I woke up this morning and thought, "When is this Christmas holiday going to end!" Then I remembered I'm still unemployed. I'm broke as Morse code. But they say, that if you realise you have a problem, you're halfway to solving it. It's on these grounds that I'm only paying the bank 50% of what they think I owe them this month. My realisation plus half the bucks and we're all square...
But, wait... The moment they don't get the expected amount, they'll phone me and I'll tell them about my problem, which has become their problem too... and as soon as they know they have a problem; they're halfway to solving it... So, my realisation plus their knowledge wipes out the whole debt situation. What am I worrying about? I'm actually in credit! That's probably why they also say that there's light at the end of the tunnel. I have seen it. Unfortunately, it's rapidly diminishing as my head disappears further up my own bum.
Management sends word of money. I can either donate bone marrow, which is out of the question while I'm still waiting for the last instalment on the kidney, or I can do stand-up at a corporate golf day. It's one of those "keep it clean for the CEO and his wife" type gigs, meaning that you can't swear or mention that people sometimes enjoy the taste of each other's genitalia. Sporty gags about the Springbok rugby team are fine, but references to Ernie Els count as blasphemy. The trouble is I know fuggall about the game. I've never swung a golf bat in anger. To me they've only ever seemed like strangely shaped spanners for prying money from the hands of Mercedes Benz owners, with or without consent.
I didn't grow up in a golf club sort of neighbourhood. If Tiger Woods had come from Goodwood, like I did, he'd have had a radically different handicap. I remember one incident in my spotty youth when a bunch of us who had been identified as a nucleus of defiance to school rules were asked to join the Monte Vista Church Group for a day trip to a putt-putt course/range/pit. (Americans, putt-putt = mini-golf. Those of you in Sudan, think of a whole bunch of shell craters really close together.) I'm not sure whether the Christians took us along in order to change our ways, save our souls or to give God a better chance of striking us dead by placing a metal lightning conductor in our hands. In any event, God chose not to terminate me there and then, preferring instead in her wisdom to torture me with a lifetime of baldness and masturbation.
But I is all grow'd up now and I have a gig to do. I walk into the clubhouse and I'm chucked straight out. Seems I'm not wearing approved footwear. Outrage! My takkies are proudly South African (somebody has to be) and besides, they're part of the act. This abuse of my footwear from people dressed in colours and fabrics that would make a Tellytubby flinch...
Okay, I admit that taking the piss out of golfers' threads is pointless, but let me add to the weight of opprobrium these "elite athletes" have to bear. Can it be that when you win the US Open/Masters/Generalissimos/Dalai Lama, the only reason you get given a green jacket, is to cover up your beer gut and embarrassing lack of dress sense on international TV? Anyway, our dislike of one another's clothing is mutual, but the lords of crympilene have a distinct advantage, because they're sipping G&T's on the veranda while my ass is in the car park.
As I ponder my next move, I'm surprised by a portly club member who is looking more confused than anybody who makes that amount of money has any right to be. He's searching for somebody, but it ain't me. He knows I'm not one of the tribe; he's seen the footwear. Unfortunately for both of us, there's nobody else around except the caddy whose lot in life it is to drag this fat fuck's bag across country, so, in desperation he walks over.
"I have to tip him."
Obviously this is some kind of Illuminati secret society greeting, because no other is offered. I'm at a loss till I realise that the "him" being referred to is the caddy. (Golfer-man's references to non-members are always lower case.) He's looking at me expectantly and I think he wants money from me. It feels like I'm being mugged by someone who's listed on the JSE!! At least that's pretty much "ops normal". The caddy is staring at me too, or rather at those damn takkies I'm wearing. He likes them. I can tell. After the members blow me away for trespassing on golf club property, he plans to loot them off my twitching corpse!
"I have to tip him." It's still wedged between us.
I've got to come up with the correct reply pretty quickly or he's going to call armed response. These rich bastards don't even murder people themselves if it can be sub-contracted. My body will be found in a bunker tomorrow with black balls shoved in my nostrils as a warning to other proles caught wearing natural fibres. In desperation, I try an all purpose response, guaranteed to win approval from Sandton to Bellville. I snort, a sound not dissimilar to farting into a verdant Boere moustache,
"Snor-t! Affirmative action."
BINGO! He's momentarily distracted by my obscenities. He's obviously a DA voter who thinks he's found, if not a friend, then at least a tame artisan, but he can't hide the scepticism when asking:
"I don't suppose you'd give me change for a two hundred rand note."
Now I'm in a moral dilemma. Do I tell this kind gentleman that I believe anybody who has been forced to be in his company for five hours, never mind carry his luggage, deserves money in staggering, even Zimbabwean denominations? (They just don't deserve my shoes.) Do I admit I'm skint? Time to be a man, Al. do the honourable thing...
So, I mumble something about being from Man Riders Escort Agency and waiting for my client, Selwyn Silverman, who has been naughty and has requested the deluxe botty-plundering. As he flees, I make a mental note to thank the club chairman for printing his name on his parking space. I'll do it personally, just as soon as they let me in wearing whatever I like. I duck. Time for more of that Christmas holiday.
Cheers!
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