…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!


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!


Changing Names – The Real Reasons – Conclusion (Part 3)


So there we have it:

The real reason why we change city, town and street names.

In a nutshell, as it were, I have tax payers money at my disposal. I need to spend it, but not on the opportunities listed previously.

Still with me?

To do so would defeat the object, namely my own.

You must however, understand that I still need to do something to show the masses that I/we are with them and what better way to do so by changing street names after people most of us have no clue who or what they are.

It is the fantastic diversionary tactic of honouring the so-called “Struggle Heroes”. And at the end of the day, people forget that they had to take a crap in the bushes, they forget that they have schooling till Grade 3, they forget that they are desperately ill, because once they tell others: “I took January Masilela into town this morning. You know, used to be Church street, now January Masilela. The struggle hero”, all is well with the world.


Finally, let the grand old Swazi King Mswati III be an example of what not to do. When faced with the opportunity of spending his voters’ money on changing street names or buying an aircraft, guess what he did?

He went with the plane.

Hey! Don’t touch me on my private jet! OK? Don’t touch me on my private jet!

And now? Now he has nowhere to park it.

Specifically not on January Masilela street!


The Art of Spanking


Now, I am a firm believer, an advocate if you will, of corporal punishment.

Why, you ask?

Well, I believe that a good beating refreshes the mind, provides clarity of thought, jogs the memory and for the smacker, it provides the satisfaction of a job well done!

When suspension is better than a smack!

I'm sorry, OK...very sorry. It will never happen again.

Understand, however, that I am not advocating random beatings. No! Rather I am a believer in sustained and regular spanking of those simple folk who refuse to toe the party line, those who refuse to “understand” and agree.

Of course, this could range from a mere smack to the back of the head to water boarding, as it were. It is, at the end of the day, up to the hand delivering the punishment to decide on the form and duration. (Another advantage of corporal punishment is that it allows one to be creative in one’s actions).


As the saying goes, spare the rod and spoil your dictatorship.

Gaddafi is Dead (and it is all his own fault)


Tut Tut.

Another idiot without an exit strategy.

How many times do I have to tell them:

Exit Strategy! Exit Strategy! Exit Strategy!!!!

Gaddafi was found in a drainage canal. Oh come on, seriously?

Saddam Hussein also had no exit strategy, but at least he was found in a “Spider Hole” hide out on a farm.

Colonel G, you in there, old boy?

Colonel G, you in there old boy? Helloooo?

A drainage canal is NOT an exit strategy.

I suppose Gaddafi was really the dumb boy on the playground then.

Sick Leave – The purpose of:


We are all human, we dictators. (All except my friend from up North, Robert M. Of him, I sometimes wonder).

We may seem to be animals and demons, but beneath our tough exterior of aggression and fear, we are but flesh and breakable bones.

And this we must put to good use.

Aaaaaaatchoooooo. I feel a cold coming on.

Aaaaaaatchoooooo. I feel a cold coming on.

How and why, you ask?

Fantastic question and the answer lies a bit further from where you think it may. (Actually, I have no idea where you think it may lie, but that is besides the point).

Let me start by saying that there will always be those around you who desire your position of power and status. Sometimes, however, it may not be the easiest thing to spot these assholes, even with the services of rough men like the Minister of Inland Security, Mr Sebenza Whataboy Ditlopo. (Wonderful fellow).

I propose that in some instances, it is advisable to remove oneself from the stage, for a brief period of time and then, from “the hospital ward in Saudi Arabia” (aka: luxury Swiss apartment in the Alps) , watch the political posturing back home, as it were.

And what better way to remove oneself from the stage for a while?

By feigning illness.

There is nothing like the possible death of a leader to light the spark of desire for leadership in others.

Works every time.

And the best part is – you don’t have to put in for sick leave.


The hardest part


I have a sneaky suspicion that the ‘chief” of the Mighty Movement’s Youth Group has “romantic” designs on my position.

He goes by the  moniker of Julius M, but for the sake of non-transparency (the thought of having my nuts cut off does not appeal to me), lets call him Bra (brother/bro) J.

Bra J has a rather loose relationship with his tongue and seems impervious to the subtle persuasions of Mr Sebenza Whataboy Ditlopo. I feel that I may need to lean a bit harder on my minister of inland security in this regard. I think the promise of a nicely located farm may do the trick and spur him into action.

Now, Bra J has taken a certain large banking institution (we shall call them BledBank for sake of expediency) to task for reasons of glamour and fame. In doing so, I assume he is also gathering Momentum (not the financial institution, though) around his cause of youth orientated activities, legal and otherwise. The main focus of his cause seems to be rather unfocused, but then again, most dictators start off with fuzzy ideals and a huge all-consuming lust for power. And this, I assume is what is driving Bra J. With this momentum, I assume he wishes to drive me from my presidential palace and seat himself upon the throne of power, as it were.

Whilst I do not wish to lose the unrivalled power which I currently posses (I love the ability to jet off to Paris to do grocery shopping), I must stop to admire the youth’s drive and vigour.

Oh the paradox!

And that is the hardest part of  dictatorship.