…Aaand we’re back.


It was said today at the Farlam Commission of Inquiry that the Marikane shooting bruhaha has been the most disturbing incident in our democracy.

To say that this piece of information comes as a relief is a great understatement.

You need to understand that for the last year or so, I have believed that it was me, not Marikana.

Goes to show how bad press can ruin ones day, as it were.


Smashing! Wonderfull! "Twas not me!

Smashing! Wonderfull! “Twas not me!


The sacrifices that I make!


In the light of Pravin Gordhan’s latest little money talk and given that next year is an election year, I have decided to heed his advice and do a few cut-backs myself.

Financially speaking of course.

So henceforth, as it were, all deliveries made to Nkandla (that bastion of freedom) containing purchases etc made at tax payers expense, shall be made to the gate and no longer to the front door.

The reason being is that the drive to the front door is long and thus a waste of petrol and tax payers’ hard earned cash.


You got to let me go to his front door. I have his DSTV magazine!

You got to let me go to his front door. I have his DSTV magazine!


So, there it is, Mr Gordhan, my bit for the financial stability of this country.

Please don’t ask more of me!



I thought it was the end of the world (as I knew it) and I did not feel fine!


So there I was, having a later afternoon Johnnie Walker Blue before going in to dinner, when a God-Almighty bang or thunder-clap (as it were) ripped through my “end of day” peace, dashing it into a million shards (much like the crystal glass now on the floor – oh it would be funny if those just over the hill in Mams saw how we lived)!

Initially I thought that my rule had come to an abrupt and solid end, as God was making good on my promise to the voting populace, namely that we will rule till Jesus comes back.

No such luck – as I often worry that global warming will get us first.

My next thought was that it really was the end. The hordes had jumped the barricades and were headed for the palace. (“I began to breathe, to breathe at the thought of such freedom,  stood and whispered to Gwede: belong. I held Gwede and whispered, with calm, calm: belong” – with thanks to Mr M Stipe)

I found myself hoping for the Second Coming, or at the very least; global warming. That would be a convenient truth.


Nobody move and nobody gets hurt!

Don’t hurt me. I promise I wont ever look at Lady Justice that way again. Promise. Just don’t shoot!

Turns out it was just my man, Mr Sebenza Whataboy Ditlopo, Minister of Inland Security, shooting at the Starlings in the Fig tree – he uses the figs for a fantastic jam.

Anyhow, it seems the State Armory still has a few cannons that the Boeremag forgot to steal a few years back.

Their loss, as they say, is our gain!

The arduous journey to total African domination


Now, I am a man who likes to dream.


Apart from all the Milo powder I could eat, one of my biggest dreams is an entire African Continent under my control, a United States of Zuma.

A USZ, if you will.

My idea is to incorporate the tip of Africa and the top of Egypt under one government, namely my own.

In many ways, Cecil John Rhodes and myself were cut from the same cloth, as it were. Men of similar ideals. Except for that nasty homosexual rumour that dogged Mr Rhodes most of his history – my good friend Robert M warned me about that one – we are men with grandiose dreams.

But alas, my plans, my dream of a USZ are hampered.

You see, such a plan always requires a road map, as it were. And a road map implies a journey of sorts. And a journey always entails travelling companions.

Which in my case would entail a certain Winnie M and that young upstart that she associates with, namely one Bra JuJu. (why is anyone’s tata ma chance).

I see it as a road trip, with yours truly behind the wheel. On the road to total domination. But sooner or later the useless rhetoric, the blah blahing and incessant droning from the peanut gallery in the back seat (Bra JuJu et al) will become too much for one person to handle.

And the end result of all that noise is that “one” takes “one’s” eyes off the road and reaches back to smack with whatever is in “one’s” hand at the time (be it a brush, knitting needle (???), rolled up Drum Magazine or a KFC drum stick from the Street Wise II box). We’ve all been there, I’m sure.

And what happens when you take your eyes off the road for just one second?

A tree happens to cross the road at that moment, or the idiot approaching in his BMW X5 strays across the centre line and hits you.

Journey over.

And that is my problem.

Bad travel companions!  Gets me every darn time.

So, who guards the guards then?


I awoke to the sounds of an alarm going off in the early hours of the morning. In my half asleep state, I was unable to tell if the noise was emanating from within the palace or from without. (Without is none of my concern, as it were).

So I did what any normal male would do – I woke my wife and told her to go check it out.

At first, Ma Ntuli looked at me with eyes that would make a lesser man wet his pyjamas and then growled – Relax, fool. The tax payer provides us with bodyguards for this exact reason.

Presidential Ambush - And you didn't even see it coming.

Presidential Ambush - And you didn't even see it coming.

Pleased by Ma Ntuli’s absolute logic, I lay back into my continental pillow (paid for by the tax payer, just like the guards). But then, from a dark corner of the presidential suite, from somewhere behind the Marc Chagall (never did like his stuff), came a voice, which I swear was audible. It spoke out a name, nothing more –


Ma Ntuli did not move, so I prodded her and repeated the name:

– Indira Gandhi!

– What the, she said.

– Gandhi was murdered by her own body guards, was she not?

– Yes, so you better warn Bra JuJu then, shouldn’t you.

Indeed I should.

But then again, after we had survived the night and emerged from our slumber, I thought better of warning him.


Because every now and then, the movement needs a martyr.


Hillary Clinton and the end of the Road


I must admit that I am rather pleased by the rumour that Madam Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton has decided that she will, in all probability, not be running for President in the next US elections.

(That was a long sentence).

Proper syntax aside, it saves us foreign leaders from having to choose between Mrs Clinton and Mrs Palin in a cat fight. The problem with having to choose in a case like this is when you back the wrong side. And as the saying goes – Hell hath no fury like a female political opponent who has lost and you find yourself on the wrong side.  (For the record, I would have gone with that Palin girl- she shoots Caribou with her eyes closed and rides quad bikes. As for Mrs Clinton, well, she’s just getting fatter)

In addition to that debacle, we are saved from having to meet with “Mrs President” Clinton, shake her hand and smile, all the while thinking about “that cigar” incident, as it where. (Will we ever get tired of Ms Lewinsky? I doubt it).

I want you to listen to me. I'm going to say this again: I did not eat Eskimo Pie with that woman, Miss Palin

I want you to listen to me. I'm going to say this again: I did not eat Eskimo pie with that woman, Miss Palin


It does not make for good public relations meetings, as the failure to concentrate on the matters at hand will be all to evident.




Banning of Prominent Persons


I have decided to ban Nicolas Cage from ever entering our Country.

Why, you may ask?

Firstly, because I can. It’s a perk that comes with the job of being “President”, as it were.

And secondly because I think he is  a twat, a poor actor, an even worse director and I don’t like him.


Oh, and most importantly, because when he smiles, his eyes get that glazed “I’m not really here listening to you” sort of thing going.



I'm what? Banned? What does that mean? For me, specifically?


Good riddance.

Oh, and Diane Keaton, don’t you go laughing to hard about poor Nic’s fate. Wipe that smug toothy grin off your face. You’re next, doll!