You’ve just got to admire the liberals in the USA. After their gallant efforts to nullify the election, CNN confidently assured them they were going to win, they took the advice of Madonna, George Clooney, Miley Cyrus, Beyoncé, Alec Baldwin other great and celebrated pillars of our society – there are too many to mention, but if you twist my arm, I’ll throw in Katy Perry and Meryl Streep – they took to the streets. Okay, I’ll throw in Ellen DeGeneres too. I don’t want to offend the LGBT community in the first paragraph.

And now they have been vindicated. The Trump administration spoke to Russia before the election – oh, the horror, the abomination. Many have dismissed this as just another smear campaign, manufactured by the bought and paid for mainstream media, but they aren’t fooling me. I watch Bill Maher on HBO.

Talk to Russia? Unthinkable! What’s going to happen to the world, as we know it, if two of the its super powers actually start talking to each other about co-operating? It’s a terrifying thought.

What was the thinking Trump? Why did you have to do something so ghastly when things in the world are finally getting better thanks to the “open borders” policy implemented by Merkel and Obama? We all know how much Arab refugees love, respect and admire the values and liberties of Western Society and America, in particular. How could you do this – talk to Russia? Don’t you watch CNN?

I mean, how many Americans have Russians abducted, decapitated and tortured? Okay none, but let’s never forget the horrors of the “cold war”, or the audacity they had to beat America into space and when Americans said “fuck Russia” they dared to say “Faarg America”, the brutal bastards. Sometimes words hurt more than airplanes flying into buildings.

And when the CIA justifiably spied on Russia, the KGB had the audacity to spy back on America. Mad Magazine cashed-in heavily on that one, but one should not jest about such awful things. Spying is just as terrifying as trench war… all you have to do is watch a Hollywood spy movie, to see this for yourself.

So big deal, Russia helped the allies to win both world wars, but they had a hidden agenda. I forget what the agenda was, but I saw it in a movie once, while recovering from a hangover in a Bangkok Hotel. It left me more scarred than the beheading I saw on Al Jazeera later, while flitting through the channels to see if they broadcast porn in Thailand. It was my first trip there and I soon realised that they didn’t have to.

Call me a libtard, but that was a bad move Donald… who is else is America going to adopt as an enemy, if you make friends with Vlad? Surely you should know that it’s safer to pick on a country that has never been to war with you and has no interest in ever doing so. With enemies like Russia, who needs friends? Also, it’s much better than actually going to war as your predecessors Bush, Clinton, Bush and Obama found out. I’m sure Hilary Clinton and John McCain were just upping the rhetoric when they issued military threats to Russia. Now you come along and screw things up. Hilary and John are both pillars of society and would never expose the world to the threat of a nuclear holocaust – at least not until all of us have secret underground 7-star hotel bunkers like they do, to ride out the fall-out.  They care about humanity – that’s why they created ISIS to fill the vacuum their wars in the Middle East left. Caring people.

I really thought that you’d have learnt from history and another great POTUS, Harry Truman and member of the LGBT community, who proved that tantric wars, with an imagined enemy, are far better than the real thing, when he brilliantly decided to target the Russian Bear – he didn’t let the fact that the USSR was a trusted former ally in both world wars, without whom we would all probably be speaking German today, cloud his judgement.

The Cold War was just what the world needed and it kept Harry busy, while he wasn’t prancing around in high heels and fishnet stockings. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, naturally.

War by proxy, on neutral ground is much better than peace. What’s going to happen to Halliburton after Syria – who are you going to bomb next? I’m surprised that you didn’t follow in Harry’s shoes – I take it on good authority that you prefer high-heels and fishnets on Russian women. No wonder they call you a sexist pervert. But getting back to the point; you’re a business man for goodness sake – how could you miss such an opportunity?

One of the core functions of a POTUS is to start wars – it’s on page one Donald. Why oh why did you have to come along and try something different? Wars are profitable. Look how successful the two wars after the two world wars were – Korea and Vietnam – fought miles away from home and made great viewing on TV. And just look at the payoff – today these two countries produce almost all of our appliances, technological gadgets, vehicles and big brand running shoes, for next to nothing. Otherwise we’d be paying a thousand dollars for a pair of Nikes.

War by proxy has been one of the biggest money spinners ever manufactured. Look at the payoff in Iraq. It also made great viewing on TV. Okay, so the locals there were not as receptive and things got a little ugly. But Obama, who is clearly much smarter than you, even though I’m not sure if he is a closet member of the LGBT community, swiftly hatched another masterplan – “the Arab Spring” – a rolling proxy war and things were going along just fine, until Big Bad Russia decided to get involved again. Hell DT, how could you betray America like this?

Anyone with half a brain knows that Americans are the “good guys” and the Russians are “the baddies”. Who are we to argue with Tom Cruise, Tom Hanks and Bill Maher?

Speaking of Bill Maher – is it my imagination, or is his nose growing longer show by show?





trogThe idiocy of humankind has always been a great source of mostly satisfying amusement to me.

Let’s face it, the gene pool is rapidly thinning and while the open borders ideology of one of the prime examples of how retarded the human race has become – Hilary Clinton – is as smart as opening up a bacon factory in Tehran, I’m willing to concede that it might be a smart idea, after all – BUT, for just one day of the year only – for the sake of injecting some much needed fresh stock into the ever dwindling human gene pool. Clearly interbreeding is taking its toll on this species, generation by generation.

There are too many Americans banging Americans, Mexicans banging Mexicans, Canadians banging Canadians, South Africans banging South Africans, Norwegians banging Norwegians and let’s not even mention the Irish. As a result, the human race is an advanced state cerebral decline. All you have to do is listen to the music they play on the radio these days, watch an episode of The Big Bang Theory, or watch any anti-Trump celebrity or protester being interviewed – I rest my case.  How much more stupid can we become?

We live in a time where, anyone who comes up with practical plans to save this species from extinction is branded a racists, sexist or a homophobe. Clearly, some desperate intervention is needed.

That’s why I’d like to propose an “international bang a foreigner” (IBAF) day worldwide. A Big Global Bangathon.

Some might argue that it might be too little too late, but unlike David Icke, I’m an optimistic anarchist. I’m probably being as naïve any liberal holding up a banner they cannot explain rationally, but I don’t have an eating disorder, trust fund inheritance, or a job in Hollywood, so I have to disassociate myself from that group. Besides, I do not particularly like Bob Geldof. He reminds me too much of Mo, in the 3 Stooges.

Speaking of stars, has anyone else notice how retarded actors, pop stars and TV show hosts are these days? George Looney, surely heads the pack, closely followed by Robert “you talkin’ to me?” De Niro. I don’t want to offend feminists, so I’ll lay off Madonna, Lady Gaga, Beyoncé, Miley Cyrus, Katy Perry, Oprah and Kim Kardashian – besides, how could anyone possibly discredit them any further?

However of all the liberal agenda pushers, nobody comes close to the talking heads that host the TV talk shows we watch.

Let’s start with Bill Maher, who says that believing in God is “stoooopid”, which makes him a very smart “go to” guy when it comes to the plight of humanity, closely followed by Stephen Colbert, who amazingly believes in God, but also believes that Hilary Clinton is sane and that Donald Trump is crazy.

Say what Steve? A woman who nods her head like one of those plastic dogs people used to think that putting on the sill of their car’s rear window was smart and cool in the 70s. You know, the same kind of people who today think that wearing a ribbon for a cause, or chanting liberal slogans en masse is smart, original and cool, because CNN says so?

A woman who has been caught lying, committing fraud and has probably ordered more “hits” on people that have dared to cross her path than Al Capone and Lucky Luciano did, put together, and has probably moved more nose candy than Pablo Escobar did while he tried to run for president in Colombia… this is this what you wanted?

I note that you and Bill are not afraid to let the occasional f-word fly on your shows, so let me put the question to you in a way that may assist the two of you incredibly, intelligent and reliable providers of accurate information to understand it – are either of you fucking sane?

However, having said that, I’ll forgive you, if either of you give my “IBAF, open borders, open legs, Big Global Bangathon” concept a bit of a punt on your next show…




Back in the 1800s, my great, great grandfather decided to leave the balmy shores of the Spain for Africa. Unfortunately his testicles were part of his baggage. That’s how I and my fellow kinsmen of The Lost Tribe of South Africa got here.

Our settler forefathers left places like Spain, Netherlands, Denmark, Germany, Greece, Italy, Britain, Portugal and France to come to Africa, unaware of the disastrous humanitarian legacy they would leave behind. I’ve got a few words for my great, great gramps when I track him down in the afterlife.

“Hey, what was the thinking, gramps? Did you get tired of the paella, sangria and senoritas? Did the olive groves and sandy Mediterranean beaches become unbearable for you? Would you mind if I kick you in the nuts?”

Very little has been written about this Lost Tribe of third, fourth and fifth generation Spaniards, Brits, Portuguese, Dutch, Danes, Germans, Italians and French, trapped in a country they don’t have an ancestral right to.

And while they await their uncertain fate, their former continental homelands couldn’t care a used condom in a Barcelona brothel about them. My friends let’s cut the pretence and face up to reality – we’re a nation without a homeland, at the mercy of a tribal majority who have made it clear that they don’t like us.

We’re all equal, but like the Orwellian pigs that liberated Animal Farm, some are more equal than others. Eerily, the ‘liberated’ New South Africa is an almost word-for-word re-enactment of Orwell’s sinister metaphorical masterpiece, which exposes how greed destroys principle and ideal and how the ‘liberator’ soon becomes the new oppressor.

Just as the Orwellian pigs became more vile than their predecessor, Jones, so have our ‘liberators’. Like the pigs on Animal Farm, they also call themselves comrades, but these comrades are a lot viler than Orwell’s fictional pigs. Like Orwell’s pigs did, they gorge and binge from banquet to banquet, slurping up caviar and Chivas. But these pigs are really smart – they can fly – business class. They love nothing more than waddling around the world, on high street shopping sprees, stuffing their bags with Gucci, Armani, Breitling, Chanel and Dior. The sheep don’t ask questions, but the donkeys sometimes do.

Like Orwell’s donkeys, they occasionally have a small gripe among themselves. Then they shrug their shoulders helplessly and trot off to do the bulk of the work on the farm. On the weekends they fill the stadiums, paint their faces, wave their flags and patriotically sing “ole, ole, ole” trying to convince themselves that everything’s going to be okay.

Well, it’s not hard to figure – we come from forefathers who left civilised countries for a dark, savage, hostile continent – hardly a lineage from the top rung of the cerebral ladder is it?

Why do we embrace this obviously false patriotic illusion? Because we have to! We’re a tribe without a homeland and we aren’t very bright. This is all we’ve got and we’re simply just too plain stupid to see through the con the pigs are pulling on us. But mostly we’re too shit scared to. The bullshit ‘New South Africa’ illusion is all we’ve got.

South Africa is a classic example of how fatally flawed democracy is. The inmates are running the prison. The lunatics are running the asylum. The rats are ruling the jungle – you get the picture. You can say that it’s the same world over, but the problem with the ‘fool factor’ in this country is that elsewhere in the world, the fools start to wisen-up eventually.

But here we’ve got a majority demographic that votes on tribal lines. Like the sheep on Animal Farm, they don’t have a clue what the issues are and ask no questions. They only read the newspapers the pigs want them to read and watch the news the pigs want them to watch. They support the pigs like they do their football teams – for the sheep it’s Kaizer Chiefs or Orlando Pirates and the ANC. When you tell them about the billions their liberators are stealing, they stare back at you blankly.

They live for their Friday pay packet and get as inebriated as the pigs do, during the week, every weekend and by Monday, they’re broke again. That’s the oblivious, tragic and repetitive cycle of their lives, but at least they’re “free” now – so the pigs tell them.

And when rumours about the pigs plundering the treasury, start to circulate through the compound, the sheep are swiftly reminded about how terrible life under the old order was. You see, it seems that some of the older sheep are becoming a bit senile and they sometimes mistakenly begin to think that they were better off, when the old order ran the farm.

The pigs know how to deal with the sheep. It’s easy – they keep promising them a better future and blame the legacy of the past, for the fact that nothing much has changed since the ‘liberation’. But the donkeys are a problem and sometimes their discontented murmuring can get the pigs snorting mad. Scornfully, they warn the donkeys to stop whinnying, reminding them how lucky they are that they weren’t killed during the liberation.

This makes some of the donkeys a little nervous, but they’ve got nowhere to go, so they keep quiet and bury themselves in their work, and look forward to the next time the Springboks play. The donkeys are fanatical about the Springboks and the pigs find this distraction very pleasing. They can dip their snouts into the farm’s treasury trough to their hearts content, while the donkeys are pre-occupied with watching the Springboks play.

Somehow, watching the Springboks play fills the donkeys with patriotism and convinces them that things on the farm are not so bad. It even helps them to put the fact that the pigs have threatened to gag and imprison anyone who whinges in future, out of their minds.

And so, they soldier on, trapped in a country that is not theirs, ruled by swine who dupe them into doing the bulk of the work, and are then made to hand over half of what they earn to the pigs, who spend the rare times they work, making laws to exact revenge on the donkeys, who nevertheless continue to work hard to fill the piggy-bank the treasury hands over to the pigs every year, so that they can sustain their globe-trotting lifestyles, change places names, buy luxury cars and mansions, to better serve the sheep.






According to those belonging to the Darwinian sect, the human body is badly designed, full of imperfections and even has redundant parts. It’s one of their favourite lines of attack against creationists.

I’ve got two words for them – Maria Sharapova.

Let’s examine some of these flaws this badly designed tennis star has – just count yourself lucky that I didn’t choose Oprah.


According to the eminent biologist, evolutionist and misotheist, Richard Dawkins, her genitals are located too close to her rectum. One thing I’ve got to give my friend Dick is, that he’s never shy to make a complete arse of himself on TV.

While I haven’t seen Maria Sharapova’s genitals, and admittedly would pay good money to do so, I did some research into this imperfection and found that the anus is positioned where it is for a perfectly good reason. By the way, I have seen Richard Dawkins’ arse – it’s located just under his nose. God ruined a perfectly good arsehole when he put teeth in that Dick’s mouth.

But let’s return to more pleasant thoughts like Maria’s nether regions. Apart from the convenience of being able to sit when nature calls, there is a biological reason too – one my pal Dick, allegedly one of the top biologists in the world, overlooked. Either that or he doesn’t know the function of the human anus. This confirms what I’ve long suspected about him – that he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.

The anus is located very close to the human birth canal for very good reason. It’s been proven that a baby born naturally, has a better immune system than a baby born by C-section. Babies born by C-section have far lower bacterial diversity and are more prone to diseases and ailments, than vaginally born babies are. So we can flush that one down the toilet. Up next…


According to vestigial Dick, the appendix is just a “useless” relic of evolution. Yeah, well, not quite Dick. Like all appendages, it has a special purpose. It took me a while to figure out what the “special purpose” of one of my favourite appendages was too, Dick.

The appendix is designed to store good bacteria and when your digestive system is affected by diarrhoea or dysentery, the appendix repopulates the digestive system with good bacteria after you’ve shat the bugs out. Believe me, when you travel to Delhi or Cancun, or accidentally swallow some tap water in Bangkok, you’ll be glad that you’ve got an appendix.


Ever wonder why men have nipples? It’s something I often used to think about. Is this evolution gone wrong, or creation gone wrong? Neither. The male mammary gland is not a vestigial product of evolution. It’s a product of embryology. Human embryos only become male or female about six weeks after gestation. Imagine that – for six weeks we were sexless.


This brings me to the troublesome male prostate gland, a firm favourite among the predictable pricks who derive pleasure out of trying to kick Intelligent Design in the crotch.

The prostate proves that we were not designed to go sexless for lengthy periods. So if she isn’t in the mood, or on her period, go and do unto yourself, what she won’t do to keep your prostate healthy, you stupid wanker. And screw what the Catholic Church says. Polish your marble every now and then when you take a shower, but be careful not to lose your balance and slip on your coccyx while you’re at it – normal people usually only think about their coccyx when they fall on it – evolutionists think about it all the time.


Apparently it’s proof that we once had tails. Well thank God for that, because the sphincter would not be able to function without the support structures provided by the coccyx – the bottom line is that you wouldn’t be able to hold a fart in at church or in the elevator without it and your balls have nothing to hang from. Without the useless relic, the coccyx we’d have to wear diapers all time.


One day a pretzel nearly killed George Bush in the Oval Office when it got stuck in his pharynx. I’m pretty sure he wished that he had a diaper on that day.

The pharynx has caused innumerable deaths throughout history. Many famous people have choked to death – Attila the Hun, the famous playwright Tennessee Williams and the legendary guitarist Jimmy Hendrix. Unfortunately Bush survived.

The pharynx a vestigial imperfection? Let’s examine this piece of Pretzel Logic and give evolutionists another basic lesson in human biology.

Unlike our alleged primate ancestors, our airway and esophagus intersect each other and it is this “terrible design flaw” that enables us to speak. I suppose one could argue that it’s a design flaw in women, but I would never be brave enough to suggest that – I try to get through as many days as I can without being kneed in my crotch.


Speaking of knees – apparently we have been equipped with badly designed knees. That’s why there are so few professional sports stars, marathon runners, mountain climbers, athletes, gymnasts, ballet dancers, tap dancers, kickboxers, weightlifters, ice skaters, skiers and trapeze artists.

Bad knees are to blame. That’s why the average person only manages to walk around 100,000 kilometres in their lives. That’s the equivalent of walking around the earth four times – imagine what we could do if we didn’t have such wonky knees? Imagine how much more damage we would be able to do the planet with better knees.


Richard Dawkins reckons that “nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of evolution.” No Dick it’s abundantly clear that “nothing in biology makes sense in the light of evolution.” Now go and change your diaper you nauseating, supercilious, whining imbecile.








The Reluctant Kinsman is a madcap collection of mischief, malevolence, mayhem and mystery. The book is divided into three parts – Grim Determination, The Great Primordial Gatsby and Eyes Wide Shut, not to be confused with the Hollywood movie that goes by the same name.

Grim Determination deals with the author’s irreverent adventures as reluctant kinsman of what he calls the “Lost Tribe of Africa”. It’s a side-splitting satirical account of life in The Rainbow Nation and what he calls the “Big New S.A Lie”.

“Tell Michael Moore to sue me,” he often says pointing in the direction of Australia. “America’s that way,” someone once made the mistake of correcting him. “The poles are going to reverse soon, so who gives a shit?” he replied with an unnerving glare.

The humour is laden with flaming arrows that are fearlessly fired into the rump of the politically-correct establishment, with deadly precision, and his encounters with famed people like Deepak Chopra, Sylvester Stallone, P.W. Botha, Hansie Cronje and Yuri Ulianitski will have you rolling on the floor.

The Great Primordial Gatsby explores the sludge pond of evolution theory, which he refers to as “the con of the century”, the “evolution delusion” or “The Greatest Lie ever sold”.

“Tell Richard Dawkins, I’m not a fluking ape descendent and that he can take his microbic mutations and bubbles of cosmic energy and shove them up Steve Hawking’s sphincter,” he told me, knocking back another high-ball tumbler of his own home brewed moonshine.

Eyes Wide Shut, the third and final part, takes a cynical swipe at what Elsom refers to as the global “Bullshit Factory” and the insidious dumbing-down agenda being pushed by the mainstream media.

The Reluctant Kinsman is a rollercoaster ride of chaos and mayhem that will jolt you out of your apathy and change the way you think.

Alfred Enrico Newman.



A sampling of snippets and excerpts from all 48 stories…


Part one





Seconds later, the studio door opened and Barry Ronge and Deepak Chopra strode out. Dave introduced us. As if my day hadn’t been bad enough already, there I was standing face-to-face with Deepak Chopra. Nothing upsets my Karma more than a New Age guru.


It then dawned on me that they viewed me as some kind of marketing guru. Today was “guru” day! They were going from a new age guru, to a marketing guru. “Haven’t the listeners had enough of gurus for one day?” I mulled, still considering going after the fat bastard.


And the beauty is, it’s also one of the most expensive insurance policies on the market. A good ELI costs you at least ten percent of your GROSS income before tax. Don’t be sneaky and try getting away ten percent of your NET after tax – it’s a cardinal sin and the assessors in the sky will pick it up and void your policy, and you could end up spending eternity living next door to Adolf Hitler or Robert Mugabe – if he ever dies.


There’s nothing to beat stretching out in bed on a Sunday morning and being able to let a really good ripper go, without fear of judgment or condemnation. Then you see a movement under the duvet cover and remember the twenty-three year old Ukrainian lap dancer you proposed to at 3am, earlier that morning…


“Check this Wally out,” I said to Joel, who was reading the Jerusalem Post in the water next to me. “Does he think he’s fuckin’ Rambo or something?”


I only found out who the guy was years later… It WAS Rambo – Sylvester Stallone was the cerebrally challenged dunce who dived into The Dead Sea that day in June 1999!


So why did Alfred and I have to flee this tranquilised haven, high in the Maluti Mountains and even higher on Maluti marijuana?


The Washington Post responded swiftly – they told us to “unsubscribe please.” Then Google suspended our email address for “suspicious usage”. Neither the CIA or CNN responded, but I’m still working on my tan in case Christiana Amanpour decides to give me a call.


I’m not making this up – The Wilderness is a coastal village on the South Coast of South Africa, about four hundred and fifty kilometres from Cape Town. I lived there for eleven years and I don’t usually hallucinate that long.


“Here we go; it’s going to be one of those days,” I thought visualising myself being strapped to a table with someone snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, but the bodyguards waited at the gate and paid little attention to me. Then ‘PW’ came strolling down towards the gate wearing his trademark hat.


I met movie stars, sport stars, pop stars, porn stars, television personalities, FHM models, politicians, business tycoons, journalists, authors, artists, con-artists, inventors and even notorious gangsters – one gangster’s name was Yuri Ulianitski.


One day after telling him about someone who had screwed my business partner and I over, he opened his car boot and showed me his tools of trade – a baseball bat and an Uzi machine gun. “You vant me to fix it?” he offered smiling.


We’re all equal, but like the Orwellian pigs that liberated Animal Farm, some are more equal than others. Eerily, the ‘liberated’ New South Africa is an almost word-for-word re-enactment of Orwell’s sinister metaphorical masterpiece, which exposes how greed destroys principle and ideal and how the ‘liberator’ soon becomes the new oppressor.


And so, they soldier on, trapped in a country that is not theirs, ruled by swine who dupe them into doing the bulk of the work, and are then made to hand over half of what they earn to the pigs, who spend the rare times they work, making laws to exact revenge on the donkeys, who nevertheless continue to work hard to fill the piggy-bank the treasury hands over to the pigs every year, so that they can sustain their globe-trotting lifestyles, change places names, buy luxury cars and mansions, to better serve the sheep.


It was one of those “to be, or not to be” dilemmas – a debate that could advance the cause of World Peace or a meaningless sweaty liaison on a Mediterranean beach with a teenage bimbo I didn’t know. It was a no-brainer…


Not all Arabs are noted for their sense of humour and Abu clearly wasn’t amused. He hurriedly gulped down his Guinness, before coldly telling me that he had to leave to meet a friend at a restaurant elsewhere on the promenade. “How are their spare ribs?” I asked, getting in one last blow, but not even the Irish side of Abu found that one funny, as he stalked out.


Once I spotted what looked like a heart tattooed onto a piece of pork rind I was chewing, but the chef told me that it was the Heart Foundation stamp and that Shirley was the meat packer’s name.


For those of you who know, it’s the immutable and wonderfully poetic principle of nature that dictates that ultimately everything breaks-down and self-destructs. And it’s happening to the human race – fast. Let’s speed it up a little…


That evening we paid the guys ‘King’ fingered a visit. Earlier that day we drove past their cottage to do a recce. One of them saw us drive past and made a throat slitting gesture at us – that sealed the deal.


I thought “that’s it, I’m effed. I’m going to jail – I’m going to experience my own Midnight Express ordeal in an Israeli prison.”


Sensing its reprieve, the bull recovers and tosses the lifeless body into the VIP section of crowd by the crotch and does a lap of honour with the Matador’s testicles dangling from the tip of its horn.


Numerologist are perplexed by the 4-6-6-6-4 sequence of events and say that the odds of this coincidence happening are at least 46664-1. However, a spokesman for LEAD SA said that linking the strange numerical incident to the return of the Messiah was offensive to those of non-Christian faith, and contrary to their robust efforts to build a multi-cultural, tolerant society in South Africa.


Vietnam has been exhaustively documented, but it was not the only ‘Nam’. In the 70s and 80s South Africa had its own ‘Nam’ – on the white sands of the Namib – but because it was not a ‘fashionable’ war little has been written about it.


Three days later I was standing on a train platform in Cape Town, on my way back to work. I was a ‘normal’ citizen again. While I stood there waiting for the train, I thought about what was happening three thousand kilometers away. I looked at the glum, emotionless faces around me and wondered if any of them ever thought about what was going on up there, and if any of them even cared?


My heart lifted at the commotion Prof Rosenberg’s introduction caused. There was great excitement and everyone started asking him questions. “Please God, keep them talking until the class ends,” I prayed silently, but my strike-rate with prayers and lesbians has never been particularly good.


The tenacity of the Israelis is something you can always count on – even at the worst of times.


“Would you mind if I ask you a personal question?” she continued, without waiting for me to reply; “Are you married or involved?”


“Sure” I said, “Give me your number and I’ll call you when I’m free.” I wrote her number down on a piece of paper and as I bid her farewell, I crumpled it up into a ball and tossed it into the wastepaper basket a few meters away. I just love it when I pull off a direct wastepaper basket slam-dunk.


When Nelson Mandela put on that green and gold rugby jersey in 1995, it was a PR stunt that elevated him to sainthood and the world checked its brains out onto a flight to oblivion.


Two hundred unpunished criminals in government – no problem, the Springboks are playing Samoa on Saturday. Corrupt Judges exposed ten to the dozen – no problem, Sepp Blatter gave us nine-out-of-ten for the World Cup. Farmers being murdered at a rate that rivals casualty rates in Baghdad – no problem, Castor Semenya just broke the women’s four hundred meter record by three seconds and the men’s by one-and-a-half in the process.


Alfred decided to take a journey to the end of the rainbow. After the death threats, he and I received, he thought it would be a good idea to get away for a while. I was relieved to be rid of him for a few days.


 “Calamitus Necessaria Est,” Alfred muttered to himself, as he always does whenever he sees that logo. If you can’t work out the translation from Latin, don’t panic – you’re in good company. It means Disaster is Inevitable. Now you can panic.


The babble and laughter inside the tent quickly turned into shrieks and screams. Furniture went crashing and glasses and bottles shattered as they were sent flying. In the pandemonium they fled towards the door, but we’d tied a cable, about ankle height across it, to trip them as they fled. After four or five guys were sent sprawling, we departed, satisfied that we’d done enough to stop the unholy decadence.


I looked back at the ‘girl’ walking past, who looked like she should be in a James Bond movie or chewing gum ad, and turned back to the bar lady; “That’s a man?” I asked stunned. “Yes, she ladyboy. Me too,” she added with an impish smile. “You too?” I said gulping my beer. “Yes me also ladyboy,” she said as though it was the most normal thing on earth.


“That’s my calling – I want to work on arseholes…” Admittedly, most of us end up working with arseholes, but choosing to work on them? The other orifices I can understand, but the butt?


Speaking of things nautical, it was a career move that saved me from hopping onto a ship that went down. It sank outside the Greek Isle of Paros, in the early hours of the morning, of 26 September 2000. I would have been on that ship, but I cancelled the holiday I’d booked, because I decided to change careers.


Part two




Forensic scientists have discovered that the average person’s yearly fast food intake will contain 12 pubic hairs. So just be thankful when you do find one of them and try not to think about the others you’ve missed.


They call it the Primordial Soup. Apparently, it’s the only soup that evolved itself – not only that, but according to Darwin’s theory, it evolved every other living thing on this planet too. You, me, Lucy Lu, a dog named Boo and U2.


I heard recently that because Pi is an irrational number, it proves that the world was not created. It filled me with great hope and I celebrated the news with irrational abandon


He said nothing is real – it’s all just in our imaginations – I decided to put his philosophy to the test and slammed my beer bottle down on his fingers. “What, are you fucking crazy – what did you do that for?” he yelled, clasping his throbbing fingers. “Do what?” I replied – it was the end of the debate.


Would it be any less absurd for me to hypothesise that Russell’s teapot does not orbit the sun, but a planet inhabited by Rastafarians, who speak French backwards, called Bong? Can it be disproved? Can it be proved? Who is the burden of proof on?


Has the Hadron Collider finally discovered the supernova of humankind’s stupidity? Perhaps they’ll also discover Russell’s teapot, Adams’ Ice Crystal Pyramids of Sastantua and Bong. I doubt that the Rastafarians there will be too happy though.


I tend to get distracted by thoughts like – is it really him speaking? Does the computer he speaks through have a virus too, or has it developed a mind of its own and now just using him as a dummy, like Jeff Dunham, does when he uses Walter, to say crazy things?


He calls it “The Event Horizon” and Hollywood has even made an R-rated movie about it. I think I’ll wait for the X-rated version, Lollywood comes up with.


It’s an unnatural selection of unholy proportions and a disturbing thing to visually digest – almost as disturbing as seeing Donald Trump in drag, or Hilary Clinton would be if she stopped shaving her moustache.


It won’t be able answer questions like what makes goldfish and women attracted to shiny objects, why a butterfly flapping it’s wings in The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, can cause a sandstorm in Casablanca, or why a Mexican farting on a bus in Cancun, can affect a woman trying to thread a needle in Bangkok. It’s called the theory of the Interconnectivity of Everything, and should not be confused with the Theory of Everything.


Soon chariot-rage became commonplace – though not as common as road-rage is in these more civilised times, it was much, much more bloody and gory, back then. They didn’t have the vocabulary skills we have today, to settle disputes verbally. The sentence – “Fuck you, you dumb fucking cunt,” was only used, for the first time, thousands of years later.


And just when things couldn’t get worse, someone invented money and the mayhem really broke loose.


It’s fairly obvious – telling people that they are more biologically related to pigs than apes wouldn’t be all that kosher now, would it?


Have you ever seen frog shit? It looks exactly like a mini human turd. Immediately I thought; “Aha, so this is what evolutionists see – I see a turd, but they see a taxa.”


After listening to Oscar’s testimony, I blurted out, “that’s Dolus Nonsensualus!” Sounds right doesn’t it? Actually I first said “that’s Dolus Bullshitualus” but I doubt that the Law Society would accept that version as easily as Judge Masipa did Oscar’s pile of Bullshitualus.


When they discovered Selam in Ethiopia in 2000 – he was dubbed “Lucy’s Baby.” Again, the embarrassment was excruciating – Selam turned out to be 120,000 years older than his “mother”. Talk about an immaculate conception…


The African Grey is regarded as the “Einstein” of the parrot species. Apparently it has the thinking power of a human toddler, which is why you should never read it Chicken Little or Darwin’s On the Origin of Species. It could stunt your pecker-head’s mental development, or worse still, turn it into an atheist.


Having a nervous twitch is one thing, but shouting out an involuntary barrage of obscene words at the same time, will sadly put an end to any aspirations you may have had of becoming a member of your local Toastmasters club. It’s probably best that you also excuse yourself from funerals.


It’s the opposite of the fornix erogenous zone or G-spot, which I’m willing to admit is a bit of an embarrassing “don’t know” area of mine. In fact, I gave up searching for it after my first girlfriend kneed me in mine, while I was fumbling around searching for hers. .


You can definitely rule the praying mantis out as the first species that managed to get it on. The females eat their partner afterwards, unlike females belonging to the human species, who prefer to devour their partner’s souls, slowly, over a long period of time. At least the female praying mantis puts them out of their misery right away – “that’s is Casanova, I don’t need you anymore and I’m hungry” – chomp.


She refers to it as the “blueprint, that makes you, you” – when she said that, I nearly chocked to death on a piece of popcorn that I inhaled down my windpipe, while I rolling around on my couch laughing. “Fantastic,” I thought. “Here you are talking about eternal life here, and you almost killed me.”


I observed his pacing back and forth and eventually I couldn’t supress myself and I shouted, “Hey Bernie, what’s the trouble?” I will take his reply to the grave with me. “I’ve forgotten where I parked my caravan.”


Remember when NASA lost a Mars orbiter because part of the team of programmers used metric units and the other half used imperial units?


Then in their haste to get an American into space they didn’t cater for astronauts needing to answer the call of nature. Alan Shepard had to relieve himself in his spacesuit after the launch was delayed for five hours. Eight years later, a rogue turd terrorised astronauts on the Apollo 10 on their way back to earth after landing on the moon.


Solid evidence? Yeah for sure. Just run that solid evidence by me again – you know, that evidence proving that life began from chemicals, which then turned into amino acids and proteins. That solid evidence that proves that all life on this planet comes from algae and jellyfish. That solid evidence that proves that after walking out of the ocean, apes got bored swinging from trees and got themselves Facebook and Twitter accounts, so that they could talk about the solid science of evolution.


I tend prefer stories that don’t induce nausea. The memories of trying to read Darwin’s On the origin of the Species are still too fresh for me. I’d rather force-feed myself fried pig testicles, sautéed in Turkish delight and liquorice, while listening to Eminem singing his infamous Puke song…


While I haven’t seen Maria Sharapova’s genitals, and admittedly would pay good money to do so, I did some research into this imperfection and found that the anus is positioned where it is for a perfectly good reason.


One day a pretzel nearly killed George Bush in the Oval office when it got stuck in his pharynx. Office. I’m pretty sure he wished that he had a diaper on that day.


Every building has a builder – everything made has a maker – be it a candle, clay pot, computer, shotgun or block of cheese. Even trouble has a maker. Why then is it so absurd that the world does too?


However, after my nocturnal encounter this time I thought “fuckit, I’m here for a holiday, not a battle with the principalities of light and darkness.”


It was just two days after the 1999 Paddington rail disaster and I could detect a hint of alarm in their eyes – “what does he know? Why didn’t he board the train?”


So today, I’m going to don my Buddhist robe – and yes, I even look irresistible in orange. That’s why I can never let them to send me to prison.


These three wise men have been the “ings and kins” clan that have occupied the modern day Tower of Babel, babbling on and on eternally about there being no eternity, nothing being everything and everything being nothing. Like their names, even their incoherent babblings rhyme.


On Larry King Live, on CNN in 2010, Steve Hawking said; “Time travel is possible. You can warp space so much that you could fly off in a rocket and return before you set out.” Whoa… hold on here – you mean that someday I’ll be able to go back to a time before I existed and slip my Dad a condom?


Part three




When you name an international company, the chances are it belongs to them – Nestle, Kellogg’s, Sony, all the major film studios in Hollywood, Pfizer… yes even that Viagra tablet you keep stashed away in the corner of your wallet comes to you from this dynamic duo. In fact, everything else in your wallet, apart from your kid’s photo, probably belongs to them too.


So it looks like the next big fireworks display we are going to see on TV, will be in Iran and there are no prizes for guessing where after that – bye-bye Kim Jong-Un – no more erections or elections for you.


There’s another pile of pish I don’t buy into – “the Global Village” – no it’s not. It’s a global basket case – a social experiment that’s going horribly wrong and that’s precisely the way those conducting it, want it – it was never meant to be a success.


He used a very interesting analogy in it. He said that if you put a frog in a saucer of water and heat it up, slowly and gradually enough, until it reaches boiling point, the frog will not jump out – it will simply sit there and boil to death. It’s not a nice analogy to contemplate, but his words to those watching were even more chilling… “And you, my friend, are that frog.”


Wait, let me get this straight. First they debunk it as “myth” and then they sell its benefits to us? Why are my bullshit detector’s sirens going off?


Bullshit you say? Guess what? Tests on implementing a cashless economy are already well underway in Nigeria. The plan is to phase paper money out and make their currency 100% digital. Picking one of the most notoriously corrupt places in the world to start off with, was a shrewd move. It will be hailed as a huge success and a massive blow against crime and money laundering. The world will go gaga over it – how do I know this? I know how stupid people are, that’s how.


My only hope is that Richard Branson buys Google, or starts up his own Virgin search engine – maybe that way we’ll get news that hasn’t been screwed around with yet.


Big deal – so he fondled a couple of pairs of breasts along the way – if that’s a crime, I belong in Maximum Security. Fondling breasts a crime – lying and suppressing information, not a crime?


Mahatma Gandhi, when questioned about his thoughts on technology, stated that there had to be more to life than increasing its speed.


How much more technology do we need? Look at the size of us already, doing fuck-all but sit on our arses staring at a computer screen all day long. How many more gadgets do we need to make life even less of an exertion?


The human brain is the most powerful computer on this planet and the only one made out of meat. It’s also quite a delicacy in Papua New Guinea, the DRC and Liberia.


With all the whacko conspiracy theories abounding these days, its little wonder that half the people on the planet are on drugs.

That reminds me, it’s time for my happy pill.


How about the Imam conducting Friday prayers at the mosque and the Rabbi leading shul on a Saturday? Do they share the same reality? Whose reality is right – are either of their realities right? Is anyone’s reality right?


Does Microsoft owe its existence to a simple carbon atom, on the bottom of the ocean floor, once upon a time, a long, long time ago?


It happened to me one evening after taking a shower in a hotel, when I dropped my towel on the way back to the room. As I bent down to retrieve it, I glanced up at the mirror in front of me in the hallway, which was mirroring the mirror on the wall directly behind me. I was pretty lubricated at the time, but I can tell you that the sight of seeing my third eye, disappearing into an eternal vortex, sobered me up instantly. It was an epiphany of sorts.


He should know if there’s a “Magical Man in the sky” or “Spaghetti Monster” out there and what a smart choice atheism was for him, just as another real-life superhero, Christopher Hitchings, before him must have too.


There were no correctional facilities back then. There were no psychologists to rehabilitate outlaws, who had breast-feeding or abandonment issues.


The infamous outlaw, Billy the Kid, knew where he stood when Pat Garret shot him in 1881. The only admin involved afterwards was filling out a toe-tag at the Lincoln Town mortuary.


I’m sure they would welcome a bunch of mandala clutching, bleeding hearts from Amnesty International paying them a humanitarian visit – even the male delegates – penis soup is quite a delicacy in those parts.


In 2003, the UN condemned them for eating those they had massacred. I’m sure the rebels must have said “oh NO – the UN has condemned us – now we’re in big trouble! They might send Oprah to lecture us, or even worse, send Bono to sing at to us.”




The demise of mankind doesn’t worry me. Neither do all these Doomsday prophets.

Frankly, I’m getting tired of having my hopes dashed – take the last two big “Doomsday” predictions – December 2012 and September 2015 – what happened? F-all – no asteroid, no mass alien abduction, no rapture, no tsunamis, no Jade Helm anarchy in America, not even a bloody murmur from the San Andreas fault. I was so disappointed.

I should have known better, because I do know when the world will end. Well not the precise date, but I know that there are certain events that still need to play out before we can pop the bubbly for the last time.

Let me take you back to 1999, when I visited Israel for the second time. I got there a week before my mate Joel, who was visiting his homeland for the first time and the plan was that we would rendezvous in Jerusalem and embark on a full north to south tour of the country. I had no particular desire to visit the place, but Joel had family he wanted to visit there.

So before Joel arrived, I decided to spend the first week of my holiday in Tel Aviv on the beachfront and the night before I had to meet him in Jerusalem, I got caught up in a wild party that lasted into the early hours, in one of the many pubs that line the promenade.

Tel Aviv is regarded as one of the best destinations in the world for nightlife and it has no shortage of pubs, clubs and eateries, plus a liberal smattering of hookers plying the oldest profession.

Even though I was determined to get my seven years of good luck, I preferred to ply my luck in the crowed bars. The backpackers are easy, but getting a bit of kosher tushy requires a lot more charm, skill, perseverance and alcohol poisoning.

When I awoke the next morning, I cursed myself for getting so carried away in my pursuit of seven year’s good luck. All I had to show for it on day one was an Armageddon of a hangover.

Coincidentally, I’d taken a bus to Armageddon the previous day, before embarking on the nocturnal escapade I now had mixed feelings about – for those who don’t know Armageddon is not just a word that triggers disturbing images of an apocalyptical, world-ending war – it’s a place, located in Northern Israel. It’s called Tel Megiddo and is less than an hour’s drive from Tel Aviv.


Today it is preserved as a tranquil National Park, with a spectacular panoramic view and it was recognised as World Heritage site by UNESCO in 2005.

All that remains of the city today are ruins atop the Tel-el-Mutesellim mound, also known as the “Hill of the Ruler”.

Ongoing excavations there have discovered that the city has been destroyed and rebuilt at least twenty-five times, over thirty-five centuries, and that it has been the scene of at least thirty-four bloody wars, during which twenty-six civilisations were totally wiped off the planet.

It has been Ground Zero more times than any other place on the planet and it’s hardly surprising that the real estate market there dried-up after the last time it got flattened.

I was the only person who got off the bus at Megiddo, which was bound for Bethlehem. It’s a bus stop in the middle of nowhere – the only sign of civilisation there is the highway and bus shelter and the only sound is the wind in your ear and the occasional car whooshing by. Otherwise there’s a tranquil but deathly silence.

There was something tangibly eerie about standing there alone and I immediately regretted getting off the bus. It was the loneliest feeling I’ve ever had and the panoramic vista, although breathtaking, was cold comfort.

I crossed the road to the bus shelter on the other side of the road and I prayed that the next bus back to Tel Aviv would not take too long to arrive. The last time I wanted to get the hell out of a place was faster was at a Pentecostal youth rally organised by my ex-girlfriend’s church.

The next day, the irony of waiting for the Egged bus 960 to Jerusalem, with an Armageddon hangover, wasn’t lost on me. Neither was the irony when it got bombed on the way to Jerusalem a few months later.

Joel and I had arranged to meet at the Zion gate entrance to the Old City at around 10am. I couldn’t see him anywhere around, so I bought an ice cream and took up a seat on the nearby fountain wall. The blistering heat was unbearable and I had a thumping headache to add to my misery.

After about twenty minutes, an Arab tout interrupted my thoughts contemplating what revenge I should take on Joel for being late, which is something he’s notorious for. The tout offered to take me on a tour of the Temple Mount, but I told him that I was waiting for someone.

Twenty minutes and three Cokes later he was back and told me that the tour wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. His persistence paid off and I decided that the best revenge I could pull on Joel was to make him wait for me in the blazing noonday sun. I went over to the girl running the ice cream kiosk and asked her if she would mind looking out for Joel while I was away.

She asked me asked me to describe him, so I told her to keep an eye out for a guy who looked like a cross between Bart Simpson and John Travolta. “You’ll recognise him the moment you see him,” I assured her.

As we approached the Al Aqsa mosque, the glare of the sun off its gold tiled roof hurt my eyes. I thought about paying the guy his fifty shekel fee and abandoning the tour, but the sight of the people praying at the Wailing Wall intrigued me.

To the right of the wall was a pedestrian walkway, encased in bullet proof glass. The tout, who by now had told me that his name was Omar, asked me to get my passport ready as we headed toward the walkway.

The entrance to the Temple Mount was heavily guarded by Israeli policemen. While my passport was being processed, I glanced at the Jewish people praying at the wall below. My guide told me that the reason access to the mount was so heavily guarded was that Jews are not allowed to visit it freely and that they are only allowed on the mount on a few prearranged days every year, under strict military supervision.

After we passed through the turnstiles at the checkpoint, Omar led me toward the mosque. We took our shoes off and entered.

There were a few robed guys rocking back and forth on their knees on the carpet praying to Allah. The only difference between them and the guys rocking back and forth at the wall below was that they were kneeling instead of standing and that they wore white instead of black – that and the fact that they were praying to different Gods, of course.

Omar silently led me to a glass enclosure toward the back of the mosque. Enshrined behind the glass was a rock. Omar said, “This is the place both Jews and Christians believe God made man from dust and the place where Abraham was going to sacrifice his son, until an angel appeared and told him not to.” He also told me that it was what the Jews call the “Holy of Holies” and the place Muslims believe Mohammed ascended to heaven from. Three religions collide at this rock.

Omar asked me if I wanted a few minutes to myself before we proceeded. You don’t get to stand at the place God made man every day, so I nodded and he politely stepped back a few paces. I instinctively closed my still burning eyes, more for relief than anything else and I can assure you that I certainly wasn’t expecting what happened next.

A voice spoke to me – and it wasn’t Morgan Freeman’s. It said “Behold in Zion I cast a stumbling stone. Where it began it shall end.” Then I saw visions of the world’s cities crumbling and crashing to earth. I saw the Eiffel Tower topple and huge buildings drop.

Two years later, on September 11, 2001 I saw two of the largest in the world come crashing down and I thought “this is it” and my forgotten experience on the Temple Mount came rushing back to me. But I was wrong – there are still too many prophesies that need to be fulfilled.

One of them is the rebuilding of the Third Jewish Temple. When the Jews storm the Temple Mount, demolish the mosque, and start up their concrete mixers, you can cash-in your retirement portfolios. I am sure that it will spark the Armageddon war.

Jerusalem holds the key to the future of mankind. To be more specific, an ancient piece of rock on top of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem holds the key. The irony that the place it all began, will be the place it ends, is obvious.

So, Doomsday 2017, 2020, 2023? Not until the Jews send in the bulldozers and start up their concrete mixers. That’s when the final chapter called Armageddon will play out – I’m certain of it.

After the epiphany I had in Jerusalem in 1999, I survived what could have been my own doomsday – a Greek ship I was booked on sank on 26 September 2000. If I hadn’t cancelled that booking, I would have been shark shit at the bottom of the Aegean and I wouldn’t have seen the Twin Towers come down and be here telling you this story.

If the Eiffel Tower does topple, I suggest that you pay very careful attention to what goes down in Jerusalem after that…



Here’s a rewrite and the version included in my upcoming book, The Reluctant Kinsman.


Every building has a builder – everything made has a maker – be it a candle, clay pot, computer, shotgun or block of cheese. Even trouble has a maker. Why then is it so absurd that the world does too?

I mean seriously, how can anyone with a reasonable amount of intelligence possibly think that science, which is limited to the physical and natural world, can explain everything? Is this physical and natural dimension the only dimension? Are all spiritual people just crazy? The Dalai Lama, Osho, Billy Graham, the Pope? Was Ghandi just a superstitious, uneducated idiot? Have all of these guy’s experiences been hallucinations and crazy imaginings

But, let’s dismiss the subjective and move onto another field of scientific study – Kinesiology. Like evolution, it’s a science. The only difference is that it’s a science that gets used practically, not just theoretically.

In a nutshell, it’s the study…

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