Proud Memories

This afternoon found me by my old watering hole nursing a pint of light beer. Next to me were two Swedes reminiscing about the good old days in their language. They had no idea that I could understand them as the staff of the pub always uses me to practice their English on.

I found the sound of their voices extremely soothing which is understandable if one takes into consideration that Afrikaans (which I’m used to) has exactly the same effect on the eardrums of the uninitiated as a piece of rough sandpaper, rubbed briskly and furiously, has on the head of an erect penis. I think it was P. J. O'Rourke in his "Holidays In Hell" who described the language of my youth as sounding incredibly similar to the Katzenjammer Kids on speed.

Their idea of the good old days were about the 1994 Winter Olympic Games held in Lillehammer and more specifically about Peter “Foppa” Forsberg’s penalty in the finals of the ice-hockey. (I don't have a clue where Lillehammer is or who the hell Peter Forsberg is/was)

My train of thought along the lines of "f'kin kids" was rudely interrupted by the connection of a few synapses in my brain that made me realise a startling fact. I’m old. And inside me there is a young chap wondering what the hell happened to the years. Their conversation started me thinking about the good old days and things that I can be proud of.

In the first 35 years of my life I could not list one thing with pride because of politicians like H. F. Verwoerd and P. W. Botha who soiled my heritage and existence forever, like a used condom. I dare not even mention that we tried to save the lives of comrades under enemy fire because that happened at a time when our politicians did not want to admit to the world that we were fighting in Angola. Our invasion was also a crime against humanity and utterly senseless so there is nothing to be proud of.

What a criminal, shitty waste of time and total disregard of human capabilities.

I still maintain that politicians like tv-evangelists should be shot on sight.