Henry's Comforters

When I was a young man, not yet 30, I was unfortunate enough to be caught in flagrante delicto with another fellow’s wife. The furious cuckold crept up on us and threw a jug of boiling hot water over me. Apart from the unspeakable agony I suffered, I also nearly lost my manhood. Well, I learned a lesson, and since that time have behaved impeccably whenever in the company of a married woman, especially when I suspect her of being in heat.

I have dealt with this painful incident in “The Life Of Henry Fuckit”, my autobiographical novel in progress.

JOE:	Nothing like pain if you're looking for distraction. Takes your mind off things.
IVOR:	That's for sure. You know, I read somewhere, just recently, in some nondescript waiting room, indistinguishable from so many other waiting rooms, I read a fragment from an article in one of those coffee table magazines, covering a sublimely ridiculous range of topics, something about the appreciation of pain. (Pauses) Yes, the appreciation of pain. It said something like this: Pain isn't suffering. No, it's the pain we associate with suffering that we fear.
STEVE:	That's a neat turn of phrase. Sounds good. But what's it got to do with this poor cunt lying here? Prone for three weeks! And that's even without mentioning the second-degree agony! Isn't that pain enough? What's this kak about suffering without pain?
IVOR:	No man, for fuck's sake listen to what I'm saying. Pain on its own isn't suffering. It's not possible to adequately describe pain, the actual experience that makes you groan or scream. Because you can't communicate it you become cut off and powerless. All you can do is submit to it and concentrate on it, attentively and slavishly. That's why I agree with Joe when he says it takes your mind off your other problems. Pain demands your undivided attention.
STEVE:	Hmmm. So for the past three weeks lover-boy here has been totally unperturbed by the futility of his miserable existence. He's had a complete break from all existentialist anguish. A nice little holiday.
JOE:	Jesus, you call it a holiday?! You call this a holiday, all this pain and humiliation? Second degree burns to your buttocks, your thighs and your scrotum? I don't think I'd call this a holiday.
STEVE:	Christ man, don't get me wrong. Do you think I don't have sympathy for what he's been going through? I mean, it sounds as if he nearly lost his balls when it all started going septic, what with all the shit he was lying in. If Ivor hadn't discovered him when he did I dread to think…What made you decide to call on him, Ivor?
IVOR:	Well, it was just coincidence, luck. I hadn't seen him for more than a year, not since my wedding. It was school holidays and I had some time on my hands. On the Tuesday I tried to phone him at the Dockyard for a chat, but they said he hadn't been in for two days. I had to go to Fish Hoek the next day, so I decided to call in at Kalk Bay on the off chance of finding him at home.
JOE:	That was the Wednesday, so he'd been lying in his room for four days. Yisiss, he must have been in one helluva condition! How'd you get in? Wasn't the door locked?
IVOR:	No, fortunately not. I knocked and called and tried the handle. Jesus, what a sight! And the smell!
STEVE:	Please, man, spare us the sickening details. Cut that bit short. So you called an ambulance and got him to Groote Schuur and here he is on the road to recovery. But the cause of the…er…the injuries…the accident…? He was delirious, so how did…?
IVOR:	It was that little Greek shit himself who told me when I went to phone. Bastard said I should call the rubbish truck, not the ambulance. And I saw his wife there: two black eyes and an arm in a sling.
STEVE:	Ah, but there you are! A crime of passion. Can you blame the guy? How would you like to find your wife being pomped on a table in the back room? Especially these Mediterranean grease-balls, they take it seriously. They get married in a church and they've got their certificate - that means they've taken out sole fucking rights on the woman and that's the end of it.
IVOR:	Well, put like that, I suppose you can term it 'rough justice'. (Thinks about it.) Yes, Henry had it coming to him. He took a chance and it didn't pay off. Hey, Henry, how about a grape? Joe and STEVE here went and bought you a nice bunch of export grapes to help you recuperate. No? Don't mind if we try them do you? Oh yes, and I've brought you a bottle of good old Government House Port.
JOE:	Yuk! Export?! No wonder South Africa's a pariah state. Ggiptooh! (Spits grape skin into sputum mug on locker.) Sour leather! (Passes sputum mug to STEVE and Ivor who also spit out half-chewed grapes.)
STEVE:	What did that fucking smous on the pavement say to us? Sweet as honey, Master. No pips, Master. Skins so thin and soft you don't need teeff, Master. This grapes is what the Queen of England eat, Master. Fuck the Queen of England! If that half-caste poes is still there when we…Hey. (Distracted by bowl of grapes on neighbouring patient's locker.)
JOE:	Gee, it's a good thing we decided to sample them. What would Henry have thought of us? He might even have choked on one. I once met a man in the bar at the Glencairn Hotel whose uncle nearly died from choking on a grape. But there happened to be a doctor present and just when this oke had turned blue in the face and was about to fall down asphyxiated the quack grabs him from behind in a bear hug and gives him one helluva squeeze. It's a special manoeuvre, named after one of Hitler's henchmen for some reason. Either Himmler or Eichman, I forget which. Apparently the grape shot out with such force that it knocked over a full bottle of beer on the other side of the room.
IVOR:	Amazing. So this guy owed his life to the quick action of the doctor? Got to know what you're doing though.
JOE:	Not really. This was actually a medical student, not a full-on physician, and he was a bit pissed and overdid it with the manoeuvre. Broke several ribs and punctured both lungs. Instead of choking to death on a grape Uncle drowned in his own blood. (Steve returns with exchanged grapes. Offers them round.)
STEVE:	Try these. Now these are what I call grapes. I'm afraid the old toppie next door will never taste the fruit of the vine again, by the looks of him. Can hardly breathe, let alone savour the sweet plump flesh of a prime honey-pot. Far gone, far gone. (Shakes his head in sorrow.) Took a dekko at one of his cards. 'Get well soon'. Jeez! 'Looking forward to having you home again.' The only way he's going home is as ash in a fancy little urn. The human propensity for self-delusion - it's truly astounding. All right, that's enough. Leave some for Henry. (Places bowl on locker.) I mean, he's the one supposed to be enjoying them.
IVOR:	We don't seem to be doing much to cheer you up, Henry. You've hardly said a word since we arrived. Do I detect resentment in your reticence? Maybe you feel that true friends would have been more attentive to your well-being; that our neglect is partly to blame for your… um… your accident; that if we had been at your side we would have distracted you from your besottedness; we would have jolted you out of your moral stupefaction; we would have warned you with such strident emphasis that you would have turned aside from your suicidal folly; we would have reminded you that God gave you a strong right hand in order to cope with these powerful temptations.
STEVE:	Come on Ivor, its all-very well for you to talk, a married man. A nice pair of tits to fondle whenever you like, and putting your cock in most nights of the week if you're not too pissed. Have you forgotten what it's like to be a starving bachelor going crazy with hunger?
JOE:	Yes, Ivor, you're coming over decidedly judgmental. It must be this cosy bourgeois lifestyle doing things to you - on the permanent staff, snotty school, smart car, smart flat, smart wife with fabulous tits and a good job, as well as….
IVOR:	(Angrily.) Will you guys leave my wife's tits out of this?
JOE:	Alright, alright. Calm down. Where's that bottle you were talking about? I'm sure the patient would appreciate a drop of medicine. Hey Henry?
STEVE:	Yah, let's try and cheer old Henry up. (Empties tumbler of water into urine bottle.) He can have the glass; we'll have to share the bottle, in humble deference to necessity. (Pours generously for Henry.) Yah, these hospital scenes can be fucking depressing, what with being surrounded by the sick and dying, being assailed by the mingled odours of antiseptic, disinfectant, stale food and overflowing bedpans, and listening to a background of groaning, coughing and spitting. Fucking depressing.
IVOR:	Come on, Henry old chap, raise yourself and have some of this lovely stuff. This is what Alfred Lord Tennysan used to drink when composing his best poetry. Or was it Lord Byron?
JOE:	Is that the origin of the expression 'Pissed as a lord'? That's my boy, Henry. (Henry gets to his knees, takes glass, raises it, sniffs, takes a sip, then drinks greedily.) Cheers! To your speedy recovery. (Takes a swig and passes bottle to Ivor.)
STEVE:	Hey, Henry, whilst you're semi out of the prone position, now would be a good time to let us inspect your wounds. Out of curiosity and for the record so to speak. (Takes bottle and knocks it back.) Ah, just what the doctor ordered!
IVOR:	Good idea. Hey, Joe, pull those curtains will you? Don't want any of these visitors gawking in prurient abandon as if it's a free show or something.
STEVE:	Nosy bunch of fucking perverts. The visual evidence of Henry's private shame and agony is for his friends' eyes only. Not so, Henry? That's it; undo those strings. Careful now, for Christ' sake! Jesus, wow!
IVOR:	Henry, you poor fucker.
JOE:	Fuuuck! (Henry kneels in bed, posterior aspect presented. Drains glass and puts it on the locker.)
IVOR:	Well, look…Jesus…at least it's all new skin. I mean it's healing up nicely now. I mean, it's not as if there's any gaping wounds. And what about the, er…the area where it went septic? That all under control too?
STEVE:	Henry, just bend forward a little, if you don't mind. That's it. Could actually do with a torch. (The three visitors cluster at foot of bed, peering at Henry's buttocks, thighs and testicles.)
JOE:	No, not too bad. It also looks to be on the mend there. Lucky he didn't lose them.
IVOR:	That's for sure. No, they seem to be hanging quite normally. Once that scab comes off they'll probably discharge him.
STEVE:	Mm. You know, this reminds me of a nurse I once knew. A bloody wild woman with a vicious sense of humour. Our brief relationship was memorable for its violence and its depravity. Her parting shot was to say, with a horrible sneer on her face, which I can still see in my mind's eye, that not only did I have an exceptionally short prick, but that I was a freak of nature too. She claimed that, in the line of duty on the wards, and off duty as an unfettered nymphomaniac, she had come into contact with thousands of pairs of balls, all of them lopsided, but mine were the only ones to tip the scales to the left and not the right. Totally shattered my self-esteem. Took several days of humiliating surveys and research to expose her pernicious lie and restore my equilibrium.
JOE:	Does it matter? Anyway, Henry doesn't have to worry. His right ball is definitely in the ascendancy. Okay, Henry, thank you. You can cover up and make yourself comfortable again. Why don't you lie on your side a bit? Shit man, look at this! (Takes bottle and drains it.) You guys have gone and finished the whole bottle. Hey, Mike! (Notices Mike de Jongh's head framed by curtains.)
IVOR:	Hi, man. Glad you could make it. A bit late though, they'll soon be ringing the bell and throwing us out.
MIKE:	Greetings, gentlemen. (Formally shakes hands.) Hello, Fackit. Glad to see you, and so sorry to hear about your mishap. (Shakes Henry's hand vigorously.) I brought you some assorted dried fruit to promote digestion and regularity. And also some reading matter - I know you've always got your nose in a book. I asked the bookshop owner to recommend something philosophical, but none of that damn existentialist crap you were so fond of. Something to uplift you and strengthen the character.
STEVE:	What was your choice? Dale Carnegie? Billy Graham?
JOE:	(Takes book from packet.) 'The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.' Not a bad choice, Mike.
IVOR:	Stone cold stoicism. I don't know about STRENGTHENING the character. STRANGLING the character is more like it. Stoicism, asceticism, Spartanism, flagellation, self-deprivation, cold showers, abstinence, frugality, humility, chastity, and all manner of self-loathing. A mirthless devotion to duty and virtue. I don't know, Mike. I somehow doubt whether he's ready for the straight and narrow, but I might be wrong.
JOE:	Ah, here we are Henry. This is for you. "Do not say 'How unlucky I am, that this should have happened to me!' By no means; say rather, 'How lucky I am, that it has left me with no bitterness; unshaken by the past, and undismayed by the future.'
STEVE:	Ag, it's all very well to urge an oke to be dispassionate and long-suffering, but does that deal with any of the underlying problems? What Henry needs to do is analyse where he went wrong and how he got himself into this condition in the first place.
JOE:	Not so easy. How do you pinpoint a moment or an event in your life and say, This is where I fucked up. Too facile.
STEVE:	Kak. What's facile about self-analysis? I've actually given this some thought already. Cast your mind back seven or eight years to those days in Bedford Street. Free-and-easy, rebellious, irresponsible. But eventually we all got our bits of paper and moved along on the roads we'd chosen, for better or for worse. Except Henry. Henry, looking back now, don't you regret not having done a degree and embarked on something, anything, instead of wasting yourself in that bloody Dockyard? Don't you regret not having made a choice, not having made a commitment?
IVOR:	Steve, I think you might have put your finger on it. None of us could be said to have had a vocation. No voice called us. I started out studying Law, thoroughly detested it, and switched to Economics because it was the only subject that interested me at the time. Now I teach it. And you, with Architecture, and Joe with Librarianship. Arbitrary, arbitrary. Even our dentist here - would have preferred to be a brain surgeon or something, but you've got to be realistic.
JOE:	Not Henry.
IVOR:	No, not Henry. This is what I'm saying. Instead of accepting some basic realities and humbling himself enough to embark on something specific, he preferred to drift without direction, uncommitted, unwilling to place his bet for fear of losing.
STEVE:	I'm inclined to agree with him, Henry. If you analyse it and put it in a nutshell it comes down to this: your main problem is a fundamental lack of courage. You can't face the prospect of discovering you're an unexceptional, boring nonentity like the rest of us. What do you say, Joe?
JOE:	Well, I don't know. I suppose you're right, in a way. But remember how he used to talk about being a dilettante? His vocation was to be a dabbler. Not just in the arts, but in life itself. Life with a capital L. I liked that idea, and it wasn't a weak excuse for not choosing something else. Henry, my old china, I'll tell you where I think you went wrong. You lost your identity as a dilettante. Your concentration wavered and you stopped focusing on what was important to you. You stopped dabbling. Instead of remaining interested in everything under the sun, you gradually became oppressed by everything under the sun. Either you should have given up the notion of being a dilettante and chosen a career, any fucking career, as Ivor suggests, or you should have stuck to your guns and kept moving and making a superficial study of this and that, and expressing your shallow opinions on every aspect of life you chose to dabble in. (Looks at Mike, who has become increasingly restless, shifting from one foot to the other, half raising his right hand as if to gain attention and permission to interject.) What say you, Mike? You seem a little agitated, as if you were struggling to ignore the urgent demands of an anal itch.
MIKE:	Damn you, you…. Now listen here, I've heard nothing but bally rubbish from the three of you. Now it's my turn. Henry, I'm not going to say I don't sympathise with you and the dreadful pain you've had to suffer, but there's no getting away from the fact that you brought it upon yourself. This is the consequence of a lifestyle I warned you against years ago. Your life has fallen apart because there was no structure to it. Just drinking and smoking, reading all that obscene, subversive junk you called Literature and Philosophy, sitting about talking endless crap, attacking all the tried and tested social values, profaning every religious principle you could think of, denouncing your own country and people, applauding communists and terrorists as they murdered and burnt, and always, always despising the hard working, the responsible, the consistent, the decent. God, you make my blood boil! No wonder you've landed yourself in hot water. No wonder…
STEVE:	Nice pun that, Mike. Ha, ha. Hear that, Henry? Landed yourself in hot water. Didn't burn your fingers though. Burnt your bum instead.
MIKE:	Oh, shut up! The three of you are almost as bad as Henry. I'm surprised you haven't ended up in trouble yourselves what with the cynical approach to life and the lack of belief in anything. Henry, for your own good, you'd better change your ways. Treat this incident as a final warning. Heed the warning and start the long process of building yourself up into a proper man, with principles, integrity and backbone. Ignore the warning, and in no time you'll find yourself in the gutter and headed for an early grave. (There is silence. Then Henry struggles to his knees and crouches facing them. At last his eyes have come alight and he speaks with fierce indignation.)
HENRY:	Alright, enough is enough. I've had to listen to all four of you and this is my response: Fuck you too! What right have any of you to pass judgement on my life? I'm not interested in your career counselling and your sermonising. What do you know about my inner conflicts and the writhing of my soul? You advise me to capitulate and become a dispirited nonentity, then you chastise me for not having obeyed my original instincts to resist the dispirited nonentity temptation, and finally you tell me no, forget about being a dispirited nonentity and rather become an insufferable hypocrite and a bigot. Your collective advice would be enough to turn any sane man into a gibbering schizoid. You don't have the faintest idea of what it is to be a genuine dilettante. It's because you gave up the struggle without a fight, or you weren't even aware of a struggle in the first place. You talk about commitment and choice! I have made the hardest choice: to commit myself to nothing. I have elected to drift through life, letting things happen, examining whatever comes my way, observing myself, exposing myself as completely as I can to what it is to be human. Do you think that's easy? No, you are the ones who made the easy choice. You've backed into your mental caves, fortified the entrances, and now peer out apprehensively, your eyes filled with suspicion and fear. No, I don't need your sympathy. You are the pitiful ones; you are the ones too timid to live in the open. Fuck off back to your caves. Leave me to be buffeted by life, and maybe even caressed by it too, who knows. Even if it does mean the gutter and an early death, at least I will have LIVED! Go! Get out! (Shouting wildly.) Ring the bell, you fucking bitches! Look at the time. Get them out! Get them out! (Bell rings.)

Genuine South African Braaihout

The bloody dog was barking again. Was she just bored, or was someone really going by in the road? I got up from my desk (for the third time that morning) and went to the open door, calling out, Alright, good dog! You tell them to clear off. Good dog!

She was down at the gate, on the other side of which was a white man of about 30. Shit, I thought, what does this character want? Better not be a Jehovah’s Witness. No, didn’t look like a Jehovah’s Witness. T-shirt, rugby shorts and bare feet. A boertjie.

Yes, he addressed me in Afrikaans, calling me Uncle, which further irritated me. I was in a shop in Goons Bay a while back, when an 18 year-old assistant referred to a 25 year-old customer as ‘Oom.” The customer scowled and said, ‘Jou moer! Ek is nie jou fokken oom nie!’ This is what I felt like saying to this boetie but didn’t, because I was probably older than his father, and he was only trying to be respectful, I suppose.

He asked me where he should offload the wood. His bakkie was standing in the road. Wood? Wood? Yes, braai wood. For number 68. Jesus, this guy was wasting my time! And insulting me. Did I look like a geriatric? Or some moneyed arsehole too lazy to cut his own firewood? Man, for thirty years I haven’t bought a stick of firewood. Why should I waste money on firewood when I’ve got a bush saw and an axe? And I’m surrounded by a sea of rooikrans waiting to be cut down? I’ve always cut my own wood, and I go through a lot of wood. Three fires a week, and when we had the Dover stove … It’s one of the advantages of living at the back of beyond.

He went to his bakkie for his boekie and came back. A thousand pieces for Mr Martin, number 68. What? Who ordered this? I’m not paying for wood that I never ordered.

Klaar betaal, he said .He read out the phone number.

My own boy! I had been wondering about him, the way he hadn’t cut any wood for me this time. Four weeks of self-indulgence, being waited on by his ageing parents, and now he was back in Joburg this salving of conscience.

Japie – I don’t remember if his name was Japie or Hennie, but because he looked like a plaasjapie I’ll call him Japie – anyway, Japie reversed his bakkie up against the fence. Now this bakkie had a canopy, and because the windows were covered in dust from the dirt road it was hard to see inside. When the canopy flap opened, seemingly of its own accord, and pieces of wood started flying out, I realised with some surprise that a person was in there with the load.

Japie reached into the cab and took out a little kid of about three. She had blond hair and wore a yellow track suit. She said something about ‘piepie’ and her father took her onto the grass verge, pulled down her pants and held her while she relieved herself.  Then we stood in the shade of a manatoka and watched the pieces of wood flying and the heap growing.

Japie cracked a joke about me calling up my son and saying thanks for the wood, but where’s the meat? Then the wood stopped coming and the canopy flap closed. Japie and the kid got into the cab and headed off back to the plaas, or wherever it was they came from.

I stood there looking at this huge pile of braai wood that had just been dumped on me, and thought that there was something surreal about what had happened. It had to do with the anonymous figure crouched in the back. There had been absolutely no communication with this shadow, as if it had no identity. If I had ordered a bakkie load of wood 30 years ago, this is how it would have been. Back then black people weren’t really human. But now, in 2013? Well, obviously nothing had changed. I felt a stab of guilt but it soon passed when it occurred to me that I now had to get all this wood up to the house. That would be my penance.

Varieties Of Sexual Experience

The editors at news24 rejected this piece. A pity, because I had hoped to provoke a response from the community there, which is largely white, racist, Christian and homophobic.

When I say, ‘homosexuals are harmless,’ what I really mean is there is no need to fear or loathe homosexuality. But it doesn’t mean that all homosexuals are nice people. Hell, no. Chances are that one day you’ll be attacked in your home by some vicious thug who first sodomizes you before slitting your throat and walking off with your worldly goods.

When I was an adolescent I worried a lot about developing into a ‘homo,’ as gays were referred to in those days. Even in my late teens I sometimes construed my awkwardness and lack of success with girls as an indication that I was a latent pansy. It took several experiences before I really got a taste for female flesh and stopped fretting about my orientation.

It bothered me that although I had never detested homosexuals, I had dreaded becoming one of them. Why? Well, I suppose it was largely due to social conditioning and the stigma attached to ‘unnatural’ behaviour. But what was ‘natural,’ I asked myself. In order to find out, I began to make a study of sexual practices.

My older brother pointed me in the direction of the Bible, saying, “Leviticus. There’s some good stuff in Leviticus.”

When I went to Leviticus I did indeed find a list of prohibitions that was informative. Look, you don’t prohibit folks from doing something unless they are inclined to do it whenever they get the opportunity. Leviticus was telling me that men were having sex not just with other men, but also with their mothers, sisters and daughters. And furthermore, the dirty bastards were at the livestock! My studies revealed that from time immemorial men have been forcing themselves on just about every domesticated animal in the farmyard. And women haven’t been averse to getting down on all fours for dogs, goats, pigs, apes … you name it.

The more I studied the subject, the more astonished I became. It was vast and it was bizarre, and I soon realised that our excessive preoccupation with sex was the result of our ability to imagine and to be turned on by images and associations. It was the faculty of imagination that could cause a housewife to suddenly blush as she cleaned a handsome cucumber under the running tap. Or for a man to find himself busy in a make-believe bedroom not three seconds after his secretary had bent down to open the bottom draw of the filing cabinet.

“My ex used to get me to stand on the table and urinate into a bucket on the floor when he blew a whistle,” one woman told me as I tethered her to some heavy furniture. “That’s what really sent him into orbit.”

What my ongoing research, as well as personal experience over the years has revealed is that much of what used to be regarded as deviant, aberrant, or a perversion, is nothing of the sort, but quite normal, and an acceptable step on the way to achieving gratification.

Take oral sex, for example. Fellatio and cunnilingus are now considered standard practice and no more of an abomination than eating ice cream off a cone. And what’s wrong with anal sex, if it’s a comfortable fit?

Then there’s proxy sex, which ranges from various forms of masturbation to intercourse with a life-size doll, all three orifices accessible. For thousands of years men have been thrusting their members into narrow openings of every conceivable kind. Ever tried a fridge door? Cool. And women haven’t been shy to insert anything that could serve as a dildo, from candles, carrots and cucumbers to bottles, bones and bananas. Anything that vaguely resembles a protrusion. As a youth, I once called upon the help of a paw-paw to ravish Playmate of the Year for 1968. She was hanging on the back of the toilet door. The fruit was somewhat ripe, however, and all too soon turned to pulp, which resulted in coitus interruptis. Dann frustrating.

Then there’s all that role-playing stuff that usually involves some aspect of BDSM. BDSM is a combination of bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadism and masochism. Ropes and whips and chains and handcuffs and blindfolds and masks and leather boots and straps, and military regalia and black underwear. People strut about and bark instructions, or whine and plead for mercy, and assume undignified positions. It’s all rather ridiculous but if it gives the participants an added thrill to their sex lives, what’s wrong with it? As long as it’s SSC (safe, sane and consensual)?

When I got to necrophilia I kind of drew a line and lost interest, though. Man, if you can get intimate with a corpse, nothing is safe from you, animate or inanimate. Those chemicals that get pumped into your brain are going to make you raving mad and the only way to get you right is castration.

But let’s get back to homosexuality. It seems to me, now that I have acquainted myself with many varieties of sexual experience, that the desire for sexual intimacy with one of your own gender is entirely normal and no more immoral than, say, a woman giving her boyfriend a blowjob. In fact, I suspect that most people would be bi-sexual if the present social prejudices were to disappear. And that’s not to deny there would still be significant numbers who preferred to be strictly hetero or homo.

If I am right about this, then it means that the majority of us are being forced to repress part of our sexuality. I, personally, have been deprived of a whole lot of sensual pleasure by a conservative section of society that still has the power to decide what is moral and natural. I resent the influence these people continue to exert, and would urge other 'deviants' and 'perverts' to follow their preferences and flaunt their difference in the faces of the moral zealots, who are more often than not religious fundamentalists to boot.

How I Became A Successful Businessman

One of my weak points is laziness. As a child I held a grudge against my parents for not being wealthy enough to afford servants and spare me the irksome chores imposed on me at home. At school I achieved poorly and was thrown out of university for consistent non-performance. And I resented being told to go out and get a job. Any job.

Some busybody once described me as ‘shiftless’ on account of my inability to remain employed for more than a few months at a time. My own father called me ‘work-shy.’

Then, when I was in my late twenties, I happened to be in a bar one morning and made the acquaintance of a man who gave me some valuable advice. I was drawing unemployment benefits at that stage and had plenty of time on my hands. That’s why I was sitting in the Astoria in Hermanus in the middle of the week. This guy of about 50 was already half drunk but I told him my life story, anyway.

“Man,” he said, when I was finished, “You got a problem. You know what your problem is? Your problem is you are unsuitable employee material. Stop trying to be an employee and become an employer instead. Start your own business.”

“What kind of business?” I said.

“Any business,’ he said. “Alright, I’ll decide for you. Become a builder.”

“But I don’t know the first thing about building,” I objected.

“No sweat,” he said. “What you do is this. You borrow some money from a relative, or a friend, or somebody, and you buy yourself a second hand bakkie. Then you hire a bricklayer and tell him you’ll make him foreman. Right, now you’ve got some brains to pick. Next, you look for an odd job, something easy like a garden wall. The bricky will know how to build it and, of course, all the time you must be stealing with your eyes and learning the ropes. Then you look for another job, and away you go. But,” he said, Remember this one thing above everything else: always act like you’re in complete control and you know exactly what you’re doing. That’s how the Europeans colonised the world.”

Well, this man might have been a drunken loser but I followed his advice and it turned out to be sound. After six months I signed my first contract to build a house, and I never looked back. Whenever I encountered a practical problem that I didn’t have the know-how to solve, I would tell my employees I had an appointment, and when I came back in two hours, I wanted the job done. It’s amazing how resourceful a bunch of workers can be, and 9 times out of ten they didn’t disappoint me. And of course I always pretended to have known the answer to the problem they had solved on their own.

I continued to use this strategy in all my various business endeavours over the years and it served me well. The man in the bar was right: it was all about taking control and getting others to work well and make you rich in the process. My own kids seem to have inherited their father’s laziness and their mother’s scatter brains, but I’m not worried about them, having sent them to expensive private schools where they were taught the attitude that I had to learn the hard way. I’ve given them a good start and can enjoy retirement knowing that their privileged way of life is secure.

The Free Encyclopaedia

Back in 1983 a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman paid me a visit. I allowed him in and listened to his spiel. This is an embellished version of what he had to say.

Eldred Q. Gink

Executive Marketing Director

Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc.

"Good day to you Mr Martin and I have the greatest pleasure in presenting my card and introducing myself as a harbinger of good fortune. Yes Sir. Our computer has selected you from its mighty memory of over ten million others. You, Sir, are to be the lucky recipient of our magnificent new edition of the greatest encyclopaedia in the world."

I looked at him with disdainful interest. Here was another caricature - the world was full of them. The flashing white teeth, the buttoned blue suit with triangle of handkerchief at breast pocket, the floral tie, shiny shoes, heavy looking briefcase, eager insincerity.

“Mr Martin, you have had the incredible good fortune to be chosen as the one in ten million recipient of a full set of the new Encyclopaedia Britannica Three."

"Three?"

A light of hope flickered briefly in Eldred Gink's eyes. He looked pointedly past my shoulder and said, "Yes Sir. The revolutionary approach to the Complete Circle of Knowledge (by the way that is the literal meaning of the Greek word 'encyclopaedia') is to divide the thirty volumes into three distinct areas."

With an unmistakable gesture he shook the briefcase in his right hand and motioned with his left towards the interior of my abode.

"Allow me the opportunity to explain."

I sighed. I led the way inside and told the Executive Marketing Director "If you want to sit down you can." This was not genteel but I felt justified. This fucker was a conman and he should be humiliated a little on behalf of those idiots who had believed his lies about a free gift.

The EB Inc director sat in one of the armchairs and laid his briefcase flat on the carpet and opened it. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a tall glass, two-thirds Virginia topped up with soeties. Then I cut a piece of cheese and went back to the lounge. I placed the wine and the cheese on the arm of the couch and said, "Just hold it," and went out and pissed in the gully. I knew this could prove to be a long show and I wanted to be comfortable. In the back room I collected his pipe, Balkan Special, perlemoen  shell and matches as well as my pouch of dagga and rejoined the harbinger of good fortune. I reclined on the couch like Manet’s Olympia, one hand comfortably in my groin and said, “Okay, Eldred. Go for it."

Eldred had his manual on his knee. “Mr Martin, our computer, with its vast database, has selected…”

“Yes, yes, yes. Now tell me something interesting. The encyclopaedia.” I sipped.

Eldred Gink was no longer showing his large white teeth. For a moment he appeared to brood and then stood up abruptly, unbuttoned his jacket, took it off and draped it over the other armchair. He loosened his tie and said, "Alright. How about offering me a drink?"

I was pleasantly surprised and went to the kitchen and poured a tumbler three quarters Virginia and one quarter soet. (Didn't want him getting too pissed.)

"Sir, I see that our computer is not infallible. I also know that our marketing strategy is, like the Encyclopaedia itself, built upon three fundamentals. Unlike the Encyclopaedia, which is noble in conception, the marketing strategy is base in the extreme. Greed, Deception and Cruelty. I shall continue on this theme at a later stage if necessary, but for the moment I proceed with my dissertation on The Complete Circle of Knowledge.”

He drank from his glass, groaned and removed his toupee. He massaged his balding pate, and then tossed the hairpiece into the open briefcase. I had taken him to be in his mid thirties but now I could see that he was considerably older.

"The first edition, in three volumes, was published in 1768. As the world has changed and the amount of knowledge has increased, so Britannica has grown to keep up with the times. Since its inception it has been the most important single source of authoritative information available to man, and today it retains that exalted status. It was because human knowledge had grown so immensely that Britannica Three was devised. It has been totally restructured to become a complete University In The Home, able to guide one through any field of learning, all the way from the basic outline to a complete and detailed grasp of the whole subject."

He raised his glass to the light, admired the amber colour and took large gulp. He loosened his laces and kicked off his shoes with gratification, wriggling his pinched toes.

"Christ, but your feet stink!" And I hastily lit my pipe.

"In thirty volumes there are over fifty three thousand pages, with forty one million words, twenty six thousand superb illustrations, nineteen hundred maps and one hundred and sixty colour plate inserts. The new three-section format makes it very easy to move about in this vast storehouse of knowledge, with every subject, every fact fitting naturally into place. Sir, you can see that Britannica is totally committed to the dissemination of knowledge. Each and every volume is prefaced with the motto, 'Let knowledge grow from more to more and thus be human life enriched."

“He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."

"Sir, you wish to goad me. You wish to be offensive."

I covered my nose with one hand and pointed to the stockinged feet.

With exasperation the owner of the feet pulled off the socks, knotted them together and went and hung them on the window handle to air. Returning, he stood stiffly erect, drained his drink, and flung the-glass sideways into the fireplace with a ceremonial flourish. It smashed into many pieces and I clapped four of five times.

Eldred Gink unbuckled his belt and seated himself. After a lengthy pause in which he seemed to be collecting his thoughts he resumed as follows:

"In the fullness of their experience and wisdom the editors of the fifteenth edition deemed it in the best interests of Mankind to restructure the Encyclopaedia Britannica into three distinct yet interrelated sections - the Propaedia, the Micropaedia, and the Macropaedia. Let us explain diagramatically."

From his case he took two kokis, one red and one blue, and began to write on the wall adjacent to the window, which allowed in the cool light reflected from the south. He drew a large circle in red, divided it into three equal segments and wrote in blue within each.

"The Propaedia is the single volume Outline of Knowledge and guide to the Britannica. It categorizes all fields of learning, breaks them down into their component parts, and shows how they fit together and relate to other areas. And it shows you exactly where each aspect of every subject is dealt with in the main body of the Encyclopaedia.

"Now the Micropaedia, in ten volumes, serves as the ready reference and index. It gives exactly what is needed in short factual entries on more than one hundred thousand topics. And, what is more, for the utmost convenience to the reader it is arranged alphabetically."

“How else?"

"Yes, quite so. There are also seventeen hundred superb illustrations, so for those readers who are illiterate the information is not only told but also shown. And when further facts are required the Micropaedia indicates exactly where more detailed information may be found in the Macropaedia.

"Which brings us to the Macropaedia – the nineteen volume main text. This is the circle of world knowledge in depth. Any part of it you want you can have, right there in your lap, or on a table in front of you, or on the floor, in bed, on the toilet, in your car, flying or sailing, wherever you go, whatever you do, you can have these nineteen volumes right there with you, and you may become an acknowledged master of any area of learning you choose - for what you read will have been contributed by a world famed expert and approved by other world famed experts. But written so clearly and simply that EVERYONE can understand. Even a person afflicted with cretinism; even a mentally retarded dwarf with wide set eyes, a broad flat nose and protruding tongue."

He dropped the kokis back in the briefcase and sat down. I noticed there was blood on his foot.

"Mr Martin, I now wish to share with you my wonder and excitement with regard to the vast and intricately beautiful complexity of the human mind. But my throat is parched and I become hoarse and weak." He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a tattooed belly.

I had finished my own drink. In the kitchen I filled my glass as before and emptied a can of All Gold Appelkooskonfyt into a bowl. I gave the can a rinse under the tap and filled it with half Virginia and half soet.

"Sir, I thank you. And now for the human mind. It is generally accepted in academic circles that the mind is situated in the brain, which is situated in the head, and that if the brain in the head were to be removed, the mind would inpso facto cease to function. Yes, that's good. I like that. Within the head lies the brain and within the confines of the brain resides the mind, No brain, no mind. A logical consequence of no real interest or significance, so fulsomely obvious. Nevertheless, if we were to remove a head by slicing and hacking with sharp instruments like the carving knife, the cut throat razor, the panga and the cleaver, all honed and stropped to a fine edge, and then sawing through cartilage and bone with a toothed instrument such as the rip saw, the cross cut saw, the tennon saw, or the petrol powered chain saw, the head would be rendered remote from the body. It could then be placed ear down, listening for stealthy vibration, upon a two foot diameter chopping block, and if a fourteen pound sledgehammer were raised to full height and brought down with full force upon the other ear of the said head, one would be left with a fine example of how not to attempt anatomical explorations of the human cranium. Far better to forego decapitation altogether and merely saw off the top of the skull with the aid of the common hacksaw, which has an inexpensive and easily replaceable fine-toothed blade. And then if one were to lift the hatch, so to speak, one would be rewarded with a view of the unimpaired subject of one's learned enquiry. At which juncture one would roll up one's sleeves to above the elbow. Then if one were to place the palm of the right hand upon the convoluted grey surface and push and compress, one could ease the fingers down the side of the cavity, probing ever so carefully for fear of catching a fingernail, until the arm be immersed to mid forearm. At this depth one should be able to feel the edge of the foramen magnum, being the hole in the base of the skull where the occipital bone rests on the first cervical vertebra, being Atlas supporting the world on his shoulders. The fingers should curl naturally about the cerebellum, being less flabby than the cerebrum. The medulla oblongata can be felt at the base of the cerebellum, entering the foramen magnum to connect with the spinal cord. At this point we may apply upward pressure in order to extend the spinal cord in order more easily to hook one's index finger around said cord and said medulla oblongata. If one is experienced in dissection, or the cleaning of large crustaceans, or the harvesting of pyura stolonifers, one should then be able to pluck forth with facility the brain intact. A rapid corkscrew motion exerted forcefully upward is usually sufficient to effect the procedure, it being important for the motion to be swift and smooth in order to snap the spinal cord and optic nerves. So far, so good. The organ is placed upon a bread board and one may then hone and strop ones’ finer instruments and dust off the lenses of ones’ microscope. The in-depth examination commences."

He sipped thoughtfully from his jam tin, stood with his back to the fireplace looking down at me, paced back and forth a few times and sat down again. I had mixed Balkan Special half and half with dagga and was blowing clouds of smoke and inhaling deeply through my nostrils.

"Mr Martin, Sir, it is appropriate to remind ourselves that we are engaged in the pursuit of knowledge through scientific enquiry. Our tools are anatomical dissection, hypothetical metapsychology, didactic philosophical claptrap and the New Encyclopaedia Britannica Three. With the aid of two sharpened sticks one may now prod, probe and turn the pink and grey mass. One may familiarize oneself with the major divisions, being, and we ascend in order from the spinal cord, as follows and exactly thus: the medulla oblongata, being considered a continuation of the spinal cord and attaching to the rhombencephalon, being considered to be the hindbrain, being connected to the mesencephalon, being considered to be the midbrain, being connected to the prosencephalon, being considered to be the forebrain. Now the rhombencaphalon may be seen with the aid of the eyesight to consist of the myelencephalon, being the medulla oblongata, the metencephalon, being the pons, and the cerebellum, being itself, without further ado. Likewise the prosencephalon may be discerned to comprise the diencephalon, being the betwixt brain, being the central connecting part of the forebrain and otherwise known as the between brain, corresponding approximately to the thalamus, and not to be confused with the hypothalamus, and the telencephalon, which happens to be nothing other than the two cerebral hemispheres, which are not at all hemispherical if one is respectful of both the logical and geometrical necessity of the plural term denoting the spherical, when in fact the shape of the two segments together does indeed approximate to the form as applied in the singular, and it becomes clear that such aforesaid confusion could have arisen from no other cause than the intoxifying effect of four parts Ceylon tea to one part methylated spirits upon the cerebral functions of T. Pickering Pick, B. Sc. , Ph.D., M.B., B.Chir., Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons at St Georges Hospital, London, and is yet further proof that the opinionated blatherings of the scientific community in general, and the medical fraternity in particular, should be viewed with scepticism. Be that as it may, if now one were to take up a four-tined stainless steel cutlery fork and grasp it in the left hand manner all good parents forbid their offspring so to do, and if one were then to harpoon the encephalon, having taken a line of sight upon the intersection of Rolando's transverse and antero-posterior fissures, easily distinguished by the large lamina of nerve fibres protruding from the ventral aspect, then one would stabilise, if not totally immobilise, this remarkably volatile organ. One may now wish to commence dissection of the cerebral cortex using ones’ right hand and a suitably honed and boned instrument, of course. At this point it should be noted how disproportionately large is the cerebrum, the centre of thought and consciousness. The average human brain has a mass of approximately one thousand four hundred and nine grams and eighty five percent of this is cerebrum. Over the last million years, give or take a year or two, the cerebrum has mushroomed like a fungus and is clearly an aberration. Mr Martin, Sir, it is clear that you and I, as representatives of the human race, are aberrations of nature. But let us not lose sight of the fact that it is impossible to gauge from our physical structure just how aberrant we really are. Tall persons have heavier brains than short persons but, relative to their height, short persons have larger heads and brains than tall persons. However there is no statistical evidence to show that large headed persons are more intelligent and thus more prone to aberration and depravity than small headed persons."

My pipe had gone out. I looked at Eldred Q. Gink with interest. You never know who will knock on your door. The thought seemed filled with a deep profundity.

"Hey man. You look a bit like Dracula. "

The door-to-door marketing director had begun to drip blood onto his chest. It dripped from his chin, having welled from his mouth. He looked startled and then his face darkened.

"There are sharp edges on this mug," he said accusingly. "And it’s empty. "

When I returned with replenishments Eldred was cleaning up his dentures with a strip of cloth from his shirt. For a few seconds he sat, shoulders slumped, looking at the teeth in his hand. I feared an outburst of emotion but the moment passed -and he placed his set in the briefcase, straightened himself and resumed in an altered voice; the words shuffling and slipping over his gums.

"We are about to examine this wrinkled metastasis the human mind. If the pachydermic creases were ironed flat it would be found that the surface area of the cerebral cortex extends in all directions to a vast two hundred and eighty five thousand square millimetres. The total number of cortical nerve cells…"

"You got a calculator? Divide one million by two hundred and eighty five thousand. What you get?"

"Three point five zero eight double seven one nine."

"One hundred divided by that?"

"Twenty eight point five seven one four two eight."

"Twenty eight percent of a square metre? That's bout a square foot. Unimpressive. How many nerve cells?"

"Fourteen thousand three hundred and twenty eight million." I was unmoved but said nothing.

"Such a number is beyond comprehension. In order to grasp the magnitude of such a cell population it is necessary to take a smaller sample. Let us examine a cube of cortical matter one millimetre by one millimetre by two point five millimetres. That gives two and a half cubic millimetres. Now, Sir, how many neurons do you think could be packed into such a miniscule volume?"

"For fuck's sake! How many?"

"Sixty thousand neurons, Mr Martin. Sixty thousand. Packed into a space no bigger than a pinhead. And each neuron, with its axon and dendrite net, is capable of participating in fifty thousand synapses which, according to my calculations, gives the figure three times ten to the power of nine, being exactly thirty thousand million. Now multiply thirty thousand million by two hundred and fifty thousand and you have the number of synaptic interactions taking place at any given millionth of a second in man's cerebral cortex."

He looked pleased with himself.

"And so? "

"And so, Sir, we are led to the realisation that the human mind has infinite potential. Infinite, I say without fear of contradiction. Infinite. The possibilities, the permutations are not finite. This cerebrum, sliced into rashers and examined with microscopic vision, reveals itself to be the most immensely powerful thinking machine imaginable. Sir, I wish to elaborate on the theme."

Kneeling in front of the fireplace he placed the calculator on the hearth. Wielding one of his shoes as a hammer he struck it several times. Unhappy with the effect, he took up the heavy manual and tried a few blows with the spine.

"Damn thing's indestructible," he said in frustration.

I found this activity to my liking and laughed maniacally. I went out the back and found a brick.

"Try this. Fuck it in its moer."

E.Q. Gink laid the book flat on the hearth and propped the calculator on its edge against it.

"Quick, it’s a cockroach, swat it!" At my exhortation he slammed the brick down with a one handed aim that was true and the Sharp E7L 531 burst open like a ripe pod.

"Ah, here we have it. Take a look at this. Imitation cortex." I returned to the couch and Eldred sat on the edge of his chair. Both trouser legs were torn at the knee and the cloth was turning a deeper shade of blue.

"Sir, it is my express intention, and I must stress that I do indeed intend to express myself with cogency and a dedication to arriving at a logical conclusion, it is my express vocation and duty to reveal to you the working of the human mind and the manner in which said mind is bent on the overweening desire and self driven necessity to categorize all and every thing under the sun. If I may have your attention," and he held up the open calculator and snapped his fingers to focus the gaze of his audience. "We see here the guts of a brain, so to speak. Bits and pieces of electronic paraphernalia. One might describe it loosely as a data processing system, being a collection of electromechanical and electronic components and devices assembled in a plastic module containing switching and, communications components such as transistors, diodes, capacitors, resistors and integrated circuit, all combined into various kinds of circuitry by technical means of the highest integrity, together with a memory system, a power supply, delay lines and various types of magnetic media such as magnets and bits of wire for carrying and transferring and transposing data and information, as coded cybernetically and in strict accordance with binary Boolean logic into instructions, computations and apologetic or accusatory interjections regarding failure and error. One hundred and fifty functions capable thereof, entailing four hundred thousand electronic signals per second traversing highways and byways within this microscopically miniaturized chip of processed silicon to the precise tick of a quartz crystal timing device – all in the interests of and to the greater glorification of the human cerebrum. Let us be quite clear about one thing, Mr Martin. About one thing it is of necessity that we should be quite clear and, without belabouring the point so excessively as to cause offence, and without beating about the bush, it is clearly of the utmost urgency for the purposes of this exercise to be entirely lucid upon this, and this only, the subject, object and ultimate goal of this our expressed endeavour, viz. to promote comprehension and awareness of the innate drive compelling man to describe the descriptions of the functioning of the functions of the super computer situated in the cranial vault."

“Jesus, but you can talk a lot of shit! I thought you were flogging encyclopaedias. What's this got to do with encyclofuckinpaedias?”

Eldred's eyes became round with astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me you haven't been following the simple logic of my argument? Do you mean to say that you are incapable of seeing that my intention is to lead you to the realisation that the New Encyclopaedia Britannica Three is the pinnacle of human learning and the most succinct piece of evidence to date that the human cerebral cortex is within reach of taming the entire universe, of discovering Higg's boson, of crossing the last frontier? Mr Martin, have you not had the faintest inkling that I am in the process of enlightening you, of illuminating your mind so that, by the end of my performance, you will not only be grateful but desperate, I say desperate, to own the New Encyclopaedia Britannica Three?”

I said nothing.

''Mr Martin, I have reached a critical point. I have revealed to you some of the marvellous complexities of the brain and I am about to convince you, once and for all, that even you will be unable to live without the possibility of immediate access to it once you have gazed upon its beauty. And I refer to the Complete Circle of Knowledge as categorized in the Propaedia of the New Encyclopaedia Britannica Three."

He paused and looked into his jam tin. When I mode no move he held it upside down so there could be no doubt as to his wishes.

"Sir, you oblige me to be crudely blatant. You do not encourage subtlety. My tongue is withered at the root. Do you require me to bite my arm like the Ancient Mariner had to in order to utter sound?"

Scowling and muttering, "This had better be good," I fetched what was left of the wine and shared it out. Eldred Q. Gink drank his portion straight off and tossed the can into the corner behind him. Theatrically he smacked his bloodied lips, coughed end cleared his throat.

"Testing. One two three four. Testing. Testing. One two." He massaged his adams apple, coughed again and spat into the breast pocket of his shirt. He got to his feet and made a show of moving the manual to the exact centre line before the fireplace. He then stood on the book facing me, stiffened to attention and raised his eyes ceilingward.

"The Complete Circle of Knowledge, devised and presented by the illustrious Board of Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., choice of domicillium citandi et executandi being Boardroom and Bar, ninth Floor, Britannica House, 425 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois, United States of America, will hereinafter be referred to as The Complete Circle of Knowledge. The Complete Circle of Knowledge, hitherto referred to as The Complete Circle of Knowledge, is the sole property of the aforesaid Board of Editors, elsewhere referred to as the Board of Onanists, and not referred to ever again hereinafter, and should be deemed to constitute the essential credo of the aforesaid Encyclopaedia Britannica and, not withstanding anything to the contrary contained herein, hereto or hereinafter, without prejudice to me, Eldred Q. Gink, officially appointed Executive Marketing Director, Encyclopaedia Brittannica, Inc. (South Africa), under no circumstances whatsoever, be it manfully with fell intention or be it womanfully without prior knowledge of the consequences, the aforesaid credo being deemed to be the ex deo inalienable property of the aforesaid Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., shall any man or woman, be it under cover of darkness or be it in flagrant contravention of public decency, singly or generally, refer to, directly or in passing, such aforesaid Circle of Knowledge without the prior payment in full of such monies and stamp duties as should be required in terms of the lien held by the aforesaid Encyclopaedia Britannica Inc. on all or any forms of knowledge purporting to be of the circular ilk or kind. So help me God. The Circle of Knowledge may be depicted schematically as a wheel with a hub and nine spokes, the hub representing the Branches of Scholarship, and the spokes dividing the Circle of Knowledge into nine Areas of Learning. The nine Areas of Learning do consist of Matter and Energy, The Earth, Life on Earth, Human Life, Human Society, Art, Technology, Religion, and the History of Mankind. The hub consisteth of Logic, Mathematics, Science, History, The Humanities, and Philosophy, being the Branches of Scholarship which may be used, selectively or eclectically, to examine any or all of the nine Areas of Learning, which may be divided and subdivided ad infinitum into innumerable categories and components as the mind sees fit. The first Area of Learning to prostrate itself before our scrutiny beeth the universe of the physicist, chemist and astronomer and do be termed Matter and Energy. We may gaze upon the atom and its nucleus, its structure and properties, and its elementary particles. We may examine the periodic variation in the properties of chemical elements and the molecular structure, as well as the bonding and reactions, of chemical compounds. Heat, thermodynamics end not only the various nonsolid states of matter but also the solid state of matter are here alongside each other and the mechanics of particles, as well as both rigid and deformable bodies, which are subject to elasticity, vibrations and flow. Then run your eyes over electricity and magnetism, past waves and wave motion to the open realms of the solar system, stars, galaxies - and the cosmos! The first Area of Learning, quod erat demonstrandum, but in briefest of outline. You may pursue the details forever, if you so wish. The second Area of Learning to raise the curtain happeneth to be The Earth, which is where we are here and now, upon the great globe itself. She appears to us as a planet with physical properties, an internal structure and composition with constituen minerals and rocks. Her outer garment is the atmosphere, of exquisite texture but somewhat befouled, while the undergarment is the hydrosphere - oceans, fresh water bodies, and ice masses, stirred by the motions and forces that created them, and ruffled by weather and climate. Beneath the garments we discern the physical features produced by geomorphic processes acting on her surface. We become aware of her origin and development and are able to interpret the geological record, running through eras, periods and epochs of geological time in response to the unheard music hidden in the shrubbery - Precambrian, Paleozoic, Cambrian, Ordovicien, Silurian, Upper Paleozoic, Devonian, Lower Carboniferous, Upper Carboniferous, Permian, Mezozoic, Triassic, Jurassic, Cretaceous, Cenozoic, Tertiary, Quaternary, Pleistocene, Holocene - the rocks, the life, the stratigraphy, the environment - altering inexorably. Then in the third Area of Learning we can examine Life itself. The characteristics of Life on Earth, the origin of living things and their classification are dealt with. If we wish to believe it there is an explanation of the molecular basis of vital processes involving chemicals, metabolism, bioenergetics and biosynthesis. The vital processes at the molecular level are covered in detail, special attention being given to the cellular basis of the form and function of organisms, the coordination of vital processes through regulation and integration, the procurement and processing of nutrients, gas exchange, internal transport, and elimination. Reproduction, growth, differentiation, morphogenesis and the transmission of traits through heredity are not ignored. Neither are the behavioural responses of organisms, which have evolved and developed a range of individual and group capacities. And an overall picture of the interacting patterns of life is given by an analysis of the biosphere, it being appallingly apparent that Man has set himself above the world of living things that are required to exist in a single system of biotic and environmental interdependencies. Which leads us on to the fourth Area of Learning - Human Life. Verily, Man's chief obsession is with himself. The stages in the development of human life are chronicled in minute detail, from the appearance of prosimian and anthropoid primates with their distinguishing characteristics differentiating them from other mammals in such aspects as vertebral column and posture, manipulative capabilities of hands and feet, dentition, snout, muzzle, nose, brain, nervous system and sensory perception - even the reproductive organs are placed under a magnifying glass - to the Hominidae and the emergence of Homo erectus, Homo flaccidus and Homo sapiens. The evolution of Man is recalled, using fossil and implement records to trace his development through the three Quaternary Periods from one million years ago to ten thousand years ago, when our relations Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon were frequenting all the best caves. And now the attention is brought to focus on truly vast fields of knowledge: human health and diseases, human behaviour end experience, communication and language, and aspects of daily life. Health end Disease covers no less than the entire structure and function of the human body, the manifestations, recognition and treatment of diseases, disorders of the human body, and the practice of medicine. The practice of medicine! The practice of medicine can include any or all of the following: radiology, surgery, obstetrics and gynecology, urology, opthalmology, otolaryngology, neurology, psychiatry, anaesthesiology, pathology, endocrinology, immunology, toxicology, physiology, nutrition, pharmacology, gerontology, cytotechnology, dentistry, orthodontics, periodontics and osteopathy. You takes your pick. Behaviour and Experience is all about conjecture as to whether man is a god or a freak, and how various influences on stages of development, attention, sensation, perception, learning, thinking end personality have resulted in godfreak performing an extremely bizarre range of antics. Communication deals with signals, signs, symbols and gestures as non-vocal means, and speech and laughter as the vocal manifestations. The logical structure, emotional dynamics, and style and technique, both verbal and situational, of humour and wit are covered in detail. The nature, function and structure of language, spoken and written, are defined, and of course considerable attention is given to linguistics and the classification of languages. There are so many languages being jabbered all over the world that no scholar would risk putting an exact number to their quantity. Suffice it to say that there are thirty six main languages or groups of languages. These are as follows: Indo-Iranian, Celtic, Italic, Romance, Greek, Baltic, Slavic, Germanic, English, Albanian, Armenian and Tocharian, which are of the Indo-European variety. Uralic and Basque are non-Indo-European. Indo-Iranian, Dravidian, Austro-Asiatic, Sino-Tibetan, Tai, Japanese, Korean, Altaic, Paleosiberian, Caucasian, Austronesian, Australian Aboriginal and Papuan are the languages of Asia and Oceania. From Africa and the Middle East are the languages of Niger-Congo, Chicari-Nile, Nilo-Sahara, Khoisan, semitic, Egyptian, Berber, Cushitic, and Chadic. Eskimo-Aleut, North Amerindian, Mexican, Central American, South American and Caribbean are the last major groups. Then of course there are Gobbledegook, Codswallop and Horseshit. Extinct languages of which we have knowledge are Anatolian, Etruscan, non-Romance Italic, Sumerian and Tocharian. Artificially constructed languages are Esperanto and Interlingua, whilst machine languages are Fortran and Algol. It is of considerable interest to note that speech developed in man as a direct result of him choosing, a million years ago, to forego making mechanical use of his mouth in food gathering and tool making, thus freeing his oral cavity for such activities as verbal articulation, not to mention fellatio. There could hardly have been a more significant decision in the history of man's development, could there? It is with this thought that we turn to the various Aspects of Daily Life as set out in the Propaedia. And a depressing round of tedium and duty it is too. We are reminded of that ancient curse requiring us to earn our bread by the sweat of our brows all the days of our lives until we return unto the dust from whence we came. This is the gloomiest part of the whole work and I would personally excise it from the Encyclopaedia Britannica if it was in my power to do so. Unfortunately I am not authorised to perform editorial surgery and we are required to bolster up our spirits and plod through the details of a day. Eating and drinking, defecating, sleeping, waking, rising. Masturbating in front of the mirror. Clothing ourselves, housing ourselves. Dragging off to work day in and day out. Procreation. The coupling of man and woman and the feeding, clothing and educating of offspring. And the discussion of the use of leisure time does nothing to cheer. On the contrary, the long list of games is confirmation of the darkness within us. If we aren't keen busy with frivolous play, then we begin to fight or become suicidal. Let us hurry away from such morbidity and move on to a scholarly treatment of the fifth Area of Learning, Human Society. This is divided into culture, social organization and social change, the production, distribution and utilization of wealth, politics and government, law, and education. Once more we are up in the crisp air, able to describe, arrange and theorize, above the smog of Chekhovian despair. Everything you need to know about peasant societies, ancient and modern, ethnocentrism and cultural relativism, kinship systems with special regard to mate selection, marriage, incest, exogamy, endogamy, marriage alliances and customary exchanges of property and services accompanying marriage, the conflict model theory of social structure, which views society and its elements as products of conflict between groups or individuals competing for power, the positive socializing roles of family, peer group and education, the regulation of behaviour that departs from social norms by punishment such as verbal reprimand, fine, imprisonment for varying periods, beating with whip, cane or barbed wire, racking, immersion in liquid, exposure to heat as in burning at stake or frying in chair, attaching of electrical devices to sexual organs, guillotining, hanging, garotting and the threat of any or all such punishments, the dichotomy of Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft, effects of industrialisation and urbanisation on the modern family, definitions of race, racism, ethnic group and ethnocentrism, the 'baas fok meid, boi fok miesies' theory of the origin of apartheid, the mid twentieth century rediscovery of the poor, the affluent, criminals, sexual deviants, prostitutes, drug abusers, suicides and the physically and mentally handicapped - everything you might want to know about culture, social organization and social change. The production, distribution and utilization of wealth are treated with similar thoroughness but are of little relevance to the likes of us at this stage, so let us skip merrily along to politics and government, raise a hind leg, and trot on to law. Another catalogue of a subject in all its aspects. Ditto education. I tire, Mr Martin, I tire. It must be this cheap rotgut wine. If you would be so good to pass me my hypodermic. And the Methyl Phenidate Hydrochloride.."

"Can't you get it yourself?"

"I fear that if I move from here I will loose the thread and have to start again at the very beginning."

I got up and rummaged in the briefcase until I found the syringe and ampoule and handed them to the orator. The clear liquid was taken up, the left tit of the mermaid on his stomach was pricked and the plunger depressed.

"Ahh. Let's hope this will stimulate my cerebral cortex, improve mental activity and relieve insidious depression and fatigue.”

I took the hypodermic and empty ampoule and dropped them back in the case. I returned to the couch.

"I beg your pardon, but it tends to do this to me." He unzipped his trousers, adjusted himself, pulled up the zip and buckled his belt. "I feel a little stronger. More virile. I can only try. Let's see. Human Society is behind us. The sixth Area of Learning is simply entitled Art. Theory, classification and criticism, yes. Literature, theatre. motion pictures, music, dance, architecture, sculpture, drawing, painting, photography. It’s all there. Words, pictures. Much as you like. I can’t get over this lassitude. So much for art. Number seven - Technology. Measurement and observation, tools and machines. Agriculture, industry, construction, transportation, information, communication, the military, space exploration. Tools and machines. Eight. Religion. Oh my God: Nine: The History of Mankind. Tragic, tragic. And there we are. Done. Finis." He stepped down from his platform and sat on the edge of the chair.

His manner changed. He had not been able to sustain the performance and, inspiration gone, he was becoming businesslike and abrupt.

"Normal selling price, one five three five and fifty cents. Its yours for nix."

"Bullshit. Not a bad spiel but I'm not interested. Try somewhere else."

Gink had his shoes on and was knotting his tie. He looked at me with naked contempt. "I'm telling you this is a free gift. The computer must have fucked up. What a waste. I don't know. Mindless. Bloody lousy wine." He took a two-way radio from the briefcase, extended the aerial and spoke into it.

"Lone Ranger to Hottentots. Lone Ranger to Hottentots. Come in, Hottentots." The radio crackled end a voice was heard.

"Daar's die ou poes. Luister wat hy wil he." And then: "Under and over. Hotnot to Lone Ranger. Ja?"

"Bring it in, bring it in, for Christ's sake. You know the routine. Do I have to come and do it myself?"

I watched him adjusting his hairpiece, smiling experimentally, pulling on his jacket. Could it possibly be? There was a knock at the front door.

"Come in, come in. Hurry up. You know what they said at the office."

Two men in brown dust coats entered the room. One walked backwards, the other forwards. Between them they carried an imitation rosewood bookcase loaded with large volumes bound in red regency. They put it down against the wall, looked about insolently, and left.

Eldred Gink slammed shut his briefcase. "Well, there you are. It’s all yours. Mindless, mindless." He left.

I stood string aghast at the books.

Excerpt from The Aran Islands by JM Synge

 Pats story

One day I was travelling on foot from Galway to Dublin, and the darkness came on me and I ten miles from the town I was wanting to pass the night in. Then a hard rain began to fall and I was tired walking, so when I saw a sort of a house with no roof on it up against the road, I got in the way the walls would give me shelter.
As I was looking round I saw a light in some trees two perches off, and thinking any sort of a house would be better than where I was, I got over a wall and went up to the house to look in at the window.
I saw a dead man laid on a table, and candles lighted, and a woman watching him. I was frightened when I saw him, but it was raining hard, and I said to myself, if he was dead he couldn't hurt me. Then I knocked on the door and the woman came and opened it.
'Good evening, ma'am,' says I.
'Good evening kindly, stranger,' says she, 'Come in out of the rain.' Then she took me in and told me her husband was after dying on her, and she was watching him that night.
'But it's thirsty you'll be, stranger,' says she, 'Come into the parlour.' Then she took me into the parlour—and it was a fine clean house—and she put a cup, with a saucer under it, on the table before me with fine sugar and bread.
When I'd had a cup of tea I went back into the kitchen where the dead man was lying, and she gave me a fine new pipe off the table with a drop of spirits.
'Stranger,' says she, 'would you be afeard to be alone with himself?'
'Not a bit in the world, ma'am,' says I; 'he that's dead can do no hurt,' Then she said she wanted to go over and tell the neighbours the way her husband was after dying on her, and she went out and locked the door behind her.
I smoked one pipe, and I leaned out and took another off the table. I was smoking it with my hand on the back of my chair—the way you are yourself this minute, God bless you—and I looking on the dead man, when he opened his eyes as wide as myself and looked at me.
'Don't be afraid, stranger,' said the dead man; 'I'm not dead at all in the world. Come here and help me up and I'll tell you all about it.'
Well, I went up and took the sheet off of him, and I saw that he had a fine clean shirt on his body, and fine flannel drawers.
He sat up then, and says he—
'I've got a bad wife, stranger, and I let on to be dead the way I'd catch her goings on.'
Then he got two fine sticks he had to keep down his wife, and he put them at each side of his body, and he laid himself out again as if he was dead.
In half an hour his wife came back and a young man along with her. Well, she gave him his tea, and she told him he was tired, and he would do right to go and lie down in the bedroom.
The young man went in and the woman sat down to watch by the dead man. A while after she got up and 'Stranger,' says she, 'I'm going in to get the candle out of the room; I'm thinking the young man will be asleep by this time.' She went into the bedroom, but the divil a bit of her came back.
Then the dead man got up, and he took one stick, and he gave the other to myself. We went in and saw them lying together with her head on his arm.
The dead man hit him a blow with the stick so that the blood out of him leapt up and hit the gallery.
That is my story.

Excerpt taken from here

Paradoxical Materialism

"The stinking rich will always be with us,” I said. “It’s in the Bible.”

“I thought it was the poor who will always be with us,” said the other guy. “Jeez, how long is it going to take this idiot to let us in? All he has to do is push a button.”

“Not so easy,” I said. “There must be a hundred buttons to choose from in that digital fortress.”

We were sitting in the other guy’s car looking at the big sliding gate, waiting for Cupcaked to work out the difference between his arse and his elbow.

“It’s in both the New and Old Testicle,” I went on, “So every exploiter of labour, whether Christian or Jew, feels perfectly justified in paying his workers a pittance, while amassing as much personal wealth as he possibly can. God gave him permission. Ah, at last!”

While the gate got out of our way, the other guy started up, engaged gear, and then stalled the engine. We began to roll back towards the street and there was a long blast from a passing vehicle.

“Nice driving,” I said. “You nearly managed to put a dent in the newest and biggest Merc in the country.”

Cupcake met us in the driveway and indicated where we should park. He seemed pleased to see us.

“I need to show you around,” he said, leading the way towards the house. “You see this?” pointing to the big pond with water feature at the centre of the circular drive. “It’s full of koi, 2k apiece. Two thousand rand for one fucking fish!”  And he spat on the water in disgust. A fish immediately surfaced and made short work of the insult.

We skirted a bed of dwarf cypresses and followed him across an expanse of meticulously raked gravel.

“This is supposed to be a Zen garden,” he said, dragging his feet and then trampling a bonsai oak. We arrived at the front door and stepped inside the grand residence.

Modern, airy, full of light.

“You see what I mean?” said Cupcake, as if we knew what he had been ranting about in his head. “Marble throughout, even on the terraces. Rosa Aurora imported from Portugal”

“Cold in winter,” said the other guy, trying to be helpful.

“Underfloor heating!” snapped Cupcake. “This is the fucking atrium. His Highness likes to lie here a lot.” There were some very comfortable looking recliners. “Looking out to sea by day, and up at the fiery firmament at night, glass of single malt in hand.”

“Single malt?” I said. “Sounds promising.”

Cupcake gave me a hostile look and said, “This is what I mean. This place starts corrupting you the moment you step inside.”

He led the way to a sitting room with a fireplace.

“You see that mantelpiece and the surround? Granite. Stolen from the Acropolis, or the Parthenon, or somewhere. This is the sound system.” He opened the door of a cabinet to reveal electronic equipment. “Speakers in every room. The place is wired so your remote works anywhere in the house. What do you want to listen to? Graceland?Now let me show you the fucking summer lounge.”

The summer lounge also served as the dining room.

“You see these art works everywhere? Very classy, you think. This guy must be a connoisseur. Such good taste. Like fuck! All this cunt does is sign the cheques. The architect designs the house, the design company furnishes it, down to last detail, and the landscape guru sorts out the garden. This is how it works. And check this thing.”

We were heading for the kitchen and in a corner of some interim space stood an old fashioned jukebox.

“This is a genuine imitation jukebox from the 1950s. Art deco crap. You put your dime in, the mechanical arm selects a 7-single, and you’re listening to Fats Domino or Little Richard, crystal clear because it’s all digital and not really the real thing.”

We breezed through the designer kitchen and out to the breakfast nook, which was a kind of glass-walled rondavel jutting out into the garden.

“Now let me show you the master bedroom and hot tub spa,” said Cupcake.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “We’ve got the picture.”

We went and stood on the main terrace and looked out over about a thousand hectares of lawn to the lagoon and the sea in the distance.

“You see those tall palms next to the swimming pool?” said Cupcake. “They were brought in by helicopter. And the pool is kept heated twelve months of the year, even though he is hardly ever in residence.”

“Very nice,” I said. “Now how about offering us some of that famous whisky?”

We made ourselves comfortable in the atrium and were soon joined by Cupcake bearing a tray loaded with a bottle of single malt, ice, Sparletta and glasses.

“This is the life,’ I said.

“Yah,” said the other guy. “This isn’t work. Only a fool would complain about a job like this.” He was looking at Cupcake. “What’s your problem?”

“Problem?” said Cupcake. “This house is my problem, mate. This house is a beautiful woman without a vagina. You know what I mean?”

We looked out at the distant strip of blue sea, with the line of white breakers in front and the blue sky at the back, and thought about it.

“Sorry, I don’t get it,” said the other guy.

“Not a bad metaphor,” I said, savouring the subtle blend of highland peat and sheep’s piss infused in water from a bonny brook. “To fall in love with the beautiful exterior, only to discover that one can never get at the honey pot inside must leave one feeling desolate, man, desolate.”

“Okay, now I see,” said the other guy. “You’re not content with living in luxury if you don’t also possess the fortune that makes it possible.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” said Cupcake. “That’s not what I mean at all. What I mean is that all this is initially seductive, but it’s superficial and largely worthless. I’ve been housesitting the place for three weeks now, and it’s making me suicidal. It’s like living in an empty waiting room, it’s so impersonal and cold. And it doesn’t make the owner happy, either. You should see him. He’s 50, fat, got an ulcer, and just had a triple bypass. He’s divorced and his kids only contact him when they want more money. And you should see his neighbour up the road. One of the richest men in South Africa and a real miserable looking bastard who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

“Hey,” I said, “That must be the old dude we nearly crashed into. Does he look like a malevolent toad? Like he’s got no chin he’s so obese?’

“That’s him,’ Sid Cupcake.

“So would you prefer to be looking after some poky two-roomed apartment in a dilapidated block in a rundown part of the city?” asked the other guy. “Where the entrance smells of dustbins and broken plumbing, and there’s a screaming baby next door, and dope fiends overhead trying to kill each other?”

“No, I wouldn’t,’ said Cupcake. “But that’s not what I’m getting at. Look, for the first week or so I couldn’t believe my luck and I was beginning to think that this way of life was what one should aspire to. But then I started to feel uneasy and restless. There was something wrong. It took another three days of worrying about it before I suddenly realised what it was about. The materialism paradox.”

“Too much value attached to the goodies money can buy?” I said. “Tell that to a man who lives in a shack.”

“Why is it a paradox?” asked the other guy.

“Because,’ said Cupcake, “I realised that the millionaire who owns this mansion is, on a certain level, far less of a materialist than I am. Or the man in the shack.

“How so?’

“Look,” said Cupcake, “Let’s take my old Corolla, for example. It’s a crappy old car and it gives me a lot of grief, but I can’t afford an upgrade. When it performs, I’m grateful; and when it misbehaves, I curse and threaten it. I have fond memories of having sex in the back seat, and every dent in the bodywork has a story to tell. You see, I have a relationship with that car. Now take the millionaire. He has a sports car and an SUV standing in the garage. They are hardly ever driven and their owner looks upon them with a total lack of sentiment. He sees them for what they are: disposable commodities that come with a price tag. He values them for the advertising hype about performance, craftsmanship and elegant styling, but only because it confers status. And it’s the same with everything else. This house, the contents, the garden, the fish – they have value for him only because he can afford them and put them on display. He doesn’t relate to the material world the way we do.”

“Well,” I said, “I suppose you could be onto something there. It’s a different way of looking at it. But surely you’re not suggesting this millionaire has a superior value system to yours?”

“Of course not,” said Cupcake. “What I’m saying is that he has become detached from the material objects he possesses. What he values most is the prestige associated with conspicuous consumption. He judges his own success not by how much he enjoys the fruits of his wealth but by the respect, admiration and envy his wealth is able to command. That’s why people like him are driven to make more and more money. There’s always someone able to behave more ostentatiously than you, though, so satisfaction is forever fleeting. I can see what it’s about and it fills me with feelings of meaninglessness and futility. I can’t take this sinecure any longer.”

“Hey, take it easy, man,” said the other guy, getting up to fill the glasses. Cupcake was showing signs of psychological distress, and on the point of becoming seriously distraught. “Keep a grip on the here-and-now. Hold on to the reality of genuine materialism, not that other kak. Here, drink this. This thousand-bucks whisky tastes better with lemonade and gives you more of a kick.”

“Yah,’ I said. “Just because this scumbag materialist has lost his soul down the toilet doesn’t mean we can’t try an wake the dead in his marble-floored mausoleum. We could start with a pool party. Tomorrow.”

“A topless pool party sounds cool,’ said the other guy. “With a venue like this a whole new world of possibilities could open up. What sports car did you say this creep has got in the garage?”

The flicker of interest in Cupcake’s eyes was encouraging. It meant that futility and meaninglessness hadn’t gained the upper hand just yet.