…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!

Where have all my followers gone?


I have noticed, with a growing sense of irritation, that some of my twitter followers have been abandoning the proverbial ship.

So Gwede (that’s Mantashe) and I sat down around some Johnny Walker Blue (that’s Whiskey) to figure out where the problem lies, as it were.

Me first.

I have discovered a parody twitter account by the name of Jacob G. Zuma (note the period), aka @SAPresident. Now this account comes complete with that stupid little Nike tick at the end, which I am advised by my advising advisors, means that it is a gen-u-wine (that’s American talk) and verified twitter account.

WTF? (that’s Welcome to Facebook).

Now the bupkiss (that’s British colonialists talk) that this parody account comes up with is ludicrous. (that’s the Truth).

For example: Over the last decade, six of the world’s ten fastest growing economies were in Africa.

And: Let us celebrate the Jubilee by promoting peace, unity, dignity and prosperity in our beloved continent! Happy Africa Day to all!

I mean, with all due respect, who pens this sort of stuff?

I have my suspicions. Enter Stage Left: Jackson Mthembu. (that’s theatre talk)

I have noticed Jackson clickety clickety clacking away on the new Blakburry he bought a few weeks back when we went to Chinatown. And discrete inquiries with my service provider tell me that Twitter on a cellular telephone is the next big thing.

So it is apparent that some of my followers are following the tick, as it were. Let me say this – just ‘cos he drives a nice BMW with leather seats and low profiles, don’t mean he’s gonna be nice to you, sweetie!


Hey JZ, my bra! You sure this is what they talk about when they say “Tweeting”? Where is the hashtag button?

Now Gwede, on the other hand, believes that it may have had something to do with my duck tweet of a few weeks back.

Given that Gwede is the more intelligent of the two of us, I am inclined to accept his reasoning.

An open Apology.


I have never been one for writing, hence the poorly drafted secrecy bill.

For that I apologise.

Oh, and for Winnie Mandela as well.

There, I said it!

Who’s your Daddy?


So, anyway, I was having tea the other day (as one does) with a certain unnamed source at Nkandla (lovingly refurbished and upgraded by you, the caring taxpayer) and during the course of the conversation, we got on to the topic of how hard and boring it is to be the man at the top (as one does), how no one really respects me anymore, as it were and that I feel that I may have lost my purpose and/or moral compass.

It was decided that I needed to rediscover my sense of self, my well-being, my happiness.

And what does one do to make one’s self feel better?


You pick on someone and bully them!

The selection of the candidate was rather difficult, simply because we started at the end of the alphabet (ignoring the Z’s for obvious reasons) and randomly chose V, as one does, to avoid a lenghty debate over appropriateness.

And whose surname starts with a V?

Yes! V for Vavi!

I made some calls, but have since discovered that Brett Kebble is dead, China Dodovu has a prior engagement and Glynnis Breytenbach is no longer talking to me.

So we were left to spreading rumours and allegations, like high school girls at break time.

Things like financial irregularities, handshakes in darkened doorways, black bags of cash. None of which we have any evidence for, of course.

But now things have gotten out of hand. Completely.

What? No, this is all I got from awarding the tender.

This thing, this candle, or whatever it is, I found it in my desk drawer, ok?

Vavi is saying he knows who is out to get him. He is vowing to fight this fight, which fight is not really a fight, but rather a fight over who is the bigger boy on the playground.

At least in my opinion.

I have lost the joy again, that initial rush of happiness and now I need to do something else to make me feel better.

I know, I am going to do some therapy shopping. Nkandla needs a new tv room!


Why I did not post in July 2012



I got lost on the Road to Mangaung.

With all the changes to street names, I ended up in some place in the North Western Cape, alone and looking for a friendly place to lay my weary political head, as it where (and I do not refer to “the spear” here).

Oh &%$#, I think I am at the wrong place. Sorry.

I have now finally made it back to some place that has a cell phone tower and will heading back out of the political wilderness.