Is My Arse Red?

It actually happened. How often have we joked about it but every now and again you get a real live one. I sent an email to a colleague:

I’m checking Gran’s eyes; today – five minutes ago. She’s 75 and has a fly and a cobweb running around in front of her one eye the last couple days. Grandson insists on komming saam, to sit in the room while I check Ouma out. Huge oke, like 6’4″ and 120kg, so who am I to argue?

Just when I’m about to tell Gran she should see an ophthalmic surgeon to rather be safe, he pipes up from the rear dark corner where he has sat quietly up till now:

‘Doctor lemme arse you this: Why’s my arse so sensitive to lart?’

~~~oo0oo~~~

My colleague replied with a similar tale:

I have two Afrikaans gay men that visit me in the practice … both now in their 70’s; fight like cat & dog but they are really good together.

One was a hairdresser and the other worked for the railways.

The railways fella complained to me, ‘My arse hurts when I read …’

My mind turned south and I was tempted to reply, ‘Maybe ask K__ to back off until after you’ve finished reading.’

~~~oo0oo~~~

Translations if you ain’t a Seffrican:

ouma – gran

komming saam – accompanying gran into the consulting room

arse – pronounced aahs – ask

arse – pronounced aahs – eyes

lart – pronounced laaht – light

Seffrican – South African

On Having Dof Friends

It’s a real challenge. This having to navigate the world surrounded by dof friends.

I wrote to my ‘friends’ – it might have been early one morning; they might not have been fully awake: -original message-
Subject: Where’s that?
From: Pete <pete@sheila.co.za>
Date: 06/06/2011

I was embarrassed that I had never heard of Sanya, a city that looked bigger than Durban, with huge bridges, high buildings, man-made islands and world-class resorts. It’s China’s southern-most city. Well, today I tested Midi Yan’s eyes and he and his brother had never heard of Sanya either! OK, they are from Tianjin in the North, which is thousands of km’s away, but it made me feel a little better that they also hadn’t heard of this city in their own country.

Bruce – after reading with one eye? – wrote: Pete I`ve been there with you IN A BOAT – Legend of the Sea = tHERE AFTER THE BOAT DOCKED IN VIETNAM AT HA LONG BAY WHERE WE WENT ASHORE AND DRANK BEER

Janet wrote: So, Pete, it’s just the memory that’s going…

Rita wrote: That too!

I tried to straighten them up: Don’t be dof, people, I was embarrassed THEN that I had never heard of it. When the “Chinas” came to visit me last week I told them I’d been there and THEY had never heard of it. THEY said ‘Where’s That?’ So I didn’t feel so bad about not having heard about Sanya BEFORE I went there. Get wif ve program.

Rita persisted: Well clearly, you were not clear.

Steve backed her: ‘Fraid thats the way I saw it too. Sharpen up Koos.  

Janet made things worse: Hair today gone tomorrow????

**** SIGH ****

confession: I may have tidied the language of my posts ever so slightly to make my point clearer here . . . in order to emphasise their dofness, see . .

As Good Books Go

Talking about ‘fuck’ – I read a wonderful book ‘Duzi Fever’ by an entertaining old bugger Rob Gouldie who did the 1955 Dusi. I once heard him give a hilarious talk at Kingfisher. He told a lo-ong story of hardship, paddling, dragging canoes, breaking boats, chopping one up and stuffing it into the other, lunch breaks and – eventually – settling down for the night in the darkness on their own after a long and stressful day – ‘we were at sewerage farm!’ That brought the house down, as usually one passes sewerage farm within an hour of the start!

Rob Gouldie has since shuffled off down his final rapid.

– straight-talking book –

Excerpts:

On portaging on the Duzi – “Negotiating barbed wire fences was a ball ache second to none . . . you had to pry open the strands so your partner could squeeze himself and the the canoe through without hooking his nuts“.

Winning the Dusi one year his partner “blew” and said “Rob, I’m fucked, can I just trail my paddle behind me and pretend I’m steering?”

He asked for leave from his job at a bank to do the Dusi and his manager refused. He writes: “I never knew how important I was as a junior clerk and felt quite proud that the bank would grind to a halt without my services”. Anyway he went AWOL, wrote a letter of resignation “should the shit hit the fan”. It did. He expressed great relief at no longer working for them.

On the race his partner “developed a severe chafe due to sand in his underpants” so he threw away his pants and underpants and “went Beau Brummel”. When they got to Umfula Trading Store the owner kicked him out. His wife was serving in the shop and Rob thinks the owner “was upset that she might be able to compare notes”. After Rob explained and his partner demonstrated, the owner took pity on his partner and gave him a roll of plaster “to wrap around the emaciated-looking Percy”.

In shooting a rapid: ” . . where we nearly saw our rings . . “

They were lying second one Dusi, 44mins behind the leaders who were “obviously cocksure of their lead, not knowing we had caught up to them and could almost smell their farts”.

On a trip down the Umkomaas he bought and drank way too many raspberry-flavoured milk drinks at a remote valley trading store, got bilious . . . and “hurled the most spectacular pink cat”. His mate caught the moment on film:

Trip Rob Gouldie Umko shoots pink cat

And on in that vein.
I thoroughly enjoyed it! My kind of book! I was delighted to read his full and free use of ‘English as she is spoken on riverbanks’ and determined not to censor Customary Paddling Language in the Umko 50 book. Someone proofreading suggested I use f___ or f__k instead of fuck. Not.

Or: Fuck That!

~~~oo0oo~~~

My Education Proceeds Apace

Two versions of “pace” on this morning’s school run:
Tom – Dad, I PACED him (telling how he had run around some hapless defender on the rugby field).
Faatima – I have to learn to PASTE myself when running (telling how she runs with her 18-Comrades-medals Dad).

I learn a lot on the school run . . .