Life's a Blik

Written by Alan Engelsman Copy edited by Byron Levey with art by Dan Riding

CONTENTS

1

CHAPTER ONE

7

O CHAPTER TW

15

CHAPTER THREE

25

CHAPTER FOUR

33

CHAPTER FIVE

43

CHAPTER SIX

51

CHAPTER SEVEN

61

CHAPTER EIGHT

67

CHAPTER NINE

75

CHAPTER TEN

NE CHAPTER O

I

n my early years, I dreamt about growing up to be an airline pilot. None of my immediate family was a pilot, or was currently employed by South African Airways or any other airline for that matter, but that didnʼt stop me from informing every enquiring grown up who asked “what do you want to be when youʼre a man, son?” … me and a million other boys my age who played with paper planes and collected war comics where the pilot was always the last to bail out of a tumbling inferno and miraculously survive!

Snoopy, the ace fighter pilot, was my icon and boyhood hero.

I do remember my late father (now a seasoned regular of the Heaven Country Club) telling me I once had an uncle Andrew who was a fighter pilot, called like many South Africans to join the Brits to do battle against the Nazis in North Africa.

Apparently, he had been shot down and killed page 1

somewhere in Egypt. My other uncle “Elky”, what I would assume was a nickname of sorts or short for ʻElkingtonʼ, once showed me a picture of our wartime hero in his parade uniform. All I recall was that the picture was pale yellow sepia that seemed to have been buried at some stage by one of those renowned, northern desert storms.

Possibly, it was then found by a foot soldier, who had the decency of mind to post it back to our family in South Africa.

Now it would be a rather wild assumption to credit that old, wartime photograph with my dream of being a pilot. But, I must confess that the thought of being a hero in uniform did somehow appeal to my boyhood fantasies. It was only much later in life, around about Chapter Five or so, that this boyhood fantasy eventually surfaced… along with many others!

One that immediately springs to mind, was my high school tennis teacher. A Canadian lady, or should I say a very young Canadian lady, and a very sexy one at that, who immigrated to our country with her husband in the early 70s.

In those days, a teacher at Jeppe Boys High (I think she taught Science and Biology in class… and yes I did attend school at Jeppe) was also required to take extra murals at least two afternoons a week.

Mrs. Canada (lets call her that in the event that the real lady is still in South Africa) chose to take tennis. Now this was great news for us tennis players… but particularly good news for me being the schoolʼs first-team tennis captain. Not because I lay awake at night with my own personal fantasies after spending two

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afternoons a week with this sexy young Canadian lady, but because our team needed all the help we could get in winning school matches. And I knew that she would be a great distraction for our opponents. None of them could put a large enough patch on Mrs Canada when it came to her sitting on the bench right next to the tennis court fence in the middle of a hard fought match.

Boy, her skirts were tight…

But I must give her credit: she did have the most comfortable-in-silk-stocking- type looking legs to go with them. Often, the match was not the only thing that was hard fought! I remember one guy distinctly coughing like a chain-smoker every time he looked in her direction. I think I beat him in straight sets. And then, after the match, Mrs. Canada would come and congratulate all the team members on our amazing performance and celebrate our win with us. What a great team player and morale booster she was! I always came away feeling I hadnʼt given her nearly enough thanks or really shown my heartfelt appreciation for her part in our victories. But thatʼs always the trouble with boyhood fantasies. They often come to nothing more than hot air and wishful thinking.

My only regret was that Mrs Canada didnʼt take me for career guidance counselling. I clearly recall how complimentary she always was about my tennis skills. With a view to improving her own game, she once invited me to her home to help her with her stroke play. Naturally, I accepted.

I had no intention of missing an opportunity to visit Mrs Canada after school to knock balls around in her own backyard. page 3

By late afternoon, but long before her hubby was due home, we stopped playing to take some refreshments in the shade of the garden pergola. For the first time that afternoon I felt my heart beating. In truth, it was racing.

Mrs Canada poured herself a tall glass of something or other after handing me a bitterly cold can of Castle. She then placed herself in the Grafton flop position in a poolside chair right next to me.

For the love of iced tea, I canʼt remember a word she said for the rest of the afternoon. All I do know is that it was extremely interesting.

So much so, I didnʼt want to leave her side, my eyes captivated by every breath she took in that body tight T-shirt of hers.

She was everything a young lad could ever imagine in a woman… and more. I kept thinking my Summer of 42, or was it ʼ72?, had finally come.

She even offered to pay me a training fee for my professional services rendered. Being the fool that I was, I politely declined the offer. I then went on to spoil it all by thanking her for the brew, which I flattened in a flash before promptly sending myself home.

If only I wasnʼt so naive I would have realised there and then that I could have made a career out of tennis. How many more of those wonderful hours, days, years of my life could have been spent improving womenʼs stroke play and being handsomely rewarded for my skills? Now this was never mentioned in any of my career guidance counselling classes. Or if it was, I must have been off playing truant that day. Or, more to the point, I was probably playing tennis, or

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soccer or baseball. And thatʼs something else I was never told as a youngster. Nobody ever pays for the services of a mediocre “jack of all trades and master of none”.

So at the end of a fine schooling, with a firstclass matric, followed by four-years at Wits University, I entered the big peopleʼs world with nothing more than a B-Com legal graduation certificate and a well-developed thirst. The latter you will get to hear more about shortly, but for the present believe me when I say my varsity pals trained me well. The Old Dev (Devonshire Hotel) Pub was often greeted by us thirsty ones on a Friday morning long before the official opening time. Enough said.

So in the words of Simon and Garfunkel “I go looking for a job but I get no offers”. Then, some wise human relations type head-hunter tells me what I need in my life is a CDG (Career Direction Guide). Excuse me? I have just spent the last four years of my life, five if you include a year in the army (which requires a chapter on its own), studying and working on my career and now I get told to get myself a CDG! Thank you very much.

What happened to the five years of career guidance counselling I received every Friday at school?

No, no, no and I know what youʼre thinking. You didnʼt have to write an exam on the subject. But that doesnʼt mean I flunked at it? Or does it?

The following week I went and took an aptitude test at a place in downtown Johannesburg. I canʼt recall whether it was paid for by one of my potential employers, by my mother or whether it was free. What I can remember is that it took a whole day of questions and tests and covered page 5

every subject and topic that exists in the entire series of every volume of encyclopaedia Britannica.

Was it worth it? Iʼm not going to commit myself on that one, just in case my mother did in fact pay for it. Letʼs just say it pointed me down a new road.

It didnʼt tell me what I would be one day, when I would get a job or who was likely to employ me.

What it did tell me was where to start looking.

And surprise, surprise… it wasnʼt at the airport!

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WO CHAPTER T

G

raduating from Wits University with a Bcom in law and economics was, with all due respect to the University, a great disappointment except for the very nice photographs of my graduation ceremony they sent me. For some unknown reason, I have managed to this day to hold these photos very dear to my heart‌ they themselves holding a special place of pride in my family album. In all honesty, if I hadnʟt spent four years playing tennis league and inter-varsity tournaments for Wits, there is not much I can remember about my time there, or at least would want to repeat in this book.

The disappointment began its growth soon after my graduation when I reviewed the human resource pages of the local newspapers. I page 7

called everyone I knew in search of work but to no avail. My loyal VW Beetle even held its ear to the ground for me with an advert of its own in my honour. “Bright. Intelligent. Young. Unemployed.

Make me an offer…” it read for many months. Come to think about it, if it wasnʼt for my low cost, highly dependable, hugely popular and widely travelled Volksie, I would have been walking the streets so to speak. Until one day, on my return from a no-luck visit with an advertising headhunting agency, I arrived back at my Volksie to find what looked like an expensive little pink payslip on my windscreen wiper.

Fortunately, or unfortunately for the traffic authorities, my car was not illegally parked.

In fact, quite the contrary. My little Volksie was perfectly positioned between two white lines in the middle of a shopping centre car park.

So why this feeling of dread? I suppose it had something to do with the colour pink. But as it happened, this little slip was to my relief the bearer of great tidings. The Oktoberfest beer festival was to be held at a nearby neighbourhood sports club in the near future. An event that, on all accounts, deserves support and is definitely well worth advertising. Not through cheap and nasty little pink leaflets though with a single colour print type and no image, but a full-page, multi-coloured advert in the local newspaper.

Impressed? Well, thatʼs because Iʼm running ahead of myself.

In my early years, I barely new an advert from a traffic fine. What I did know, however, is that a beer festival was being held over the coming weekend, and I wasnʼt going to miss it for all the page 8

os and es in Oktoberfest. That Saturday couldnʼt come soon enough. The morning was spent, as usual, helping my brother Martin - who was older and wiser than I - having made a name for himself on the local sportʼs scene. He was earning himself a few bucks giving tennis lessons to a group of young kids at the tennis club. Martin was their coach while I was their excuse for having a cold drink break. Being the loving brother he was, and still is, Martin shared a little bit of his morning earnings with the drinks master. Some money was better than none.

It was only on the Saturday afternoons that I really came into my own. For the warm and sunny winter afternoons were enjoyed running my guts out, being verbally and physically abused, taking knocks and kicks from much bigger, and I might add, much slower guys, while pursuing a white leather ball on the soccer field. It was great fun and I was good at it. Certainly I was a lot more at home on the dry grassed, lime washed soccer pitch than I was in the confines of an all weather tennis court. Not that I ever suffered from claustrophobia or any such thing. It was just that on a soccer field one could run, jump and … fart. And nobody knew any better or said anything.

Now you try that same antics on the tennis court and you very quickly find yourself on the receiving end of countless reprimands from the club committee. At the very least, your name gets chiselled into the “big black book of no-gooders”, a penance worse than banishment itself. For once your name is in that book, you never get a lady volunteer to be your tennis mixed league partner. page 9

Ever. This leaves you with nothing left to do during the long winter months, except expand your network of no-gooders and join the soccer club. Then you come to realise that running and jumping and farting are all part of the skills of a fine footballer.

In the words of the great Eddy Lewis, our team mentor and manager, “the more you put in, the more you get out”. And boy, did we put a lot in!

You could tell the state of our change rooms from the behaviour of the teamʼs canine mascot - Billy Boy - an active young border collie with a keen sense of smell. When Billy Boy refused to enter the locker rooms, I went without a shower.

On the day of the Oktoberfest, the one my Volksie had helped successfully advertise, Billy Boy gave us the green light and the whole team celebrated another fine win with a case or two of Charlie Glass in the showers.

This always set the precedence for a great Saturday night and knowing that it was the Oktoberfest made the afternoonʼs victory ever so more important a celebration. The after-shave and the underarm deodorants were out. All the boys were clamouring for a space in front of the shaving mirror on the wall, combing their locks and getting the fringe to twirl at just the right place. Not me. I was sitting close to the second case of Charlie Glass just in the off chance of there entering a third.

For if there was one thing I enjoyed about soccer, it was the thirst it gave me. Eddy would always remind me, saying “Son, beer is like a magic tonic to a great footballer. It helps you relax. It helps you stay regular. It helps you run like the

page 10

wind. And it helps your team mates hear where you are on the field.” Now I knew the reason why nobody ever complained about my farting. That night I was going to be a good team player.

Crack! I opened another.

Our arrival at the Oktoberfest was delayed somewhat - partly as a result of our teamʼs success at the darts board, and partly because of our inability to move from the bar. Courtesy of our generous supporters club, the beer was free. Besides, it was bloody cold outside. So it was well into the night before we arrived at the festival. We were still going strong at that stage and it didnʼt take us long to get into the full swing of things in a sing-a-long with a traditional German Oompah band. Einz, Zwy und nog eine grosse bier bitte being by far our favourite and most frequently requested tune. There was endless joy drinking from those massive one-litre beer jugs while having boat races with the girlʼs hockey team. Us soccer hooligans never missed an opportunity to win a competition, especially when there was free beer involved. The fact that we competed against a team of fast drinking, but not fast swallowing, female hockey players, made the victory even sweeter. But in the end, we all bought too many drinks and we all had ein grosse bier too many.

The highlight of the evening, however, was the flagpole climbing competition. The challenge was a race against the clock to the top of the marqueeʼs main mast pole. Getting up was tough. Getting up a wet and slippery mast pole was even tougher.

Getting up a wet and slippery mast pole when youʼre half broken was the toughest of all. All I can recall was that I was promised a huge supply of page 11

draught beer if I managed to beat the record.

At that stage of the early morning, with every one of the hockey girls looking like Hollywood film stars, more free beer was one of the furthest things from my mind.

But I had to have a go at it anyhow.

The shouting and whistling of the crowd as I ascended, and then descended at lightening speed, would have been music to my ears if I had only remained conscious. Falling as I did from nearly twenty metres up the pole, my descent was by far the quickest. Unfortunately, my leaving the pole on the way down immediately disqualified me from receiving any prizes. But I did earn the respect of the lady hockey teamʼs qualified nurse. When I came to, she was busy putting an ice pack on the back of my head, yelling at my friends and informing them that I was very, very lucky. That I could have killed myself! With my head lying gently on her soft lap and my eyes looking straight into her “Happy Valley is where itʼs all at” T-shirt (a place that was obviously created for girls with a healthy cleavage) I was in heaven. Saved by an angel is the expression that comes to mind.

Anyway, I seemed to recall my agreeing with her every word. Naturally, that party trick ended my evening. I spent the rest of the night acquainting myself with all the amenities available to a weekend reveller on a cold winterʼs night at Happy Valley. The good news is I didnʼt have to drive myself home.

Three days later, totally out of the blue, I got a call from the Human Resources manager of South African Breweries in Isando. “I was given your number from one of our sales reps that saw you on

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the weekend, at one of our Oktoberfest functions” said a very friendly female voice. Well, to coin a good yiddisher phrase, I nearly died. For a brief second it sounded just like my hockey girl friend from Happy Valley. I never got the callerʼs name but I remember her telling me that SAB wanted me to come in for an interview at their Isando Depot. Please God, let this not be another hoax of some evil kind, I thought. With my backside still quite tender, I donʼt think I could take the pain of another rejection.

As life would have it, it wasnʼt a hoax. The Breweries were responding to one of my many earlier applications for a post in their merchandising department. The timing was perfect, my interview a breeze and I was appointed to start my new job the following month. The fact that somebody from the Breweries witnessed my pole climbing antics was purely coincidental. Thatʼs my story anyways and Iʼm sticking to it.

To think that it all started with a little pink leaflet on an old VW windscreen wiper.

Those creative fools in advertising would never realise how far reaching their little exploit had been. Do they not know that people are by and large gullible and easily persuaded to act on their offerings? Are advertisers above the law and therefore not responsible for their unsolicited communications to the general public? These are the questions that began playing games in my mind. It was my introduction to advertising and I was starting to enjoy the ride.

For the next two years I applied myself to understanding the role of product or brand

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merchandising, retail pricing and the battle for fridge and oor space. I loved my job.

Everyday was a new day and every day I moved a little further along the road in this world of advertising. A world that nobody seemed to know much about, yet everybody seemed expert in. The Advertising Agency was, so I was led to believe, a place where assholes sit and conjure up weird and wonderful ideas that entice people to want to buy more of things they really donĘźt need in the ďŹ rst place.

Then out came the advertising for Colt 45; a new beer launched by our sole competitors Intercontinental Breweries. Their advertising had no sooner hit the streets than it was immediately followed by a counter campaign from SAB, for a brand called Stallion 54. This little ploy from the marketing gurus at SAB really put the cat among the pigeons, resulting in a retail war and then an expensive lawsuit.

Being an ex-legal scholar, this really got my attention.

Six months later I left SAB. I needed to find out more about those assholes in advertising.

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HREE CHAPTER T

M

y introduction to beer came at a very early age. My late Dad, the Heaven Country Club member, played Southern Transvaal first league tennis in his heydays for a club that was renowned more for its beer drinkers than its tennis players. In the early 1960s, Observatory Tennis Club was the one to play for if you wanted your beers served in 750ml quart bottles. Even the women drank beers after tennis in those days, there certainly being no such thing as a Hunters Gold Cider or a Smirnoff Ice. No sir, the closest thing to a ladies low alcohol drink was a beer shandy.

Anyway, back to my Dad. Invariably after a long Saturday afternoonʼs tennis match, my Dad used to have a quick beer with his opponents before returning to the court to play with my brother and I for an hour or so. He would help us with page 15

our serves and get us volleying at the net something that I could not yet see over (never mind volley over!) but learned to play seeing through until it was almost dark. Then we would all go back into the clubhouse for an ice cold Castle Lager. Nearly all the guys drank Castles at the Observatory Club, although the national market leader at the time was Lion. “Too sweet” my Dad always used to say when he was offered one.

Now my brother was about 13 at the time. It was his first year in high school at Jeppe Boys and he was already playing tennis for the school in their second side. My Dad and Martin were working hard at getting him into the first team. I was then under ten, and playing for my school and in all the school holiday tournaments - losing more matches mind you than I can remember winning, but nevertheless relishing the opportunity to spend my holidays with my elder brother and his friends. Naturally it was more important that Martin was winning his matches. I was only there because, with both parents at work, there was nobody for me to play with back home.

But the area where I did hold my own was in the clubhouse, drinking beer. My Dad would sit us down on a chair next to him and share his beers with us. I remember how the Castle quart bottles would always fill two and a bit glasses of beer. My Dad would drink the two glasses and then pour the bit into our glass. It was a great arrangement for the first two or three rounds, but my brother and I battled to keep up when it got to around seven oʼclock. By which time the guys were on their seventh or eighth beer - 750ml at page 16

a time. Boy, those mates of my Dad had a thirst!

Although I was probably swallowing beer with difficulty at that stage, I never complained.

Martin and I always slept well on a Saturday night. “Itʼs been a long day in the sun and theyʼve had an enormous amount of exercise,” my Dad would say to my mom. “Theyʼre playing great tennis, itʼs no wonder theyʼre so tired. The boys deserve an early night in bed - let them sleep”. No mention was ever made of the Castles.

Although she never said anything, Iʼm sure my mom knew better. After all, my brother was only a few months old and still a cry-baby when, on his return from one of those long afternoons in the sun, my Dad was tasked with the changing of the nappy. Having put the big blue safety pin firmly in place, he returned to his favourite chair in the living room, leaving my brother in the bedroom crying his little heart out. Not understanding baby Martinʼs discontent, my mom went into the bedroom fifteen minutes later to investigate.

Thanks to that motherly instinct, she decided to remove the freshly applied nappy. It was then that she discovered that my Dad had placed the big blue safety pin firmly through both ends of the nappy, along with two inches of Martinʼs stomach. And so ended my Dadʼs responsibilities of nappy changing.

A good few years later, at a time when our cry-baby was now a student at the University of the Witwatersrand, Martin got permission to take my momʼs car down to Umhlali on the Natal coast for the Easter weekend. It was an annual open tennis tournament and this was the first time we had entered. The car was packed with the normal page 17

sports bag or two, half dozen tennis rackets, a few cans of tennis balls, a large packet of biltong and two sleeping bags. Even though the tournament organisers had arranged accommodation for those that requested it, my mom insisted that we go prepared. So we said our goodbyes, good lucks and were happily off. Naturally, my brother was both nervous and excited about his first time driving all that way from Joburg to the coast, so we popped into a bottle store for a carry pack before hitting the Heidelberg highway.

The Umhlali tournament weekend turned out exactly as we had heard and hoped - a great tournament, terrific hospitality, awesome parties and girls, girls, girls. I did well to win two matches and qualify for the main draw of the tournament, only to meet the number two seed in the first round - Johnny Muller. I gave him a big scare and came close to clinching the match in a tie-break, but Johnny was an experienced winner.

He definitely wasnʼt going to lose to a rank outsider and so with a convincing line call on a crucial point, he pipped me at the final hurdle.

My brother on the other hand did very well in both the singles and the doubles. Martin didnʼt win the tournament, but as a quarter finalist and a semi finalist, he was certainly up there with the best of them. More importantly, his winnings meant more beers and some extra cash to buy petrol for the trip home.

That Sunday night was a night to remember…

The final dayʼs tennis was followed by a braai for all the players. The sugar cane farmers of Umhlali certainly knew how to throw a braai, page 18

with sheep on the spit, potjie kos, pap en sous, steamed mielies and for those who dared try it, a secret bottle of home-made, sugar cane based witsblitz.

As far as I can recall, that witsblitz bottle didnʼt last nearly as long as the braai. It wasnʼt long before everybody was singing songs around the fire and dancing with the farmerʼs daughters - langarm naturally. That was until Johnny, who had by now befriended Martin and I as if we were his long lost bosom buddies, decided that he had had enough of Umhlali hospitality.

In particular, he wanted to make a move on one of the farmerʼs pretty young daughters. So we left the braai, with Johnny and his newly acquired girl friend “Meisie” in the back seat, me in the front and Martin at the wheel.

The plan was to find a house party that some of us better players - or was it better party animals? - were invited to earlier that afternoon.

Unfortunately, no maps were given out with the verbal invitations, and being uitlanders to the Umhlali countryside, my brother drove us round and round in circles. We got hopelessly lost.

Not that Johnny minded one little bit though. He was quite content sitting in the back seat of my motherʼs car, sucking face with Meisie. And, she didnʼt seem to mind either. That was, until the accident.

Looking back over his left shoulder, trying to acquire some sense of direction from the young lady, Martin missed the approaching bend and the car veered off the road into a muddy ditch.

Fortunately, we were not travelling very fast, so the vehicle came to a halt quickly without page 19

anybody getting injured. Unfortunately, the chosen ditch was very deep and Martin was unable to dislodge the wheels buried in the mud. It was then that Meisie, lost her sense of humour.

Screaming at the top of her voice, she shoved my front seat and me into the windscreen and jumped out into the middle of the road. Cursing Martin and shouting at the night sky, she began running down the road back in the direction we had just come from with Johnny, bless his kind, caring soul, sprinting as best as his now semi-stiff legs could carry him not far behind. And that was the last we saw of Romeo and Juliet.

If it were not for the most unexpected, and most welcome, taxi passing by soon after, I doubt whether we would ever have gotten back on the road. The taxi driver, a hell of a nice Indian fellow who resembled a Natal grown Jimmy Abbot in size and in strength came to our rescue. Like a guardian angel from the sugar cane midlands, he almost single-handedly lifted our car off the ground, with the two front wheels clear out of the mud, and dropped it softly back on the road.

Martin and I couldn始t thank him enough, and he refused to take any money from us. Now I know this is starting to read like a fairy tale, but believe me, in the old days of Apartheid you got people like this. It始s hard to imagine in the new South Africa, where taxi drivers nowadays seem hell-bent on doing everything possible to push your car off the road!

The guy did however, take the rest of our case of Castles and the half packet of biltong that we had in the boot of the car. For his part in helping us get back on the road, we would have

page 20

bought him beers all night if we could. And so, with a wave of a now truly muddied white handkerchief, the Naidoo fellow signalled us goodbye and sped off on his merry way with the radio pumping, one hand on the steering wheel, and one hand grasping a can of Castle just barely visible in that giant paw of his. “Now thatʼs what I call a typical Castle supporter” Martin remarked starting the car. There was no more drinking or partying for us that night. We were just too happy to be going home to bed. As for Johnny? Well, we never found out what happened to his pursuit. Somehow though, like us, we figured he went to bed alone that night.

The taxi driver reminds me of another occasion when a car decided to leave the road and jump in front of a pole on the pavement. This time it was with friends of mine from Wits. In my varsity years I acquired a taste for beer and peppermint liqueur. We used to go and watch Wits play baseball at the Wanderers Club on a Sunday afternoon. We being Michael, Gavin and I, the three musketeers from the East Rand. “All for one. One for all” was our mantra - the ʻoneʼ being none other than Castle Lager. My uncle Doug was a Springbok baseball player in the early 1950s, and like me he was left-handed. In the sport of baseball, this can be used to a great advantage in both batting and fielding. It was a pity nobody told me this when I tried my hand at it. In fact, all three of us musketeers had tried our hand at the sport at some stage or another and kept an interest in baseball throughout our study years. My job on a Sunday was to bring the ʻpeppiesʼ - usually a half jack wrapped in brown

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paper. Mixed with a few cold Castles, which we could buy at the game, our Sunday afternoons were never boring.

For the three musketeers, Sunday was a day to be heard. And boy did we get loud! Many a match was won from hackling at the opposition. The Wits team had a reputation for fans that hackled their opposition right off the diamond and right out of the park; a reputation that we upheld with pride every time we watched a match. (With thanks I guess, in no small way, to the contents of our little brown paper packets). That Sunday, we had an opportunity for a double celebration.

Our team had just won their match and we had a birthday party to attend that evening. For Michael, Gavin and I, an invitation to a birthday party was one not to be missed. So straight after the game we set out for the party. Michael in his Fiat, Gavin in his Mazda, and me bringing up the rear in my Volksie Beetle.

The party was a hoot, with all the guys getting pissed and all the girls getting pissed-off. But still, thatʼs a whole lot better than getting pissed on - literally.

It was about midnight when Gavin needed to relieve himself, no doubt for the third or fourth time, but couldnʼt find a vacant loo in the house.

Thinking that we were walking into the garden, Gavin and I stumbled onto one of the upstairs balconies. Standing legs astride, Gavin proceeded to ʻpoint Percyʼ to the stars and jetted a strong fountain over the terrace railing and down on the garden below. Unbeknown to us, the homeowner and his wife were lying in bed in the room next door and from their bedroom French doors could see

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us on the upstairs balcony - with Gavinʼs stream reflecting like a laser show in the moonlight.

The man was furious. He came charging onto the balcony and grabbed my mate by the scruff of his Tshirt and yanked him off the terrace before Gavin could even finish emptying his bladder. With one hand still closing his fly and the other grabbing his half full beer, Gavin was led to the front door and with a military styled dishonourable discharge, told to get lost. Michael and I followed a minute later. With all of us already in our respective cars and happy to leave, Gavin jumped out of his car and proceeded back down the driveway. “Donʼt worry,” he shouted, “Iʼm not looking for a fight. Iʼm just going to get my jersey.”

He marched down the driveway and knocked loudly for at least three minutes on the front door.

Eventually the door opened and Gavin assertively explained to the man that he was not leaving without his jersey. The man listened to Gavin making his point with all the authority he could muster in his drunken state, and then politely responded, “I think youʼve come to the wrong house young man.

The party is next door!”

That same night Gavin wrapped his car around a street pole and wrote his much loved Mazda off. When the police arrived at the scene of the accident, the constable told the traffic officer on duty that he saw it coming. “My partner and I was parked on the side of the road,” he explained in his bestest English. “Next minute, no jokes, these three maniacs comes flying past us in their cars - the Fiat in front, chased hard by this Mazda, and then the Volksie chasing both of them. It was

page 23

like a Hollywood movie. I turned and says to my partner – ʻBoeta, there goes an accident waiting for a place to happenʼ.”

Now I know most people would say we were damn lucky that nobody was seriously injured or killed that night. But I say we were damn unlucky. Think of it this way - if Gavin had found the loo vacant when he needed to go, we would never have stepped onto the upstairs balcony, which means Gavin would never have ʻpointed Percyʼ to the stars and the homeowner would never have thrown us out of the party early. We probably would have stayed over at the house and Mike and I would probably have gotten lucky and laid. But Gavin didnʼt find one…

And Mike and I didnʼt get laid. Now thatʼs what I call unlucky!

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OUR CHAPTER F

I

t was late November 1986, while working for an American executive health and fitness corporation, Execufit, when I had the accident. One afternoon, while driving to the fitness centre in Braamfontein, I was approaching the dip near the Ellis Park rugby stadium when I was hit by an oncoming bakkie - “that blerrie bakkie” as the advertising copyline used to go.

The bakkie had entered the dip from the other end at high speed. Loaded with some kind of heavy industrial machinery, the driver lost control of the vehicle at the bottom of this dip and veered onto the right to face oncoming traffic. I donʼt recall much else - I never really saw what hit me.

It was one of those classic cases of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I spent three months in hospital with a dislocated hip, a crushed knee, bruised lungs and a number of cuts and scratches from the shattered windscreen of my pride and joy - an almost new, midnight page 25

blue Honda Prelude. Anything smaller and I probably would have been playing golf with my dad upstairs. However, to say that this accident changed my life is probably the understatement of the millennium…

At the time, I was extremely fit and possibly one of the reasons why the doctors think I survived the accident with my life. The other, being the fact that I had just pulled off from the traffic lights of the intersection and I couldnʼt have been doing more than 50kph when that bakkie bashed into me. I was in the prime of my life, exercising four or five times a week at the Execufit Centre, was playing the best tennis I had ever played and generally enjoying life to the full. This accident changed all that. It left me without a job, without a hope in hell of any sporting career and without much self-esteem or confidence in the now uncertain future.

Itʼs at times like these that one is truly grateful for a lucky, less painful break in life.

Mine came in the form of an opportunity with my ex-employer - Ogilvy and Mather, Rightford, Searle-Tripp and Makin. I know itʼs a mouthful, but then, do you know of any advertising agency that isnʼt? The Cape Town agency was in search of an Account Director to service one of their biggest blue-chip clients at the time - Volkswagen South Africa. The position required that I move down to Cape Town almost immediately, and even though I was still walking with the help of crutches, I was overjoyed at the opportunity that it presented. Never kick a gift horse in the mouth!

I remember ʻborrowingʼ a sum of around seven

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thousand Rand from my dear mom to buy my flight down to the Mother City - it was almost everything she had saved at the time! Bless her. It was probably the nicest flight Iʼve ever had. With my crutches and all, the very helpful flight attendant from Flightstar - yes, remember Flightstar airlines upgraded me to Business Class. I got first class service, a great meal (with real stainless steel cutlery) and as many free beers as I could drink.

Two hours later we landed in Cape Town. I was so happy I didnʼt want to disembark. God, how I miss Flightstar!

The agency had arranged for me to spend the first two weeks of my new life at a historic down town hotel - Die Tuinhuis - just a two-kilometre walk from the Ogilvy offices in Gardens. I remember having a room in the hotel that was no bigger than the bathroom of my old Jozi townhouse, but I loved my new home nonetheless. The room had a bed, an en-suite bathroom and a big cupboard – with just enough space for me to swing my crutches. The single bed had a firm mattress, which I needed for my damaged back, and the hotel cleaning staff replaced my bedding with fresh white sheets and pillowcases every night.

Coming home to dinner for those two weeks was a real treat - often having the hotel dining room and long bar, with its three waiters, barman and the kitchen chef all to myself. From what I can remember, the food was always top of the range with the pudding tray being one of my favourites.

As for the service – truly excellent. I think my crutches might have played a small role in my VIP treatment from the staff, but I made sure I always tipped well. page 27

Working on the Volkswagen account was great fun and I learned an enormous amount about the motor industry in South Africa. My dad always used to call the 40 or so used car dealerships along Jules Street in Malvern “Alli Baba and the Forty Thieves”. Then I was beginning to understand why. What a way to earn a living - and I always thought the advertising industry was a cutthroat business! These boys made us advertising execs look like lambs in the manger. I remember David Ogilvy saying that no advertising account exec was ever worth his salt until he had spent a month or two at the cold face selling his clientʼs products. I was immensely happy that Volkswagen never insisted I first learn to sell motorcars before I serviced their account. Or was it because they knew something about the showroom floors of South African motorcar dealerships that Ogilvy didnʼt? One thing was for sure - they spoke very little of my sales ability in delivering their advertising campaigns or the complete lack of it.

The next two years at Ogilvy saw us launch for Volkswagen what many still regard as some of the best industry advertising to ever come out of South Africa. Advertising campaigns such the corporate Volkswagen Family “VW and me” and the giant VW logo made from a host of different VW cars, plus the VW Golf “The Right Stuff” campaign which took its lead from the great movie of the same name. And who will ever forget the infamous David Kramer commercials for VW Bus? All in all, it was a great time to be in advertising not to mention a great time to be in Cape Town. page 28

It all started happening for me when I began playing tennis again and joined the local tennis club. You may recall what I said a few chapters earlier about my late dadʼs tennis club in Observatory - how they had a great reputation for their tennis but an even better reputation for their beer drinking. Now I think I managed to find their equivalent, only better, in Cape Town – at the Camps Bay Tennis Club.

I remember all too well the first day I was invited down to the club to meet some of the guys. It was a sort of “see us play, have a beer or two”, and then “decide if you want to join or not” type of open invitation. The man responsible for this was the young, friendly, extremely fit and for the benefit of the female readers - tall, dark and dashing Steve. He found me working out at the Health and Racquet, probably amused by the strain and pain on my face at my ability to lift less than one tenth of the weights that he was training with. Whatever it was, he came over and introduced himself. We got chatting and I told him about my car accident and how I needed to rebuild strength back into my damaged knees.

Somewhere, we got onto the subject of tennis.

Immediately, like it was destiny, Steve and I hit on this common ground and have been good friends ever since.

The club was busy with their championships and Steve suggested I come and watch the finals. The tennis was terrific, the braai was brilliant and the members were all very friendly and glad to have me as their guest for the afternoon - which subsequently turned out to be for half the night too! Thanks in part to Steve and his club mates,

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and in part to the freely flowing Carling Black Labels. Yes, I was drinking Carlings in those days because it was one of the brands Ogilvy advertised for SA Breweries - and we always supported our clientʼs products. In the same way as we all drove VW cars. That night my VW Golf drove itself home with me holding onto the steering wheel for the free ride. You can say what you like, but those Carlings kick like a mule. And probably why they were so dearly loved by both dem strong American cowboys and our very own African mineworkers.

The then Carling brand manager once told me “with twenty odd million Zulus drinking my brand, you canʼt argue that it is the best beer in Africa”.

I guess he had a point. If you think that Carling was once South Africaʼs top selling beer brand, itʼs tough for us hardened beer lovers to comprehend the volumes consumed by the African market. By way of comparison, think of all the beers consumed by the total Caucasian market, male and female, across all brands, in cans and in bottles, and in all sizes, quarts to dumpies. Put all this beer in one huge warehouse and this would be more or less the equivalent amount of Carling Black Label beer consumed by African women only!

Now you get to grasp the importance of having a brand that is loved by Africaʼs mineworkers!

The next morning I was in the office nursing a hangover that felt like I had engaged in battle with all twenty odd million Zulus. They were still raging in my head when the phone rang. The voice on the other end I recognised as Alan - the busy beaver looking Yeddisher I met at the Camps Bay Club the day before. “Sure… I remember,” I said, trying hard to get a clear picture of this man in

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my foggy mind. “The guy that got behind the bar counter and did the prize giving?” That was the one. Funny how you remember somebody youʼve only just met by what they do, especially after youʼve consumed over a dozen Carlings.

When he politely enquired as to whether I managed to drive home okay, I panicked a little and got on the defensive. Not all that sure of my behaviour the night before, I instantly played down the hangover and pretended that I was fine and that yesterdayʼs little outing was just a normal, mellow Sunday afternoon for me. I felt a lot better about myself when he told me that half the guys from the club didnʼt make it to work that day. I didnʼt have the courage or the frame of mind to ask which half.

The reason for Alanʼs call was because the Western Province league was due to commence in a fortnightʼs time and he was wanting to know whether I would like to play for Camps Bay. Naturally, I accepted his offer being too keen to get back into playing tennis again. The thought of playing league with the likes of Steve and Alan was just what the doctor had ordered. I thanked Alan for the forty-five minute phone call and then ordered a Coke from my secretary… to help me swallow another Panado. As the saying goes about the morning after the night before - “if I knew I was going to be this thirsty, I would have had another beer last night!” I still donʼt know how I managed to get through that first Monday after a long and very liquid Sunday at the Bay, but I did.

That was my introduction to Camps Bay Tennis Club, and I have been an active member ever since.

In fact, to be more accurate, a year later I accepted the position of club Chairman, and I have been the

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acting Chairman ever since.

Something else in my life also happened that year. Something far more attractive and way more life changing than being voted the club Chairman.

For it was about this time that I met my wife to be - Sonja. Yes, you guessed it. Not at the beach, not in a night-club, not at an office party, but at the Camps Bay Tennis Club.

There is an old wives tale that claims there is something that men eat that changes their lives forever. Itʼs not humble pie (although it comes a close second), nor is it biltong – itʼs wedding cake!

Sonja is tall and slender, with blonde hair and big blue eyes. She is known as the Darryl Hanna of Camps Bay... and sheʼs a fine tennis player at that.

But before I get to tell you about what attracted me to Sonja and how she and I met, I first need to relate a few funny tales about my life as a bachelor. After all, I spent a good portion of my life as one and there are some stories that need telling…

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IVE CHAPTER F

T

he data statistics boffins will tell you that there are five girls to every boy in Cape Town… single girls that is. That may have been true in the old days, before the HIV/Aids pandemic and the irresistibly attractive economic value of the Pink Dollar. As the gay capital of South Africa and with the constant influx of single unemployed males in search of work and a better life in Cape Town, I very much doubt whether those same statistics of the inhabitants still hold true today.

Anyway, regardless of how many there are or were, one thing is for certain - Cape Town has an abundance of pretty, sexy, young and attractive looking females. One just has to look at the number of Cape Town winners in the annals of the Miss South Africa pageant. I think itʼs got something to do with the rag trade - the clothing and fashion industry - that we seem to attract page 33

a wealth of good-looking females all vying for the top modelling jobs here. So too for our dear ex-Miss World, Anneline Kriel Kersner Baker.

Annie found the Cape Town call irresistible and, in addition to her property investments in the Stellenbosch wine lands, now lives in a seaside cottage in Bakoven. I canʼt say Iʼve seen her around, but I have it on good authority that at the age of forty something, Annie is still turning heads.

So why am I telling you this? Simply because one needs to get a clearer picture and better understanding of this unique environment to fully grasp the pressures on the single man living in Cape Town. Favourable conditions can easily tempt a guy to believe in, and live a life of, the eternal bachelorhood. I think it was heart-throb Cliff Richards that wrote the song - “Iʼll be a bachelor boy, and thatʼs the way Iʼll stay...happy to be a bachelor boy, until my dying day”. Imagine if he had written this song after he had come to Cape Town? It would probably still be at the top of the hit parade.

It was at that stage in my life where, for me and thousands of other bachelors like me, every weekend in Cape Town was the hit parade.

You either hit on the girls and got lucky, or you hit the booze bottle and then still tried to get lucky later. The weekends would start on the Friday evening at the local watering hole on the border of Clifton 4th beach and Glen beach.

Sharing the same premises as the Glen Bowling Club, this pub is simply known as La Med. Itʼs an awesome location for sundowners for those long Summermonth afternoons - a place where

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the ʻtall cocktailʼ could have easily been born.

But the guys werenʼt frequenting the place for cocktails. It was the brewskies we were after, and boy, did we do SAB proud every weekend. The place was a goldmine for bachelors - and for the fun-seeking sisters. My keen observations told me there were always two kinds of frequenters.

Those that came for a drink or two after work before moving onto a respectable dinner or a show and those who came for a drink or six, and stayed to the very end. I must confess I was all too often a loyal component of the latter. La Med was just one of those watering holes that somehow seemed to cast a net over you… and drag you happily under. From sundown, the evenings turned into nights, and the nights turned into early mornings. And then before you knew it, the cries of sea gulls would ring in the ears and the blinding morning sun would stream down, burning holes into blood shot eyes. Foetal positions were common when curled up in some back seat, still in the La Med car park.

But on this particular weekend, I had different plans. It was a Saturday and I had come directly from a good two-hour workout and not from the office. Mid-winter was not the kind of weather conducive to venturing out to La Med for sundowners. ʻCockʼ Brown, a good friend of mine, and another Camps Bay tennis club party animal, had organised tickets for ʻThe Party Trainʼ.

This train would leave Platform 20 from Cape Town station at 7 pm, and would diligently puff its way to a small country village called Driegheuwels just outside Stellenbosch before returning us to Cape Town sometime around midnight. But this was page 35

no ordinary ride… The Party Train was equipped with the most sophisticated, top of the range, sound speakers that money could buy, making it the mobile disco of note. That train would rock its rickety route all the way to Driegheuwels and back, every alternate weekend.

When I arrived at the station that evening, the party atmosphere had already formed on the platform. A fairly large group of youngsters still donned in their blue and white rugby jerseys and scarves, guys and gals in their early twenties, had gathered together in high spirits. Thanks in part no doubt to the fact that Province had just beaten the Natal Sharks at Newlands that afternoon. And thanks in part to their sponsor - Old Brown Sherry - a bottle of which was still doing its rounds.

I rightly guessed, as it later turned out, that they were all varsity students. One could see by their rugged determination they planned to have a good time on the train. I made a quick mental note of how many girls there were in their party, and then moved on to find my good friend Brownie.

Under the pretence of searching for friends further down the platform, I was pleased to have made eye contact with a pretty blonde.

She returned my greeting with more than just a friendly smile. The Old Brown was obviously already having an affect on her eyes.

I found Brownie in the midst of an even larger group of revellers. He was busy negotiating ticket sales and other trade exchanges. He introduced me to a few mates before handing me my train ticket. “Iʼm expecting a whole gang from the tennis club,” he said excitedly. “The

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other Alan, Johnny, Rob, Don, Dave and God knows who else!” Five minutes later, a huge crowd had arrived with other Alan leading the way. They too had been to rugby and were in good spirits. I had a feeling right there and then, that tonight we were going to engrave our names on the Party Train… forever.

Not long thereafter, with all aboard, the train slowly began pulling out. We had found our way into the carriage that had a bar counter at one end where a single barman frantically served a layer of thirsty guys -and a pair of humongous, wall mounted, box speakers at the other. That was it. No chairs or benches to be seen anywhere. And there were another half dozen carriages on the train just like this one! The music made it almost impossible to hold any audible conversation.

The train was hardly past the Salt River station when the crowd in our carriage were already jumping up and down and dancing to the vibration of the heavy base underfoot. If you didnʼt hear the music, you certainly felt it. The whole experience was quite exhilarating. Even if you were stone cold sober, which were clearly in the minority, you felt the urge to join in and boogy. It certainly brought a new meaning to Rock and Roll as the train puffed its way into Woodstock.

Apart from the smoke of the puffing steam engine, there was a distinct stink in the air of another kind of smoke. Being a non-smoker myself, I was quick to assess that this smoke was not from the train. This was that aroma you get when you walk into a shebeen in the townships. The aroma of Happy Twig. Itʼs a distinctive smell of tobacco

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that is easy to identify, but hard to describe.

And our carriage was filling up with it fast.

Needless to say, they donʼt call it the Happy Twig for nothing.

Those who did participate in the act of smoking dagga always laughed and looked like they didnʼt have a care in the world. And those who were the passive smokers always looked like they were carrying the world. But as Mother Nature would have it, it was the latter that had the last laughs when the former had gone a sickly green.

Twenty minutes into the train ride, another kind of intake emerged. This time it was more acceptable in the eyes of the law, but no less effectual. A young lady was on board making a killing selling her homemade ʻjellosʼ to the party animals. Jellos looked like small fruit flavoured jelly cups, but they contained no water.

She had made her special jellos using a mixture of cheap wine and white spirits. Two or three jellos and you were well on your way. At R10 a pop, this lady was well on her way to becoming a self-made millionaire. Unfortunately, I found her attitude never matched her entrepreneurship otherwise I might well have tried to link up with her on a more permanent basis.

I did, however, link up with another young lady on the train. Remember the blonde that I managed to make eyes with on platform 20? Well, she and I got together for a dance or two. One minute she was trying to pull into my pants, the next minute the train was pulling into the station at Driegheuwels. The Party Train had arrived at our destination. And not all that sober I might add. page 38

From the station it was a short walk, or stumble, to the Driegheuwels town hall. This for me was the real eye opener. It was as if the 20th Century had not yet come to Driegheuwels.

Dressed in their Saturday night fever party gear, a mixture of kakis and floral frills, the local town folk were all on the dance floor, both young and old, lang-arming to the sounds of the very latest CD, Bokjol Sakkie, Sakkie. It was like something I saw as a child, when I would accompany my parents to a family wedding.. But I hadnʼt seen it since then and certainly not anywhere within a ten kilometre radius of Camps Bay. If Driegheuwels was a one horse town, then the stable boy was no John Travolta.

Granted, the dance was festive and romance was in the air. And the food wasnʼt half bad either. In exchange for your train ticket stub, if you were of mind not to lose it, you received a free meal which comprised of a paper plate of Driegheuwelsʼ finest curry and rice, served with a fresh salad and a bread roll, plus a spoon of Mrs Ballʼs special blatjang. After a dozen beers, and two or three jellos, a healthy home cooked meal was exactly what the doctor ordered.

The trick was to keep it down, however, for I saw many a train traveller out on the lawn, experiencing their curry and rice for a second time.

Instead of joining my mates at the bar, where they were no doubt about to empty a fresh bottle of Olmega tequila or something equally destructive, I decided to find myself a dancing partner while I could still stand. And preferably one that didnʼt expect me to lang-arm. So I went in search page 39

of my young student friend, that I was busy starting a relationship with before we were so rudely interrupted.

To my amazement, she accepted my invitation to dance. Not that she enjoyed my dancing mind you.

I think she was just too happy to get away from her group of ʻlearnedʼ colleagues for awhile - or was it to get away from the Old Brown?

Anyway, two songs later she asked if I wouldnʼt mind taking a break. “Letʼs go outside for some fresh air,” she said, grabbing me by the arm and leading the way. Fresh is not the word… it was bloody freezing. I knew this the minute my bum hit the lawn - with the blonde over powering me to the cold and wet ground, sucking my face savagely. Her breath was warm and rich with the fumes of Old Brown. I didnʼt resist. After all, sherry is the perfect after dinner drink on a cold winter evening!

So there I was, lying flat on my back, with my bare ass on the cold and wet Driegheuwels grass, and this horny young blonde sitting astride me like she was ready to ride a horse. Boy, did she know a trick or two about riding! As cold as it was, I admirably rose to the occasion.

She bounced up and down on me so hard I thought she was going to break my back. Every time she landed I felt that now hard extremity of mine poking her spine. But, this didnʼt seem to bother her… she just didnʼt stop. While looking up at the wallpaper of bright shiny stars that spread across the clear night skies above, with one hand on a bitterly cold can of Castle and the other on her freezing white buttocks, I thought

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to myself... what a great beer!

Needless to say, for me and for all those revellers who had over-indulged on the Old Brown and jellos, the train ride home was a non-event.

I never even got to say goodbye to blondie.

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IX CHAPTER S

T

he other day, I received a visit from a messenger of the Sheriff of the Court - a summons was served on me to appear at a court hearing of the Estate Agents Affairs Board in connection with a claim I had lodged against a local estate agent in Hout Bay. While signing for the court hearing, the messenger made an enquiry into the roots of my surname “Doesnʼt you ever get teased - Engelsman. about your name?” he asked in his best Queenʼs English. “Especially when you are eintlik English speaking?” I was speechless.

Little did he realise how my surname has condemned me to endure a lifetime of ridicule.

And yet, as funny as it may sound, given the opportunity to live it over, I would never want to be known by any other name. Itʼs been a wonderful ice-breaker! Particularly when I am in the company of strangers from the Afrikaans page 43

speaking community. “...eintlik English speaking!!”

What a classic.

“So whatʼs your real surname?” is often the common reply when heard for the very first time.

It makes me think of the time I was required to give my personal details to an admin clerk in the army. Yes, back in the old apartheid days of the obligatory service in the SA Defence Force.

My first day in the army was spent travelling by train. We arrived at Middelburg station, in a region now known as Mpumalanga, at around midnight. All the new recruits were ordered off the train and we were ceremoniously lined up in single file along the station platform for registration. The registration desk, of which there was only one, was at the far end of the platform. What separated us from the desk was a line of what I estimated to be some three hundred new recruits. Even though we did everything in the army on the double, I somehow anticipated that registration was going to be a long and painfully slow exercise.

Not only was there only one registration desk on that platform, there was also only one administrative clerk. All we needed was for the poor fellow to get writerʼs cramp or something and the whole nightʼs registration would have to have been cancelled altogether. Now thereʼs a thought - a thought that could have allowed me to miss a year in the army. But then I would not have had the benefit of telling you about this chapter of my life. Albeit, a very short chapter.

Finally, in the early morning hours, my turn page 44

arrived for registration. The admin clerk, a corporal, was seated behind the desk hard at work writing down all the personal particulars of every new recruit in an army issue type journal.

“Van?” he snapped. “Engelsman!” I snapped back.

“Nee, jou bobbejaan. Watʼs jou van!?” he asked again. “Engelsman,” I repeated.

“Jou dom donder!! Is jy Engels?!” he shouted.

“Yes corporal,” I smartly replied.

“I want your name, not your language!” he explained, now totally frustrated.

“Engelsman,” I whispered, not sure that he wanted to hear that again.

Needless to say, I survived that ordeal. But I was a marked man for the rest of my days in the army. Our sergeant major, Sermajoor Jakobs, was particularly keen to call my name whenever the equivalent of a Sad Sack (yes, the comic strip hero) was needed for some or other arbitrary task.

“I need a volunteer,” he would say. “Engelsman!!” he would yell in finishing the same sentence. And Engelsman, die ware Jakob, would naturally have to respond. “Ja sermajoor. Ek kom sermajoor.”

Not that doing chores for the sergeant major was not without its rewards. I often got to working in the officersʼ mess or the bar or to travelling into town or wherever to carry out orders, thereby getting to avoid many of the other more mundane elements of training - like bergklim or river crossing. As you no doubt would have gathered by now, I made a great soldier in the army and made a meaningful contribution to the defence of my country! At the end of that year, I returned

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home to civilian life having made the rank of Intelligence Sergeant. I carried three stripes on my arm like the brand icon for Adidas. Not that I felt anymore intelligent than that first day, when I was registered into the army at the Middelburg station.

The one thing the army did teach me, however, is to learn to laugh. Laugh at life and laugh at yourself. Humour was a great asset there. With all the things that could go wrong, and often did go wrong, you really needed a great sense of humour just to survive the day. Our sergeant major for one, had a great one. He had some favourite sayings… I can remember them vividly to this day.

“Ek druk my stok deur jou ore en ry jou soos n’ Harley Davidson!” was one of them. The other was somewhat more explicit “Ek druk my stok in jou hol en dra jou soos ‘n suitcase!” Fortunately for me, twelve months in the army and I never once got on the wrong side of Sermajoor Jakobʼs stick.

So whatʼs in a name? If your name is Engelsman not much Iʼm afraid. I always tell people the name is originally Dutch and that it comes from the Dutch word for “angel”. An Engel. Most people I tell this to fail to see the connection…

Others tell me that the name Engelsman was originally a nickname used by the Dutch to describe the English folk. Normally in jest when the English were doing something that the Dutch considered stupid, like eating fish and chips wrapped in an old newspaper. Proof of this low regard for the Engelsman can be found in the writings of the great Herman Charles Bosman,

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where the name ʻEngelsmanʼ was given to one of Chief Umsufuʼs oxen. Along with names like Witvoet and Lekkerland. Hardly something a man wants to tell his grandchildren one day.

It might be better to say the name Engelsman comes from a long line of Dutch entrepreneurs who came to South Africa in seek of their fortune during the early mining days up North in the Kimberley diamond fields. One of whom was of course Khaki Engelsman. His name can be found inscribed on a metal plague in the Kimberley Diamond Museum still to this day. Now this is something one can tell oneʼs grandchildren - they can even take a trip to the Kimberley Museum and see it for themselves, should they not believe it.

Some of the older folk in South Africa may well remember the country and western, solo artist Bobby Angel. What many didnʼt know is that Bobby was an Engelsman. He apparently changed his stage name to Angel immediately before the release of his first big hit single. No way in hell was he going to go on stage and perform under the name of Engelsman. Besides, it was far too long a name to fit on a seven single.

When I get asked how someone might get in touch with me, I always reply that itʼs very easy. Iʼm the only Engelsman in the Cape Town telephone directory. Not that Iʼm the only Engelsman living in Cape Town. God no, there must be many more of us - itʼs just that Iʼm obviously the only one that can afford to have a telephone. My wife Sonja and I that is. For she too is an Engelsman.

Before marrying the Engelsman, she was an Albert.

But there are hundreds of Alberts in the Cape Town telephone directory. page 47

I very clearly remember the early days of our marriage when Sonja was still trying to get used to the idea of being an Engelsman. She practised writing her new surname and her new signature for hours on end. She once admitted to me how she dreaded the embarrassing possibility that she might in fact one day forget the correct spelling! So to make things a little easier for her, I came up with an idea. I suggested to her that we cancel her cheque account at the bank. That way she will never have to worry about signing cheques incorrectly ever again.

So we closed it and to this day, Sonja has been able to happily avoid spelling it! The idea was obviously a good one…

I wasnʼt joking earlier when I said there are more of the Engelsman clan living in Cape Town. It was not so long ago that I recall seeing a Linda Engelsman from Somerset West in the newspaper.

There was no photograph for me to recognise her as family though. Linda buys and sells properties in Somerset West; properties like the multimillion Rand homes in the Erinvale Golf Estate and not the multi-thousand Rand homes in Hout Bay. Otherwise, she would have undoubtedly known about my summons to the Estate Agents Affairs Board and the embarrassment it bestowed on the agent in question.

In addition to the cousins from my fatherʼs side of the family, cousins whom I see far too infrequently, there are only a few other Engelsmans that Iʼm aware of. They live in the Kimberley area. On several occasions, with my tennis trips to inter-provincial tournaments, I have often had people ask me if Iʼm related to

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the Engelsman family from Griqualand West. My reply is always a very positive “yes indeed”, partly because I know that all of us Engelsmans come from the same family tree, although Iʼve never seen this tree to take any oath on that.

Iʼve also been told that these Engelsman fellows from Griqualand are very fine cricketers. This of course is enough evidence for me to believe that they must be related.

There are two further Engelsmans Iʼve not yet mentioned, being a part of the Engelsman clan that Iʼve deliberately left for last. The two sons of my brother Martin and his wife Lorena are Glenn and Dean Engelsman. Glenn is the elder of the two and is a single figure handicap golfer. Dean on the other hand is turning out to be a great cricketer. At the recent Gauteng schools Under 19 cricket trials, Dean scored 300 runs over the two weekends, helping his team to victory twice almost single handedly.

So who knows? Dean may well go on to play for South Africa one day and be the next Engelsman to wear a Springbok blazer. Thatʼs if he doesnʼt decide to change his name!

In twenty years time I can well imagine Dean and Glenn getting together with their wives and their children, and sitting around the fire on a Sunday afternoon discussing the Engelsman family over their lunch-time braai. Naturally, the heart of these discussions will centre around their father and his achievements on the tennis court and in his later years on the bowling greens of Gauteng. They will no doubt reflect on his life and how close he was to becoming a Springbok. And they will recall that they once

page 49

had an Engelsman in their family who was indeed a Springbok, a baseballer who pitched with his left hand and played several matches for his country. They will remember too, the stories of the Engelsman family from Griqualand West who were great cricketers.

At some stage of the afternoon, when the stomach is full and the Castle cans are empty, the discussion of sport始s results and Springboks will need to be replaced with a somewhat more light hearted conversation.

The discussion might well turn to their uncle in Cape Town - the Engelsman in advertising. To think a man can devote the best years of his life to building brand names and images for companies and products that he himself never owned. What an asshole! At least when you始re a Springbok you are playing for your country. And the two brothers will fondly laugh to each other as only two brothers can. Then instinctively, as if it were on the tip of their tongues, they will rise together to go get themselves another beer.

page 50

EVEN CHAPTER S

A

dvertising was my life and direct mail my first love,” wrote the great David Ogilvy, my mentor and my first advertising agency employer. To that, I would like to add “and Castle Lager my favourite brand.”

The advertising strapline for the Castle Lager brand has naturally changed with the times.

“Castle Lager. The peoplesʼ beer”, followed by “Castle Lager. The taste that stood the test of time”, and more recently “Castle Lager. The friendship brew.” Over the years, however, the core values of the brand have never changed. Fun, Friendship and Laughter.

As a Castle Tavern Tourer and a lifetime member of the “Fellowship of the Glass”, I have been one of only a hundred lucky South Africans to experience the far-reaching benefits of the brandʼs core values first hand and it all began in the winter of 1985. ”

page 51

At the time, I was living the life of a happy bachelor in a townhouse complex in Bedfordview.

My next-door neighbour, another Alan, also a happy bachelor, often came over for a quick visit just to be neighbourly, and to share a joke or two, but never without a Castle in tow.

On this particular winterʼs evening, I organised a surprise for him - a case of Castles and an idea.

Earlier that day I paid my timely visit to my local bottle store to buy a few beers, when I was approached by a pretty young maiden promoting Castle Lagerʼs Tavern Tour of Europe. I had never before heard of the Castle Tavern Tour, well at least thatʼs what I told her, and so was happy to have her explain the whole promotion and competition to me. When she was through with her explanation, I promptly went to the beer fridges and took out two cases of Castle Lager.

One to impress her and the other for my friendly neighbour. Naturally, I brought the competition entry forms home too!

Sitting in the lounge with a cold Castle each, I began telling Alan about my happy encounter and the Castle Tavern Tour of Europe Competition.

True to form, we read the entry requirements and began joking about the two of us as a team. “A team of Alanʼs!” Alan exclaimed. “The judges will find that easy to remember!” And thatʼs all it took…

The following evening, I invited Alan over again and presented him with a song for us to sing at the competition. It didnʼt take much to get him interested. Sung to the tune of the infamous English pub song ʻThe leaving of Liverpool,ʼ our page 52

song was entitled ʻThe beer for us Alanʼsʼ. It went something like this: Here’s a song for you drinkers to be sung with no band About a beer that’s so liquid it’s all over the land Chorus: And it’s dry, bitter Castle we drink all our lives.

The beer for us Alans since 1895.

From a host of ingredients too long to describe, we’ll give you a taste of it for a very small bribe.

Now the history book has it ‘twas a beer with no brand when Charlie was selling it all over the land.

Chorus: When Hansa was less filling and Lion sales were down Kronenbrau was driven right out of town.

Now and but all

Amstel is for women Carling makes a stand there’s still only one beer over the land.

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Chorus: The beer for us Alan’s since 1895555!

And with that song, plus a good joke or two from the two Alans, we made it into the competitionʼs national finals and were on our way to Europe!

SUN, the Southern Sun Hotels magazine, had this to say of the competition: “The ten beer boffins who won themselves a two week trip were chosen at a froth-filled final in Cape Town after impressing the judges with their self-composed pub song and comedy routines.”

“The Castle Tavern Tour of ʻ86 follows on the highly successful competition organised in 1985, which took the finalists on a 12 day jaunt through the pubs of Europe - Amsterdam, London, Dublin and Munich, the beer capitals of the world. This yearʼs extended two week tour promises to be even bigger and better.”

A tour of a lifetime fails to describe it. It was certainly the most memorable 14-day experience of Fun, Friendship and Laughter that any person could hope to have. Not to mention the extra 14 kilograms of weight gained on the tour.

As I recall it, I travelled back on the flight home in my tracksuit pants. None of my other pants, including two pairs of Levis, could accommodate my newly acquired waist. But for that inconvenience, I would do it all again, anytime.

February the 2nd, 1986 was a very special day. It was a Sunday, and Alan and I, along with the Castle Lager brand manager, several SAB representatives and eight other Tavern Tour winners, were jetting off to Europe from page 54

Johannesburgʼs international airport for two weeks of pub-crawling; all expenses paid.

On the plane, Alan and I tried our best to keep the touring party in good spirits, but after 10 hours of non-stop drinking, singing and play making, we too closed our eyes for a quick power nap. We awoke to the sound of the planeʼs engines droning as the pilot prepared us for the landing at Schiphol International, in Amsterdam.

The dive down however was all too quick for me and my rather sensitive stomach, so I had to relieve my nightʼs intake into a handy sick bag.

I then calmly ushered myself to the back of the aeroplane and experienced the thrill of a jet plane landing at high speeds with me seated on the loo. This was not the kind of start to a twoweek pub-crawl that I had in mind! Nonetheless, the landing was a memorable one.

Hugh Noble, the Castle brand manager, and Alan had arranged for a few of the taverners to join us in our hotel room for our first beer in Amsterdam.

A few carry packs of, to be polite, fairly warm Castle Lagers. Sitting on the beds and the single room chairs, the chaps gathered round to listen to Hugh bid us a ʻwarmʼ welcome and to raise a toast to Charles Glass. Firstly, for bringing us warm Castles and secondly, for bringing us safely to Europe. Ten minutes later, Alan unveiled his grand plan for the guys on tour.

“The tour is all about drinking the finest beers Europe has to offer while socialising with the locals. Fun, friendship and laughter. All agreed?” asked Alan.

“Agreed!” was the unanimous chorus.

“Fine,” continued Alan. “Then these are the page 55

rules when it comes to sex.”

You could hear a feather drop …

“Rule number 1: There are no rules.

Rule number 2: Sex with a fellow taverner is strictly verboten.

Rule number 3: Sex cannot be bought or paid for with your allowance.

Rule number 4: Sex only counts when witnessed by a fellow taverner.

Rule number 5: If you are uncertain, then Rule number 1 applies.”

Alan then went on to explain the competition.

We were to visit four cities on the tour. Each city counted as one leg of the jackpot. If a taverner scored with a local in any city, this entitled him to one leg of the jackpot, provided that the score could be corroborated by a fellow taverner. The taverner that got the most legs at the end of the tour, with a maximum of four, would be declared the winner.

“100 bucks into the kitty from each of us,” decreed Alan. “And may the best man win. Good luck and happy hunting!”

Now back in 1986, when the Rand was still worth something, 100 Rands was a lot of money.

And with eight of us having put our money into the kitty, the jackpot was sizeable. It would certainly go a long way to reimbursing the winner of his entire tourʼs expenses. All we used our own money for really was to enlarge our daily meal allowance and buy ourselves souvenirs. Many of us obviously did this - enlarge our meal allowance that is.

Anyway, the competition kicked off to a great start that very same evening. When it got to

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around midnight, the chaps were dead keen to pay a visit downtown to Amsterdamʼs famous Red Light District. While some of us only windowshopped, others couldnʼt resist the temptation of sampling the merchandise. To their own detriment naturally… A direct contravention of Rule number 3. The following night saw a repeat performance of the same. Only this time, none of us could restrain. Sadly, yes, not even yours truly. (Itʼs the peer pressure that eventually gets you!)

Alan was obviously disappointed in the chaps but he didnʼt let this get him down. Friendship prevailed. The next morning at the breakfast table, he promptly announced a change in the rules of the competition.

“Rule number 6: In the event of a breach of a rule, Rule number 1 still applies.”

So with that new rule firmly in place, we were now all still very much in the competition. And with the scores all pretty much even, the tour moved on to London.

In London, Alan had a distinct advantage over the rest of us. He had lived and worked in Southampton for many years and many of the locals there knew him well and remembered him fondly particularly one lady friend from his work and previous office. In fact, she felt quite indebted to Alan for some reason or another and was particularly excited by the prospect of settling that debt. Alan, being the English gentleman that he was, kindly offered her the opportunity to settle her debt with him that very same night.

With the paper-thin walls of her apartment separating the living room from the bedroom, I could tell how absolutely elated she was to page 57

relieve herself of this long-standing burden.

An hour later she stepped out of the bedroom with her eyes sparkling and renewed colour in her cheeks. I knew there and then that Alan had allowed her a full and final settlement.

Alan was the only competitor to get a leg in London.

And so the tour moved on to Dublin. Ah, the Irish and Guinness of course!

In Dublin, I experienced the true meaning of local hospitality. It was a Friday, as I recall, and a couple of the chaps were with Alan and I in a local pub sampling their Guinness and brown ales. It was around midday when the governor announced that the pub will now be closing for the Friday mass - something that caught us taverners totally by surprise. Where were we now going to find a drink for the next two hours?

Fortunately for us, a pair of young Irish maidens came to our rescue.

“Are you staying in a hotel?” enquired the one in the most eloquent Irish my ears had ever heard. “ Aye! “ Alan replied, even before I had a chance to consider the question.

“Well then,” she continued. “They canʼt stop you from ordering drinks in your hotel rooms.”

“Only if you ladies join us…” Alan insisted.

So the two Irish maidens, plus a few of our fellow taverners, returned to the hotel with Alan and myself. Primarily to get another drink or two, but we told the hotel staff we were there to watch the football match on the telly. Which we did. Well, at least that was our initial intention. page 58

Ten minutes into the game, one of the young Irish maidens, the pretty one dressed in a onepiece, leopard skin patterned leotard asked me if she might use the loo in our room. The public loos in the hotel made her uncomfortable she explained. Naturally, I had no problem with her request. She then left the telly lounge with me escorting her to our hotel room, two floors up.

Our sudden departure from the lounge didnʼt go unnoticed. I think it was that damn leopard skin leotard.

Not long after, probably during the half time break in the football match on the telly, Alan came looking for me. As the story goes, he was concerned about my safety and well-being… Like hell! Whatever the reason, he walked up the two flights of stairs in search of his roommate. When he got to the door of our hotel room, which I donʼt think I ever locked, he stopped and paused.

He could hear strange noises coming from inside the room from a female-like voice. So he didnʼt try the door. Instead, he walked back down the two flights of stairs and into the lounge. Not to take up his chair in front of the television, but to summon our fellow taverners.

So there I was. Doing the manly deed behind closed doors, in what I thought was the privacy of my own hotel room, totally oblivious of what was transpiring in the passage outside. The taverners had by this stage grabbed tables and chairs to stand on, and with the help of a clear glass window above the door, enjoyed the best seats in the house for their free peep show.

With the leopard skin leotard occupying a place on the bedroom carpet, and my head now page 59

strategically buried between her legs, the pretty young Irish maiden was in a position that appeared, on the face of it, to be partaking in sex. But it was not until she openly declared her enjoyment that they agreed to record their findings as a score. And officially credit me with a leg of the jackpot.

Some say it was Irish luck. Others say it was true Irish hospitality. A few put it down to the ticklish moustache that I have under my nose.

But, whatever they might have thought, they all agreed it was the highlight of our stay in Dublin.

For the remaining four days of the tour, I was constantly reminded of my lucky encounter that Friday afternoon in the hotel room in Ireland.

Only a hand full had seen it for themselves, but somehow they all remembered the young maidenʼs words of good fortune as if it had taken place only yesterday.

As far as I can recall, nobody got a leg in Munich. And nobody was declared the winner of the jackpot at the end of the tour either. The only winner was the tour itself.

Now, nearly two decades later, we still remember and we still gather every year in honour of the Castle Tavern Tourers and our lifetime membership of The Fellowship of the Glass. And every time we raise our glasses to drink a toast to Charlie Glass, we cherish those moments of unforgettable Fun, Friendship and Laughter.

And I laugh to myself still, for I too remember the words of the pretty young Irish maiden that Friday afternoon in our Dublin hotel room: “Oh, oh Iʼm so lucky. The Irish boys donʼt do that!”

page 60

IGHT CHAPTER E

I

t was the great Black Knight, Gary Player, who was recorded in the annals of the sport as saying “Golf is a game of luck.

The more I practise, the luckier I get.”

Now the luck that Gary was talking about has absolutely nothing to do with the Irish kind of luck mentioned previously. Or, maybe it has?

Anyway, thatʼs not the reason I mention the great Gary Player. It was seeing Gary win the South African open at Kensington one year that inspired me to take up the game and learn to hit little white balls down fairways. And I can honestly say, Iʼve never regretted it.

Yes, granted, tennis will always be my first choice in sports. Mainly due I would think to the fact that I learned tennis from my father and elder brother at a very young age. But somehow, in addition to my love for soccer, golf has got me hooked. I know now that, as a 16 page 61

handicapper, I will never be a great golfer.

Despite my golf shortcomings - including but not limiting themselves to me being a left-hander that swings right handed with a tennis trained golf swing, the astigmatism in one eye and the fact that regrettably I cannot putt - I really enjoy the game! Fortunately for me, the game of golf allows for players like me. The entire handicap system is designed to compensate for shortcomings, right? Well, thatʼs what I tell myself before I tee-off.

Unfortunately, this kind of mental approach does not help one little bit on the green. Any doubt in your mind that you might miss that putt will lead you to certainly miss it – almost every time, true as there is a sky above our heads.

And cursing yourself for missing that sitter, youʼll probably miss the return putt as well.

Talking of putting, it reminds me of the day I played my first game of golf in the Cape. It was one of those typical sunny, but windy, summer afternoons when I received an invitation to play at Milnerton Golf Club. Now I had never played there before so I was keen as mustard to test my skills on a new course – my first in the Cape.

Now any Milnerton club member will tell you, this is not the course for a high handicapper to learn to play in the wind… as I soon discovered.

After the first two holes I had yet to make it to the green and had to pick-up on both holes.

A very embarrassing moment for me amidst new clients and office colleagues.

On the third hole, however, my embarrassment soon turned to pride as I landed my third on the

page 62

par five squarely in the middle of the green. It left me a 12 metre putt for my birdie. So getting down behind the ball to check out the lie, I turned to my caddie – Friday - and said “ Friday, what do think?”

Now Friday, up till now, had not had the benefit of seeing my putting stroke. All he had witnessed so far were my airborne drives being carried diagonally across the fairways by the fresh south-easterly winds.

So he was quick to reply “ keep it low master!”.

And with that advise, I missed my birdie putt.

Itʼs a funny thing golf. Some people love the game; others absolutely hate it. I fit into the former category. My wife Sonja on the other hand, even though she openly admits it, falls squarely into the latter. She still plays a great game of tennis though which is probably why she feels the way she does about golf.

Or perhaps it explains why I feel the way I do about my tennis. Whichever camp you find yourself in, it makes no difference.

Golf is the only game in the world that I know of which allows a hard working business executive to take time out of the office during normal working hours and still be constructively engaged. Think about it… Have you ever heard of your boss or any of your office colleagues, or for that matter any of your clients, inviting you to an afternoon of rugby or to spend a morning on the croquet lawn? Or even for an afternoon fishing on the rocks or a day out in the country hiking or trail walking? If they did, would that be an acceptable practise?

One that honestly allows you time out of the office? I doubt it. page 63

So what makes the sport of golf, 18 holes of hitting, walking, talking, searching, waiting, talking, hitting, looking, walking and so on, that different to all other sports? And donʼt for a minute think itʼs the 19th hole! Iʼm not exactly sure myself, but I will hazard a guess that itʼs the talking.

There is an old saying amongst the golfing fraternity. That more business deals get concluded on the fairways and greens of the worldʼs golf estates and country clubs than any office of any major corporation in any city around the globe. But then, I guess, itʼs only an old saying. Unless you actually play the game yourself, with business associates, customers or clients, youʼll never be any the wiser.

Which is why we have two camps.

Sonja doesnʼt do office work, so she never gets invited to play golf with any of her work associates - the gardener, the postman or the fishmonger. She in turn, never extends an invitation to them. So none of them play golf.

Funny isnʼt it?

But in my circles, my clients play golf and I have had the privilege on several occasions to walk the fairways of some of the Capeʼs finest with both of them. The one is a single figure handicap golfer with a swing that even a pro golfer would give his eye-teeth for. The other is a 24. I thoroughly enjoy the opportunity to play with both of them. After a decade of consulting with both of them, in totally unrelated industries, I am still the corporate brand custodian for both of their respective companies. Which of course speaks volumes about page 64

my golf!

In addition, the advertising industry is constantly involved in the promotion, fund raising, organising, sponsoring, staging and participating in a number of corporate golf events throughout the year. Our association actually encourages it. Agency staff, suppliers, media owners, their representatives and clients all get involved. And these golfing events are usually great social occasions, for both players and organisers. The industry manages to raise millions through these golfing events… and all for worthy charities.

Now Iʼm not for a minute suggesting that the equivalent cannot be achieved through other means, or even through other sports. Yet, for whatever the reasons, other means just never seem to cut it. Not in jazz festivals, nor gala dinners, nor antique auctions, nor horse racing. Not ten-pin bowling, nor touch rugby, nor baseball… nor indoor cricket. And sadly to say, not even in tennis. When it comes to getting results, golf stands head and shoulders above the rest.

When all is said and done, golf is a way of life. Itʼs a game that is played by young and old, men and women, professionals and amateurs, left-handers and right-handers. Of all races, in all languages, in any continent on the map, itʼs enjoyed equally as much by all. And God knows it isnʼt cheap.

So next time you call my office and my secretary tells you that Iʼve gone to golf, donʼt be offended. I have not forgotten you and I am still in business. I value your custom. In page 65

fact, IĘźm working harder now than I have ever worked before enjoying my work and golf!

Now all I need do is pursue my grand scheme of combining Golf, Property and Tourism and who knows – I may yet learn how to earn a living out of the game.

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INE CHAPTER N

F

inding your place in the sun in the new South Africa is not as easy as many of the Rainbow Nation始s proudest, and most optimistic, would like us to believe. In the old Apartheid era, whites had the opportunity to literally pick their spot - be it to buy a home or build a new one - in almost any area one chose to live. I say almost because, even in those times, the Government had obviously earmarked certain lands out of bounds for private occupation. Be it for environmental, commercial, agricultural or just plain historical reasons.

Nevertheless, land was in abundance. And it didn始t cost the Earth to acquire your share of it.

I wish I could say the same still holds true today for all the people of the Rainbow Nation.

Owning land is undoubtedly the most basic of human rights, unless you still believe in the Feudal system, and yet we are still unable, or page 67

unwilling, to extend this basic right to all South Africans. The problem as I see it, among others, stems from the lack of control of foreigners and the constant influx of have-nots across our borders from our northern neighbours.

Now we know that this problem is not unique to South Africa. In Europe, for example, governments have actively fought this anti-neighbourly migration monster with new laws and legal policies.

Rumour has it that countries such as Austria have embarked upon a programme of nationalism that requires foreigners to speak Austrian within twelve months of immigration. Should you fail to pass the test at the end of this period, youʼre out. No questions asked. And, in accordance with their new laws, youʼll never get a chance to apply for permanent residence status ever again!

Can we have the same programme operating in South Africa? Sure we can. Will it be effective in keeping out the have-nots? I very much doubt it.

Our problems go way beyond just language issues.

Firstly, we have eleven official languages in this country. Do we expect foreigners to learn to speak all eleven languages? And if so, do we give them eleven years to do so before they take the test? And if we demand that they speak at least two official languages, for the majority of the migrating have-nots, this would more often than not pose no problems. Unless, that is, we stipulate English and Afrikaans as the two official languages. No chance of that ever happening under the new dispensation though. So the problem is not going to go away by itself.

I canʼt speak for the country as a whole, but I have a fair notion of the extent of this problem page 68

right here in my own backyard - Hout Bay. If ever there was a tale of two cities, Hout Bay is the South African version of it. Hout Bay is what I would call a classic South African example of the first world haves, living side by side with the third world have-nots. A mixture of heaven and hell. Essentially a community fishing village, Hout Bayʼs location is what can only be described as one of Godʼs creations - a sleepy hollow on the Atlantic coastline that the local inhabitants have come to regard as their own ʻRepublicʼ.

It has the most awesome mountain settings, a natural boundary that divides the Republic from the “super-haves” to the west of us - Llandudno - and the “super-haves” to the east of us Constantia. This leaves us Republicans in the middle to share our little kingdom with the ever-expanding informal settlement - Imizamo Yethu. Thatʼs its official name, but to many it is popularly known as Mandela Park. Although I strongly believe that our ex-President, a great leader and a worthy recipient of the illustrious Nobel Peace Prize, would probably not be flattered by the honour bestowed upon him by the people of Imizamo Yethu. Especially under its current circumstances…

Tensions in the area have been steadily mounting as the local residents gear themselves to take on the ever-increasing unwanted newcomers. Here the problem goes way beyond the customary friction between affluent haves trying to protect their exclusive domains and the ʻsquatterʼ have-nots trying to find their place in the sun. Here, the issue is one of local nationals trying to prevent the expats from the north, both from page 69

within South Africaʼs borders and beyond, wanting to settle in Mandela Park. And for the past decade the government has been dragging its heels in the granting of land rights to the rightful inhabitants, a situation which has done nothing but add fuel to their already tempered frustrations.

The latest statistics reveal a frightening truth. There are now over 16 000 people living in shacks in the area. An area originally designed to accommodate no more than 3 000 people with land rights.

The down side of all this is that thousands of squatters are now seeking jobs in Hout Bay and its immediate surroundings - jobs which simply do not exist. Certainly not for unskilled labourers, there being a limit to the number of day workers which can be absorbed into the building trade or into homeownersʼ gardens. So now one canʼt drive down the road without seeing 30 or 40 able young have-nots, sitting on the pavements, at street corners, all in hope of a dayʼs employment so that they might earn their daily bread.

One doesnʼt have to be a rocket scientist to understand why the crime in this little pocket of Cape Town has now one of the highest police records for theft, house breaking, assault, armed robbery and general violence. If a man canʼt earn money to buy himself a meal, he will resort to anything in his power to feed himself and his, quite often the case, many dependents.

A month before the Easter weekend, Sonja, Milo (the family staffie) and I moved into our new townhouse in Kronenzicht - a fast growing new page 70

suburb of Hout Bay. Like the majority of haves in the area, we insisted that our alarm system be fitted with a link to, and monitored 24 hours a day by, the local security and emergency service companies in the area prior to us moving in.

The first three weeks went buy in a flash without incident. A week before the long weekend, we happened to arrange for our roof lining in the garage to be fixed. It was making an annoying flapping noise even with the slightest breeze an annoyance that was keeping all of us awake at night. So we decided to get it attended to. The developmentʼs builders arranged for a team to sort the problem out for us and they duly arrived that week.

In the early hours of Good Friday morning, Sonja woke to the sound of Milo barking. She then woke me. Milo was asleep in his kennel in the garage and obviously something had disturbed him. But what? At first I thought it was nothing more than Milo having a nightmare, something that he was prone to experiencing before, but somehow this night his barking had a tone of urgency in it.

So I got out of bed and went down stairs to the garage to investigate. We have a direct access door from our kitchen, which I opened, softly calling Miloʼs name at the same time. I found him standing in the garage, barking aggressively at the back door. I peered out of the glass of the door and into the dark of our backyard.

I froze. For the next ten seconds I could not move a muscle in my body. With my eyes fixed on one spot on our perimeter garden wall, I was horrified to see a dark figure mounting it. In shock, I instinctively called out to Sonja in the page 71

bedroom and told her to stay upstairs. I then pushed the panic button of our alarm, only to rush back to the glass door to see how far our midnight intruder had got within our backyard.

Milo was then barking frantically. The sound of the alarm stopped him in his tracks. With one swift movement he ung himself back over the wall. Within seconds I heard the sound of a motorcar engine and the vehicle speeding off down the road, never to be seen again. It was all over in less than a minute, but my heart was thumping and racing like I had just run a 100m sprint.

I must give credit to the security guys who were there in a ash. Even though they never got to see the car or the unwelcome visitor, it is reassuring to know that they can and do respond as promptly as they did that night. Thank God the alarm was functional. But the real hero was undoubtedly Milo. Bless you. Without his sharp watchdog instincts, Sonja would not have woken up and I shudder to think what might have happened.

So whatĘźs the solution? If I could wave a magic wand, I would say the solution lies in making land available for the homeless, teaching them to build houses and then giving them the responsibility of generating their own wealth building opportunities. Primarily within their own communities but also emerging outside and interacting with the larger diverse South Africa. The government could then assist them on a sustained development platform of trade, not aid.

The latest news is that the government plans to page 72

move the 13 000 newcomers, the majority of whom are foreigners from countries such as Nigeria, Namibia and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, to a land settlement in the southern suburbs near Kenilworth. Letʼs hope that this idea comes to fruition and that many of these shack dwellers find themselves a basic home. A home that they can be proud of and that will encourage them to look after what they have Letʼs pray too they find employment so that they might have the funds to maintain it and that they find self-respect and reject the temptation of crime – that they abstain from taking that which is not given.

As I write this, I can hear another house alarm going off - the taking from others is obviously still alive and well and living in Kronenzicht, Hout Bay. So much for the magic wand idea… Until such time as something more plausible comes along, all we can do is hope for the best.

Otherwise, Kenilworth.

God

help

those

living

in

page 73

page 74

EN CHAPTER T

ʻINVITATIONʼ in bold capital letters, along with the Haddons-Star logo in navy blue and turquoise, is all it said when I opened the pale yellow envelope on my desk. On the inside, the invitation was to a talk by Dr David Molapo (pronounced moll-la-pooh, and no relation to Winnie) entitled ʻIf you are not growing, youʼre dyingʼ. ʻCome and find your true potential!ʼ it exclaimed.

Now who in hell is Dr David Molapo? Never heard of the man. I had read about the old Malopo, a dried out river that once flowed past Tweedepoort according to Oupa Bekker in A Bosman Treasury, but never Molapo. In the invitation, David was described as a must see speaker (strangely, not a must hear speaker) and a gifted trainer that brings fresh, new and challenging ideas. ʻDavid believesʼ, it continued, ʻthat we are no longer prisoners of our past, but pioneers page 75

of our future.ʼ Now that seemed to ring a bell somewhere. Somehow that expression of not being a prisoner of our past I had heard before. Fresh ideas?

Nevertheless, I attended the talk. It turned out that Dr David Molapo is one of South Africaʼs foremost Management Consultants. A self-made businessman, with an educational doctorate, which he acquired during the Apartheid era from an institution somewhere abroad, David was coining it from a host of organisations. An accomplished motivational speaker, a sort of South African Tom Peters (and God knows how much us whities are desperately in need of motivation) with a unique ability to capture his audience with his stage antics, political satire and a lighthearted, home-grown sense of humour. David it turns out, is also a successful, self-confessed, white-collar conartist.

Imprisoned on Robben Island for his political activities at a very young age (he mixed with fine company as a black youth having shared a meal or two with the likes of Steve Swete and our very esteemed past president, the one and only Madiba), David was not content - despite the good company he kept - to spend the rest of his days making little rocks out of big ones.

“David,” he said to himself, “if you are going to survive this hell-hole, in fact if you intend to ever walk out of Pollsmoor and then later Robben Island ever again, you will need a miracle”. A miracle, needless to say, that would put him in pole position for ripping-off the whities (or Pinks as he prefers to call his European colonists) for the rest of his living days. page 76

And this miracle came to him in prison one night. He wasnʼt sure whether it was a calling from God, or just another helpless inmate being sodamised in the showers, but the calling was very real. And it certainly changed his life from that day forward.

For at the very tender age of teen hood, David saw the light… and the value of a good education.

The inmates that could read and write seemed a damn sight more content and at peace with their lot than those who couldnʼt. It was also soon apparent, not coincidentally, that those who were better educated could also count - a skill that proved invaluable when it came to the handling of inmate finances. Whether it was for the purchase of smokes from the wardens or settling of bets on the horses, those ʻoutjiesʼ that did the counting never seemed to be on the short side. Davidʼs first lesson in accounting.

There and then David experienced the miracle, and a little extra pocket money on the side. The key to his freedom lay in a better education.

Not that at the age of teen hood he could spell education, but he never let go of the concept.

I suppose itʼs very much like the story of the recently promoted ʻaffirmative actionʼ office hand that proudly admitted to his fellow office colleagues - “ Six months ago I couldnʼt even spell Manuger - and now I is one.”

The inmates of Robben Island were no doubt also responsible for Davidʼs sharpness of another acquired skill - the ability to sell snoek in the midst of a sardine run. David had honed his skills to the point where he could now sell a Pink something so intangible it was impossible page 77

to measure or evaluate. He called it consulting.

And David consulted at the highest levels - to company board directors. At the start of the new millennium and the dawning of the African renaissance, the single most needed thing in Africa was a Smart Alec that has no allegiance to either Black, White, Coloured or Asian leanings.

One could say, as a fence-sitting independent, David was the most opportune specimen to enter into the South African business scene in the early 1990ʼs.

Born of an African father and a Coloured mother, David openly joked of his youth days and early rejections from the gangs of the Cape Flats. When he went to the ʻBlack Panthersʼ they sent him away saying he was not welcome because he was a Hotnot. And when he tried to join the ʻCape Cheetahsʼ, they likewise rejected his membership calling him a Kaffir. Not that this early rejection was ever a problem to David. Quite to the contrary, David was quick to pick up on the advantages of this scenario and capitalised on the benefits of being a freelance agent. Although he had no childhood friends, he also had no enemies.

Now this free agent experience was put to good use in his later years. As a high profile management consultant, David made the most of having his bread buttered on both sides. At one point in time he sat on the board of no less than 22 corporate organisations. Here he delivered his well-rehearsed five-point plan and advice to senior directors, while receiving on a monthly basis from each of these organisations, nothing less than a five-digit cheque. Not too shabby for page 78

an ex-inmate from Robben Island.

But David knew that it was impossible for this happy scenario to last forever. So he did what any consultant worth his salt would do under the circumstances - he cherry picked. Unable to deliver his best serving on all of these boards simultaneously, David resigned from a dozen or so in order to focus his attention on the most lucrative contracts. At the same time, it freed him the days to pursue a career in public speaking, writing and publishing books on his most successful and desirable motivational subjects, and then selling them to his Pink captive audiences on his nationwide corporate travels… with all expenses paid, naturally.

Inspirational? You better believe it. Where do you think I found the courage to sit behind a computer for month after month to write this book? I always knew that my years of experience gained in the advertising industry - from the early days of writing what my peers described as better than average client contact reports, to advertising documents and business proposals, and in my later years now even copy and corporate strategies - would finally pay-off. I just didnʼt know when and how. Even if that pay-off is only mentally. I certainly donʼt feel it ever paid off financially in my career. Sure I made a living out of advertising, by most standards a very good living at that. But I have always set very high standards for myself and somehow I donʼt think those standards had ever really been met through my day job. I was after all, just another asshole in advertising.

But now that Iʼve had the courage to put my page 79

wordsmith talents to the ultimate test - to write my first book - I feel it has all been well worth the life-long learning experience. Itʼs as if somebody has come along and lifted a huge weight off my shoulders, a weight that I have been carrying around for some twenty years or more. And that somebody was Dr. David Molapo.

In the words of the good Doctor, I finally realised that my life is not yet ready for dying and that Iʼm still growing.

In the words of another well known Hollywood funny bunny - “Thanks Doc!”

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page 81

THE MEANING OF LIFE

Life.

Life is like a rolling stone.

Every notion that you learn, gathers momentum with every turn.

Ups and downs hot and cold.

Until the day you grow old.

Life.

Life is for living every day.

Learn to laugh and life’s okay, despite the bruises along the way.

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WORDSMITH An ode to Herman Charles Bosman Bosman The wordsmith From a stone cold jug To a Bosman treasury Every day incarcerated.

Oom Schalk Lourens The character From the shade of the withaak To the polish of his veldskoens Every word encaptivated.

Bosman The evangelist In his tales they were kafďŹ rs Inside his cell they were sirs Every inmate emancipated.

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