He is not going to be bugged in the slightest that his guns are illegal he doesn't even worry about the legal niceties of owning one. He will not got to a gunshop spending 1500 rand on a new gun and a further 500 rand on all the licensing etc.. No, he will simply call the buddy of a buddy and arrange for an AK 47 plus ammo for around 120 rand (thats about $20 by the way people)
So... this means that the current legislation makes illegal arms sales REALLY profitable and much easier while those of us who try to do things by the book to keep one for self defence or sport or collecting may not even be granted a license... Tha’ts just bloody wonderful now isn't it.
Citizens of an ordinary nature who blow thr hrad off of an armed and dangerous intruder (or intruders in SA) are more likely to be dragged to court and then prison for having the temerity to defend themselves and not do it by the book then the guy who murdered 14 people...
3) All of this ties into one thing though and it was mentioned by LawDog as well as others (in fact go and read all he says the links right next to this... off you go, I'll wait...
Read him? Great stuff...(thank you LawDog for writing it all up so well in the first place) as i was saying... The human mind is the weapon what ever is used becomes the tool.... a gun as a knife, is a tool therefor they are not the root cause of all the evil! Yes you can defend yourself by other means but also, YES owning a gun in this modern day is neccessary because it does put you on a more or less equal footing with the shmuck.
Before my fiance moved in with me i did get into some hairy situations whereby someone wanted to redistribute my possesions and have been armed but i have done a few courses in martial arts and adopted a lot to make it useful so i have come out on top but with being deaf when i take my implant off when i go to sleep and my loved one in the house i feel it imperitive to own one for any dangers that may arise.
And yes I am a paranoid Troll!!!!
Cave Troll
Small news Tidbits from the Troll's lair.... and a 357 magnum!!!!!
Well hello again...
Not much of an amusing nature has passed by the world of Troll today but here is a note or two that might interest...well... someone
First off the old man is retiring after 30 years in the company and nearly 45 years in the industry but somehow i think he'll still be running around the office as a consultant... damn it he doesn't look a day over 40 and still races motorcycles, runs 10 km's a day and is generally fit and healthy... bloody 'ell i can only hope i can maintain myself as well as that... must remember to not beat myself over the head too often with a club...
Secondly, I am a nerd... Imagine if you will a being similar to the LOTR cave troll with banged up 'Buddy Holly' Style glasses a truly 'orrible cardigan with snout pressed against a computer screen absent mindedly knawing half a hobbit. (I look nothing like that but the imagery is true... make of that what you will) I say this because just yesterday I purchased a few new parts for my pc and i had to wear a bib to stop the overexcited dribble landing on them... oh well i have an uber pc now so all is good.
Yesterday in history marked the anniversary of the start of one of the greatest ever, most daunting and most neccesary military invasions in history. Operation Overlord of World War II began with the moving of the Allied troops to the beaches of Normandy to begin the invasion into nazi occupied europe. To all those soldiers i say thank you for your dedication and your sacrifices to all of us. May you rest in paradise as the true nature of heroes and may we never forget the lessons that history has to teach us.
And finally I am to be presented with a present from my soon to be mother in law in the shape of a beautifully conditioned .357 Magnum revolver with a 4" barrel. It just requires a little work to the stocks and sight but otherwise in immaculate condition and is also a very neccessary piece of survival equipment in modern south africa but that will be for a later post.
I'm now going to grab some coffee and try to make sense of work while having improbable daydreams of gun mounted computers...
Cave Troll
Not much of an amusing nature has passed by the world of Troll today but here is a note or two that might interest...well... someone
First off the old man is retiring after 30 years in the company and nearly 45 years in the industry but somehow i think he'll still be running around the office as a consultant... damn it he doesn't look a day over 40 and still races motorcycles, runs 10 km's a day and is generally fit and healthy... bloody 'ell i can only hope i can maintain myself as well as that... must remember to not beat myself over the head too often with a club...
Secondly, I am a nerd... Imagine if you will a being similar to the LOTR cave troll with banged up 'Buddy Holly' Style glasses a truly 'orrible cardigan with snout pressed against a computer screen absent mindedly knawing half a hobbit. (I look nothing like that but the imagery is true... make of that what you will) I say this because just yesterday I purchased a few new parts for my pc and i had to wear a bib to stop the overexcited dribble landing on them... oh well i have an uber pc now so all is good.
Yesterday in history marked the anniversary of the start of one of the greatest ever, most daunting and most neccesary military invasions in history. Operation Overlord of World War II began with the moving of the Allied troops to the beaches of Normandy to begin the invasion into nazi occupied europe. To all those soldiers i say thank you for your dedication and your sacrifices to all of us. May you rest in paradise as the true nature of heroes and may we never forget the lessons that history has to teach us.
And finally I am to be presented with a present from my soon to be mother in law in the shape of a beautifully conditioned .357 Magnum revolver with a 4" barrel. It just requires a little work to the stocks and sight but otherwise in immaculate condition and is also a very neccessary piece of survival equipment in modern south africa but that will be for a later post.
I'm now going to grab some coffee and try to make sense of work while having improbable daydreams of gun mounted computers...
Cave Troll
Rants of a football
Right after a 'fun' filled weekend working and watching the news (my gray hair count rose from 0 to about 459 365 in one half hour bulletin), I would like to ask any government or similar types out there a few questions about our 2010 world cup aspirations...
Please sir... *raised hand*
Me sir at the back.... *frantically waves hand and bounces in seat*
...
OOOOYYYYY YOU!!!! Government twits!!!
right so...
Firstly i understand the need to MAYBE build one or two new stadia to accomadate the maniacal legions in their persuit of watching the game but ummmm... how are they going to get there?
Oh wait they're building the 'Gautrain' between Joburg and Pretoria... ahh great.. yeah... what about this oddball stadium in heidelburg?? What about the legions of people coming out of Jan Smuts/Johannesburg International/ OR Thambo (this is all the same bloody airport by the by) and heading anywhere on Roads already so congested it takes 1 hour 45 minutes to do what should only be a twenty minute drive...
How many of these poor souls are also going to find themselves stuck in the middle of Hillbrow lost because of road signs that are about as intelligible as Linear A?? People, cardinal rule of south african life number 1: Hillbrow is not a good place to stop and ask for directions late at night... check that if you are suicidal, no matter what race creed or belief then fine go there but if you want to remain alive for the foreseeable future then kindly avoid the place at all costs... hell if a bunch of goths have to drive through there they make sure they're armed with nothing less the Bren Guns and RPG-7's and we are the ones people seem to be scared of?!?!?!?
And ah yes the crime... our dear sweet gvt thingy would have you believe that this isn't a problem... um we the country that makes mexico city look like a holiday resort for toddlers?? Pull the other one Mbeki its got bells on.
And somehow they want to make the 2010 world cup a success.. it won't be. South Africa will become a bigger world wide laughing stock since the minister of Potatoes... er I mean Health screwed up in Canada...
And the ball keeps rolling
Please sir... *raised hand*
Me sir at the back.... *frantically waves hand and bounces in seat*
...
OOOOYYYYY YOU!!!! Government twits!!!
right so...
Firstly i understand the need to MAYBE build one or two new stadia to accomadate the maniacal legions in their persuit of watching the game but ummmm... how are they going to get there?
Oh wait they're building the 'Gautrain' between Joburg and Pretoria... ahh great.. yeah... what about this oddball stadium in heidelburg?? What about the legions of people coming out of Jan Smuts/Johannesburg International/ OR Thambo (this is all the same bloody airport by the by) and heading anywhere on Roads already so congested it takes 1 hour 45 minutes to do what should only be a twenty minute drive...
How many of these poor souls are also going to find themselves stuck in the middle of Hillbrow lost because of road signs that are about as intelligible as Linear A?? People, cardinal rule of south african life number 1: Hillbrow is not a good place to stop and ask for directions late at night... check that if you are suicidal, no matter what race creed or belief then fine go there but if you want to remain alive for the foreseeable future then kindly avoid the place at all costs... hell if a bunch of goths have to drive through there they make sure they're armed with nothing less the Bren Guns and RPG-7's and we are the ones people seem to be scared of?!?!?!?
And ah yes the crime... our dear sweet gvt thingy would have you believe that this isn't a problem... um we the country that makes mexico city look like a holiday resort for toddlers?? Pull the other one Mbeki its got bells on.
And somehow they want to make the 2010 world cup a success.. it won't be. South Africa will become a bigger world wide laughing stock since the minister of Potatoes... er I mean Health screwed up in Canada...
And the ball keeps rolling
Ruminations from the father part deux
Chapter 2-Bert’s Club and where things started to go bad.
Sunday morning was a slow time in the fifties. Sunday activity was restricted by the Sabbath Day Observance Act and most things were closed. The cafes stayed open but they could only sell certain things considered to be “essentials” by the Act. However, by some trick, Bert’s Snooker Club managed to open on Sunday morning until 12 noon so that’s where we headed. Outside, 50cc Itoms, Mosquitos and my Pegaso rubbed side covers with Nortons, BSAs, Triumphs and even the odd car.
Inside we mixed with real men, 19 year old guys who worked and smoked Texans. We were almost the same age but they were light years ahead of us. Here, in the smoky gloom, filled with the sharp “clack” of snooker balls and Little Richard belting out “Wop bop a lubop ba lop bam boom, Tutti frutti-oh rootie”, we took the first steps on the long downhill path to a mis-spent youth.
Not that I was a rebel in the real sense. I was doing OK at school, I was rowing at the local Rowing Club, playing rugby and running at school and got on well with my parents. I didn’t even drink or smoke. But mixing with these guys, ducktails in leather jackets, opened up a view of the world that promised uncertainty and a touch of danger. The attraction was almost impossible to resist.
One of these ducktails lived in a house on the corner near our mine house. His name was Spike Evert and for some reason, we struck up a friendship. Spike looked perfect. He was small and slightly built with a sharp featured face and a thick, black ducktail hairstyle. He wore black shirts, black or blue jeans and a black leather lummie with a fur collar. His trademark was a white scarf which he wore while riding. The girls couldn’t stay away from him for one main reason, he looked and was dangerous.
Spike’s current mount was a BSA Golden Flash over which he’d breathed and it could do a genuine hundred miles per hour with relative ease. He was an apprentice at Timken Roller Bearings and had access to the machine shop where he did his tuning at lunchtime. He’d fitted rear-set footrests and clip-on handlebars and the bike was a forerunner of the Café Racer craze of the sixties. Of course the baffles had been donnered out of the silencers and the whole bike looked and went very well.
One Saturday afternoon, Spike took me to meet his mates and, crouched on the pillion of the BSA, we headed for the La Conga Roadhouse in Elandsfontein. After the power of the Pegaso, The BSA gave me a new perspective on speed. Doing 90 miles per hour in a 1948 Dodge, my dad’s car, was exciting enough. Perched on a hot 650 behind a slightly crazy breker was something else again. We got to La Conga in about a quarter of the time it took me on the Pegaso. We got off the bike blinking away the tears, no-one wore helmets or goggles, the only compulsory headgear being a liberal coating of Brylcreme, and Spike introduced me to the manne.
I met Kenny Hinkman with his 350 Gold Star, Malcolm Quagley, Triumph, Eddy on a twin cylinder Matchless (I never found out what his surname was), Johnny Robards on a 200cc Ducati and George Phillis on another BSA. They were gathered in a group at the back of the parking area, drinking Cokes and smoking strange smelling cigarettes that looked like loosely packed Texans. Well, they came out of a Texan packet anyway.
After a few minutes of idle chat, they finished their smokes and mounted up. The thing to do was to get to the St Moritz Roadhouse three miles away over the hill near the Airport Star Drive-in. This meant leaving the La Conga, around the La Conga circle, over the railway bridge, up the ridge to a quite sharp left hand sweep and flat out down the hill to the St Moritz. As this was Saturday, the traffic was quite light but the route went through three robots. Well ek se, these okes didn’t care about robots! We blasted off into the main drag, either way around the circle, straight through both robots, red or green, and hammered down the hill to the last robot, which seemed to be the finish. All five bonies, modified pipes bellowing, thundered down the hill in a tight bunch seemingly intent on self annihilation. What Johnny had done to that Ducati, I can’t imagine. He was in the middle of the bunch, pushing the Matchless. I guess his weighing in at about 120 pounds had something to do with it. Spike was in front, level with Kenny’s Goldie, my added weight holding him back a bit, with Malcolm, who was a bit heavy, at the back of the bunch with George.
The noise and wind were unbelievable with no helmet to protect ears or face. I was wearing a white shirt which filled with air to balloon out behind me, threatening to choke me. My eyes were streaming and I could see nothing ahead, perhaps that was just as well. I had to turn my head sideways to open my eyes and saw the grove of pines where a Harvard Trainer had crashed, whip past. Kenny was next to us, flat on the tank. He suddenly sat up and I was thrust into Spike’s back, struggling to retain my sweaty grip on the back of the seat as we shot through the last robot to pull up at the St Moritz Roadhouse.
My legs were shaking and my ears buzzing as we cut the motors and climbed off the bikes. Man, I couldn’t believe I was still alive! It seemed to me that these guys were living on the edge of a very unstable cliff. Wow, three robots and no cars, no well lekker, ek se. Crazy as it was, and stupid and irresponsible, I really knew I was alive. It took about three hours for my eyes to close down from saucer size to normal and my pulse rate to drop below 100. My rather sheltered existence had taken a major knock and I realized that there were some really wild okes in this world.
They bought me a Coke and we spent an hour or so sitting on the bikes, tuning the girls who came in cars or on bikes with other guys, attracting some hard looks. However, no-one was going to tune these guys skeef, that was for sure.
Just sitting and talking I began to realize that despite being brekers, they were basically really nice guys. Spike had a razor sharp sense of humour and was much more intelligent then his behaviour would seem to indicate. They had some strange habits and ideas but I was enjoying their company more then I had expected. We rode back to Boksburg surprisingly sedately as dusk fell. We rode slowly enough to shout across the gaps between the bikes and they dropped me off at home at 7 o-clock, in time for supper. I was back to normal.
Sunday morning was a slow time in the fifties. Sunday activity was restricted by the Sabbath Day Observance Act and most things were closed. The cafes stayed open but they could only sell certain things considered to be “essentials” by the Act. However, by some trick, Bert’s Snooker Club managed to open on Sunday morning until 12 noon so that’s where we headed. Outside, 50cc Itoms, Mosquitos and my Pegaso rubbed side covers with Nortons, BSAs, Triumphs and even the odd car.
Inside we mixed with real men, 19 year old guys who worked and smoked Texans. We were almost the same age but they were light years ahead of us. Here, in the smoky gloom, filled with the sharp “clack” of snooker balls and Little Richard belting out “Wop bop a lubop ba lop bam boom, Tutti frutti-oh rootie”, we took the first steps on the long downhill path to a mis-spent youth.
Not that I was a rebel in the real sense. I was doing OK at school, I was rowing at the local Rowing Club, playing rugby and running at school and got on well with my parents. I didn’t even drink or smoke. But mixing with these guys, ducktails in leather jackets, opened up a view of the world that promised uncertainty and a touch of danger. The attraction was almost impossible to resist.
One of these ducktails lived in a house on the corner near our mine house. His name was Spike Evert and for some reason, we struck up a friendship. Spike looked perfect. He was small and slightly built with a sharp featured face and a thick, black ducktail hairstyle. He wore black shirts, black or blue jeans and a black leather lummie with a fur collar. His trademark was a white scarf which he wore while riding. The girls couldn’t stay away from him for one main reason, he looked and was dangerous.
Spike’s current mount was a BSA Golden Flash over which he’d breathed and it could do a genuine hundred miles per hour with relative ease. He was an apprentice at Timken Roller Bearings and had access to the machine shop where he did his tuning at lunchtime. He’d fitted rear-set footrests and clip-on handlebars and the bike was a forerunner of the Café Racer craze of the sixties. Of course the baffles had been donnered out of the silencers and the whole bike looked and went very well.
One Saturday afternoon, Spike took me to meet his mates and, crouched on the pillion of the BSA, we headed for the La Conga Roadhouse in Elandsfontein. After the power of the Pegaso, The BSA gave me a new perspective on speed. Doing 90 miles per hour in a 1948 Dodge, my dad’s car, was exciting enough. Perched on a hot 650 behind a slightly crazy breker was something else again. We got to La Conga in about a quarter of the time it took me on the Pegaso. We got off the bike blinking away the tears, no-one wore helmets or goggles, the only compulsory headgear being a liberal coating of Brylcreme, and Spike introduced me to the manne.
I met Kenny Hinkman with his 350 Gold Star, Malcolm Quagley, Triumph, Eddy on a twin cylinder Matchless (I never found out what his surname was), Johnny Robards on a 200cc Ducati and George Phillis on another BSA. They were gathered in a group at the back of the parking area, drinking Cokes and smoking strange smelling cigarettes that looked like loosely packed Texans. Well, they came out of a Texan packet anyway.
After a few minutes of idle chat, they finished their smokes and mounted up. The thing to do was to get to the St Moritz Roadhouse three miles away over the hill near the Airport Star Drive-in. This meant leaving the La Conga, around the La Conga circle, over the railway bridge, up the ridge to a quite sharp left hand sweep and flat out down the hill to the St Moritz. As this was Saturday, the traffic was quite light but the route went through three robots. Well ek se, these okes didn’t care about robots! We blasted off into the main drag, either way around the circle, straight through both robots, red or green, and hammered down the hill to the last robot, which seemed to be the finish. All five bonies, modified pipes bellowing, thundered down the hill in a tight bunch seemingly intent on self annihilation. What Johnny had done to that Ducati, I can’t imagine. He was in the middle of the bunch, pushing the Matchless. I guess his weighing in at about 120 pounds had something to do with it. Spike was in front, level with Kenny’s Goldie, my added weight holding him back a bit, with Malcolm, who was a bit heavy, at the back of the bunch with George.
The noise and wind were unbelievable with no helmet to protect ears or face. I was wearing a white shirt which filled with air to balloon out behind me, threatening to choke me. My eyes were streaming and I could see nothing ahead, perhaps that was just as well. I had to turn my head sideways to open my eyes and saw the grove of pines where a Harvard Trainer had crashed, whip past. Kenny was next to us, flat on the tank. He suddenly sat up and I was thrust into Spike’s back, struggling to retain my sweaty grip on the back of the seat as we shot through the last robot to pull up at the St Moritz Roadhouse.
My legs were shaking and my ears buzzing as we cut the motors and climbed off the bikes. Man, I couldn’t believe I was still alive! It seemed to me that these guys were living on the edge of a very unstable cliff. Wow, three robots and no cars, no well lekker, ek se. Crazy as it was, and stupid and irresponsible, I really knew I was alive. It took about three hours for my eyes to close down from saucer size to normal and my pulse rate to drop below 100. My rather sheltered existence had taken a major knock and I realized that there were some really wild okes in this world.
They bought me a Coke and we spent an hour or so sitting on the bikes, tuning the girls who came in cars or on bikes with other guys, attracting some hard looks. However, no-one was going to tune these guys skeef, that was for sure.
Just sitting and talking I began to realize that despite being brekers, they were basically really nice guys. Spike had a razor sharp sense of humour and was much more intelligent then his behaviour would seem to indicate. They had some strange habits and ideas but I was enjoying their company more then I had expected. We rode back to Boksburg surprisingly sedately as dusk fell. We rode slowly enough to shout across the gaps between the bikes and they dropped me off at home at 7 o-clock, in time for supper. I was back to normal.
Requiescat in Pacem my little Beloved
This is Mao-Tseh-Dong affectionately known as Mao-Mao and she has been a source of love and serenity to me for the past four years untill yesterday when she was tragically run over by a car and killed. It was the only time she'd ever run out of the gate.
Mao-Mao came to me when i was going through a particularly bad patch with my deafness and her affection and playfulness brought me back from the brink of hell at that stage.
Only four years on this world and I hope that i gave her a wonderful life during that time. She meant as much as a daughter to me and her passing has left a huge hole in my life.
She saved me but i couldn't save her...
May she rest in peace
I love her
Ruminations from the father
Me old man has written a little story or two hisself about his misspent youth as a ducktail biker in SA so i thought i'd post it here chapter by chapter... Enjoy people
Bert’s Snooker Club, Jules Street, Braamfontein and all that
Chapter 1-Rock and Roll is here to stay.
1958 was drawing to a close and Elvis Presley (a singer of Rock and Roll songs, known as the King) was at his peak. I was almost in Matric and, in the height of summer, was reveling in my new found freedom in the form of my 50cc Pegaso Sport autocycle. I’d discovered bikes, girls and Rock and Roll all at the same time and, driven by the corrupting lyrics of Rock music, lyrics like
Some people like to rock,
Some people like to roll,
Moving and a-grooving
Just to satisfy my soul,
Let’s have a party ooooooh
Let’s have a party
or “Holding hands in the movies”, we were liberated by the weekends and our 50cc bonies.
Released from school on Friday afternoons, we rushed home, tore off our school uniforms and donned our joller clothes along with our joller personalities. The Ducktail ethic was based on the clothes and attitude, anything else that arose from the basics was a bonus. It wasn’t compulsory to have a bike to be a ducktail but it added credibility to the image. A breker on the bus didn’t have quite same impact as one cruising along on his Bonneville, no matter how bad he was.
Typical joller gear was a white shirt with the collar turned up and sleeves rolled up to mid forearm, charcoal stovepipe rammies with 12” bottoms (getting into them involved some weird contortions), red and white candy striped socks and black Jarman brogues with steel heel tips. These tips could cause some embarrassing moments by skidding on concrete but they really sounded lekker, jolling down the drag, ek se. More affluent duckies added a black leather lummie and wraparound dark glasses to complete the menacing appearance that was mandatory for the bike riders.
The girls wore their hair shoulder length or in pony tails, adding round top dresses with wide skirts and miles of frilly petticoats ending just below the knee. Wide leather belts and flat court shoes or stiletto heels were the required accessories for daytime jolling. Add white gloves and matching handbag and you were ready for the night.
An alternative to the wide skirt was blue denim stovepipe jeans, sometimes rolled up at the ankle or pedal pushers, tight jeans cut off mid calf. Any cherrie who wore an ankle bracelet was condemned as being really wild! As for wearing high heels with jeans, well, that was a one-way ticket to hell.
We all congregated at the Town Hall Café in the middle of Boksburg, bought a Coke and watched the babes coming and going. One Coke a week was all I could afford, my ten bob a month (1 rand) pocket money had to pay for petrol, scopes, books and anything else I needed. I’d bought the bike by working at a chemist on Friday afternoons and Saturday mornings which really cramped my style, but life without the Pegaso would have been completely different and unthinkable.
The Pegaso was a fifty cc four stroke Italian moped, but I had the Sport model which looked like a proper motorcycle although it had pedals, one of which unlocked and turned through 180 degrees so that they were in line with each other to be used as footrests. Alternatively, you could use the pillion footrests set quite far back. The clutch and gearchange were operated as a unit on the left hand handlebar and didn’t need a foot to change gear. With feet on the pillion footrests and hands gripping the clip-on handlebars, the rider had a real boy racer look, much sought after by those keen on becoming the next Geoff Duke or Jannie Stander.
My iron was black with white side panels on the tank and was the only four-stroke fifty available. It had pushrod operated valves and could do an indicated 45 to 50 miles per hour, make what you will of that (I was a lot skinnier then).
Other auties around then were the robust Mosquito Garelli, the Itom sport and Super Competizione, the super quick but fragile Maserati Competizione, Ducati, Parilla and Mondial. We had even heard about a Sterzi lurking somewhere although none of us ever saw it. The quickest (and most expensive) of the lot, were the Teutonic looking Kreidlers and Zundapps with the slowest being the step-through DKW’s and Victorias or Vickies as they were called. All of these were two-strokes at the beginning of their development and could all reach approximately the same top speed.
By mid-evening about ten or so bikes would have arrived and we’d decide to go for a burn. Imagine ten large teenagers droning down Commissioner Street at 40 miles per hour, flat out on the tanks, followed by a haze of blue smoke and the disapproving gaze of the squares and oldies on the pavement. Boy, were we wild, a real threat to society as we knew it. Ten minutes later we were back at the café, sixpence (5 cents) in the jukebox, listening to Buddy Holly with “Not fade Away”, the driving Do Diddley rhythm fuelling the passing of time into the weekend.
Weekend plans were formulated around the café tables as we decided what we were going to do on SATURDAY! Some of the guys would have fixed up dates with girls but for my mate Ed and myself (both Pegaso mounted), Saturday night meant Speedway racing at Wembley Stadium in Booysens. We planned to spend the day in Johies and, in the evening, cruise on down to Wembley.
Going to Johies was a big trek in the fifties. With no motorways, it was stop streets, robots and speed limits all the way. Ed lived in Solheim and I left home at 8-30am (I lived in the mine houses near Boksburg Station). The route went past the ERPM mine offices, up Manager’s hill and on to the circle at La Conga Roadhouse, round the circle, over the main Pretoria railway line to Elandsfontein and left to Primrose. On down Beaconsfield Avenue and then right up the hill to Sunnyridge (where the Avril Elizabeth Home is) to arrive at my mate’s house at 9 o’clock.
We left his house at 9-30 and filled up with petrol at the Shell garage at the bottom of the hill where Union Tiles is now. I put in 2/6d petrol a week (R0.25). This filled the tank with about 2 gallons (9l) of petrol and it lasted me the whole week. I went to school in Germiston and did about 320 miles a week in all (petrol was about R0-15/gallon).
The route to Johies went two ways, through Bedford View or through Primrose and Germiston. Going through Primrose meant riding through Stanhope Dip to the top of Jules Street, followed by the long drag down “Julsies”. Dodging the cars down Jules Street had the added attraction of tram lines. The Pegaso’s tyres were marginally wider than bicycle tyres and getting caught in the tram lines presented a real hazard which could easily bring the rider down. The hazard was made even more exciting when it rained. No one wore helmets or goggles so riding in the rain, which felt like riding through a shower of 6mm ball bearings, tended to blur the vision and make the tram lines act like strips of ice.
After riding for what felt like hours down Jules Street, we rode into Jeppe and down the hill on Commissioner Street past the movie houses which on longer exist, His Majesty’s, which was also a theatre, The Empire and The Coliseum. We’d park outside the CNA, check the magazines and walk around town until it was time to head down Booysens Road to Wembley Stadium for the stock car and speedway racing.
We came into the stadium at dusk. Bright lights lit up the grey cinder oval and a metallic voice read the program of the night’s entertainment over the PA system, competing with the excited buzz of the spectators. In the background we could hear the stock cars warming up, a muted rumble punctuated by the roar of unsilenced American vee-eight engines filling the warm highveld air.
The stock cars came on first, battered American vee-eight engined bangers driven by Boet Eekhout, Doug Serrurier, Clive Brooker and a bunch of drivers intent on getting their cars to the finish first no matter who they had to crash out of the way. The races were ten laps of the 500m track so the leaders were soon amongst the tail enders, barging their way through, their big vee-eights roaring, bodies grinding, sparks and cinders filling the air.
After the stock cars had had their races, the track was watered and raked level for the speedway boys. I’ve been watching speedway for 45 years now and I still feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle when the riders roll onto the track, rev the motors for a few seconds and blast off straight at the first bend. It seems impossible that they won’t ride straight into the wall. Naught to eighty miles an hour in less than forty meters and out comes the back wheel, a huge rooster tail of cinders spraying five meters into the air behind them and they’re round the bend, 500cc singles crackling through the megaphone as they head for the next bend, pure magic. I’m sure the Romans would have given up watching lions and gladiators if they’d had speedway. Pure motorcycle racing at its most basic, 50 horsepower driving a 200 pound motorcycle without brakes-I still can’t believe it works. Speedway is compulsory viewing for anyone who calls him or herself a motorcyclist.
After the racing we left the stadium with Jerry Lee Lewis pumping out ‘A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On” over the PA system to where our bikes were parked. The Pegasos had a lock mounted on the swing arm which extended a pin into the rear wheel spokes but we seldom used them. If you forgot to unlock it, it would bend the spokes as you rolled the bike off the centre stand.
Ahead of us lay a one and a half hour ride through the warm highveld night, up Booysens Road, Commissioner Street and back down Julsies, past the Doll’s House roadhouse and on through Sunnyridge to Ed’s place. It would be quite late by the time I got home to Boksburg but tomorrow was Sunday and I could sleep late.
Bert’s Snooker Club, Jules Street, Braamfontein and all that
Chapter 1-Rock and Roll is here to stay.
1958 was drawing to a close and Elvis Presley (a singer of Rock and Roll songs, known as the King) was at his peak. I was almost in Matric and, in the height of summer, was reveling in my new found freedom in the form of my 50cc Pegaso Sport autocycle. I’d discovered bikes, girls and Rock and Roll all at the same time and, driven by the corrupting lyrics of Rock music, lyrics like
Some people like to rock,
Some people like to roll,
Moving and a-grooving
Just to satisfy my soul,
Let’s have a party ooooooh
Let’s have a party
or “Holding hands in the movies”, we were liberated by the weekends and our 50cc bonies.
Released from school on Friday afternoons, we rushed home, tore off our school uniforms and donned our joller clothes along with our joller personalities. The Ducktail ethic was based on the clothes and attitude, anything else that arose from the basics was a bonus. It wasn’t compulsory to have a bike to be a ducktail but it added credibility to the image. A breker on the bus didn’t have quite same impact as one cruising along on his Bonneville, no matter how bad he was.
Typical joller gear was a white shirt with the collar turned up and sleeves rolled up to mid forearm, charcoal stovepipe rammies with 12” bottoms (getting into them involved some weird contortions), red and white candy striped socks and black Jarman brogues with steel heel tips. These tips could cause some embarrassing moments by skidding on concrete but they really sounded lekker, jolling down the drag, ek se. More affluent duckies added a black leather lummie and wraparound dark glasses to complete the menacing appearance that was mandatory for the bike riders.
The girls wore their hair shoulder length or in pony tails, adding round top dresses with wide skirts and miles of frilly petticoats ending just below the knee. Wide leather belts and flat court shoes or stiletto heels were the required accessories for daytime jolling. Add white gloves and matching handbag and you were ready for the night.
An alternative to the wide skirt was blue denim stovepipe jeans, sometimes rolled up at the ankle or pedal pushers, tight jeans cut off mid calf. Any cherrie who wore an ankle bracelet was condemned as being really wild! As for wearing high heels with jeans, well, that was a one-way ticket to hell.
We all congregated at the Town Hall Café in the middle of Boksburg, bought a Coke and watched the babes coming and going. One Coke a week was all I could afford, my ten bob a month (1 rand) pocket money had to pay for petrol, scopes, books and anything else I needed. I’d bought the bike by working at a chemist on Friday afternoons and Saturday mornings which really cramped my style, but life without the Pegaso would have been completely different and unthinkable.
The Pegaso was a fifty cc four stroke Italian moped, but I had the Sport model which looked like a proper motorcycle although it had pedals, one of which unlocked and turned through 180 degrees so that they were in line with each other to be used as footrests. Alternatively, you could use the pillion footrests set quite far back. The clutch and gearchange were operated as a unit on the left hand handlebar and didn’t need a foot to change gear. With feet on the pillion footrests and hands gripping the clip-on handlebars, the rider had a real boy racer look, much sought after by those keen on becoming the next Geoff Duke or Jannie Stander.
My iron was black with white side panels on the tank and was the only four-stroke fifty available. It had pushrod operated valves and could do an indicated 45 to 50 miles per hour, make what you will of that (I was a lot skinnier then).
Other auties around then were the robust Mosquito Garelli, the Itom sport and Super Competizione, the super quick but fragile Maserati Competizione, Ducati, Parilla and Mondial. We had even heard about a Sterzi lurking somewhere although none of us ever saw it. The quickest (and most expensive) of the lot, were the Teutonic looking Kreidlers and Zundapps with the slowest being the step-through DKW’s and Victorias or Vickies as they were called. All of these were two-strokes at the beginning of their development and could all reach approximately the same top speed.
By mid-evening about ten or so bikes would have arrived and we’d decide to go for a burn. Imagine ten large teenagers droning down Commissioner Street at 40 miles per hour, flat out on the tanks, followed by a haze of blue smoke and the disapproving gaze of the squares and oldies on the pavement. Boy, were we wild, a real threat to society as we knew it. Ten minutes later we were back at the café, sixpence (5 cents) in the jukebox, listening to Buddy Holly with “Not fade Away”, the driving Do Diddley rhythm fuelling the passing of time into the weekend.
Weekend plans were formulated around the café tables as we decided what we were going to do on SATURDAY! Some of the guys would have fixed up dates with girls but for my mate Ed and myself (both Pegaso mounted), Saturday night meant Speedway racing at Wembley Stadium in Booysens. We planned to spend the day in Johies and, in the evening, cruise on down to Wembley.
Going to Johies was a big trek in the fifties. With no motorways, it was stop streets, robots and speed limits all the way. Ed lived in Solheim and I left home at 8-30am (I lived in the mine houses near Boksburg Station). The route went past the ERPM mine offices, up Manager’s hill and on to the circle at La Conga Roadhouse, round the circle, over the main Pretoria railway line to Elandsfontein and left to Primrose. On down Beaconsfield Avenue and then right up the hill to Sunnyridge (where the Avril Elizabeth Home is) to arrive at my mate’s house at 9 o’clock.
We left his house at 9-30 and filled up with petrol at the Shell garage at the bottom of the hill where Union Tiles is now. I put in 2/6d petrol a week (R0.25). This filled the tank with about 2 gallons (9l) of petrol and it lasted me the whole week. I went to school in Germiston and did about 320 miles a week in all (petrol was about R0-15/gallon).
The route to Johies went two ways, through Bedford View or through Primrose and Germiston. Going through Primrose meant riding through Stanhope Dip to the top of Jules Street, followed by the long drag down “Julsies”. Dodging the cars down Jules Street had the added attraction of tram lines. The Pegaso’s tyres were marginally wider than bicycle tyres and getting caught in the tram lines presented a real hazard which could easily bring the rider down. The hazard was made even more exciting when it rained. No one wore helmets or goggles so riding in the rain, which felt like riding through a shower of 6mm ball bearings, tended to blur the vision and make the tram lines act like strips of ice.
After riding for what felt like hours down Jules Street, we rode into Jeppe and down the hill on Commissioner Street past the movie houses which on longer exist, His Majesty’s, which was also a theatre, The Empire and The Coliseum. We’d park outside the CNA, check the magazines and walk around town until it was time to head down Booysens Road to Wembley Stadium for the stock car and speedway racing.
We came into the stadium at dusk. Bright lights lit up the grey cinder oval and a metallic voice read the program of the night’s entertainment over the PA system, competing with the excited buzz of the spectators. In the background we could hear the stock cars warming up, a muted rumble punctuated by the roar of unsilenced American vee-eight engines filling the warm highveld air.
The stock cars came on first, battered American vee-eight engined bangers driven by Boet Eekhout, Doug Serrurier, Clive Brooker and a bunch of drivers intent on getting their cars to the finish first no matter who they had to crash out of the way. The races were ten laps of the 500m track so the leaders were soon amongst the tail enders, barging their way through, their big vee-eights roaring, bodies grinding, sparks and cinders filling the air.
After the stock cars had had their races, the track was watered and raked level for the speedway boys. I’ve been watching speedway for 45 years now and I still feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle when the riders roll onto the track, rev the motors for a few seconds and blast off straight at the first bend. It seems impossible that they won’t ride straight into the wall. Naught to eighty miles an hour in less than forty meters and out comes the back wheel, a huge rooster tail of cinders spraying five meters into the air behind them and they’re round the bend, 500cc singles crackling through the megaphone as they head for the next bend, pure magic. I’m sure the Romans would have given up watching lions and gladiators if they’d had speedway. Pure motorcycle racing at its most basic, 50 horsepower driving a 200 pound motorcycle without brakes-I still can’t believe it works. Speedway is compulsory viewing for anyone who calls him or herself a motorcyclist.
After the racing we left the stadium with Jerry Lee Lewis pumping out ‘A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On” over the PA system to where our bikes were parked. The Pegasos had a lock mounted on the swing arm which extended a pin into the rear wheel spokes but we seldom used them. If you forgot to unlock it, it would bend the spokes as you rolled the bike off the centre stand.
Ahead of us lay a one and a half hour ride through the warm highveld night, up Booysens Road, Commissioner Street and back down Julsies, past the Doll’s House roadhouse and on through Sunnyridge to Ed’s place. It would be quite late by the time I got home to Boksburg but tomorrow was Sunday and I could sleep late.
Jacob "Showerhead" Zuma.....AGAIN!!
A true portrait of our now ex deputy president and supposed contender for the presidency from the gifted pen of Zapiro.
He's at it again it seems. Yeouch
According to the Saturday Star newspaper old Showerhead is apparently being bankrolled for his presidency aspirations by non other than the libyans! this could become a massive problem...
For those who might be reading and don't know about SA politics the story goes like this: Zuma was VP of the country till he was accused and tried for rape not too long ago. Verdict-not guilty(huh?!??!?!)
Shortly after he is being investigated for corruption but nothing yet seems to be coming out of that but it all looks very shady in my troll opinion...
And this is the man that 'might' become South Africa's next president! What kind of blatant stupidity is this that a known corrupt official and suspected rapist still gets to even make such a bid? And which lot is worse; him or his moronic supporters?
By the pantheon of gods this place could become the next bloody zimbabwe!! I really am not doomsaying here because it really seems as though we are following the same trends as Zimbabwe did and most definately will if he is ever elected. Its times like these that i wish someone would put a bullet through his shower in the true spirit of political comment or failing that he is convicted and thrown down an old mine shaft for the rest of his days!!!
Think people!!!!
Cave Troll
He's at it again it seems. Yeouch
According to the Saturday Star newspaper old Showerhead is apparently being bankrolled for his presidency aspirations by non other than the libyans! this could become a massive problem...
For those who might be reading and don't know about SA politics the story goes like this: Zuma was VP of the country till he was accused and tried for rape not too long ago. Verdict-not guilty(huh?!??!?!)
Shortly after he is being investigated for corruption but nothing yet seems to be coming out of that but it all looks very shady in my troll opinion...
And this is the man that 'might' become South Africa's next president! What kind of blatant stupidity is this that a known corrupt official and suspected rapist still gets to even make such a bid? And which lot is worse; him or his moronic supporters?
By the pantheon of gods this place could become the next bloody zimbabwe!! I really am not doomsaying here because it really seems as though we are following the same trends as Zimbabwe did and most definately will if he is ever elected. Its times like these that i wish someone would put a bullet through his shower in the true spirit of political comment or failing that he is convicted and thrown down an old mine shaft for the rest of his days!!!
Think people!!!!
Cave Troll
A movie note.
On good old SA tv last night was a well worn little classic piece of british comedy that should be required viewing for anyone that has a (more than) slightly bent sense of humour.
I am of course reffering to Monty Python's 'The Meaning of Life'
Holy snot but that was good and in my opinion a bloody good idea for all of those wondering what it's all about.
On a similar vein but into the book category we must of course insert Messr. Terry Pratchett and... well... Everything he's written to date! The man is a satirical genius that can play with all of humanities sacred cows. If i ever get to control the world his books would be bloody mandatory reading in high schools the world over.
That's of course as soon as i can get my little goblins out of the drinks cabinet and into something vaguely resembling an army so don't worry just yet that will only happen a couple of years down the line... heh heh
Cave Troll
I am of course reffering to Monty Python's 'The Meaning of Life'
Holy snot but that was good and in my opinion a bloody good idea for all of those wondering what it's all about.
On a similar vein but into the book category we must of course insert Messr. Terry Pratchett and... well... Everything he's written to date! The man is a satirical genius that can play with all of humanities sacred cows. If i ever get to control the world his books would be bloody mandatory reading in high schools the world over.
That's of course as soon as i can get my little goblins out of the drinks cabinet and into something vaguely resembling an army so don't worry just yet that will only happen a couple of years down the line... heh heh
Cave Troll
hmmmmm....new blogging en stuff
Right then
so
um.....
Decided to throw together a little blog of me very own inspired (and i may be shot for this) in no small part by being an active reader of ye old LawDog over on http://thelawdogfiles.blogspot.com
Trust me on this you want to go and give that a read.
I suppose a little introduction of sorts might be in order so here goes.
I am an Irishman in South Africa in the engineering business and fast approaching the three decade mark (OH GODS I'M OLD!!!!) I could probably be classified as an overbearing opinionated git with far too much in the way of sarcasm then is good for me. Into the whole goth thing but i feel i have far too much of a sense of humour to be properly classified that way. Studied and still trying to study politics but see above... oh yes and technically deaf (I love technology!)
The Nic of Cave Troll does NOT mean that i am in any way an internet type troll but rather that some people seem to think i bear a marked resemblance to said character from LOTR movies when socially disadvantaged people get on my thungas... make of that what you will methinks.
Cave Troll
so
um.....
Decided to throw together a little blog of me very own inspired (and i may be shot for this) in no small part by being an active reader of ye old LawDog over on http://thelawdogfiles.blogspot.com
Trust me on this you want to go and give that a read.
I suppose a little introduction of sorts might be in order so here goes.
I am an Irishman in South Africa in the engineering business and fast approaching the three decade mark (OH GODS I'M OLD!!!!) I could probably be classified as an overbearing opinionated git with far too much in the way of sarcasm then is good for me. Into the whole goth thing but i feel i have far too much of a sense of humour to be properly classified that way. Studied and still trying to study politics but see above... oh yes and technically deaf (I love technology!)
The Nic of Cave Troll does NOT mean that i am in any way an internet type troll but rather that some people seem to think i bear a marked resemblance to said character from LOTR movies when socially disadvantaged people get on my thungas... make of that what you will methinks.
Cave Troll
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