Mixing drinks with the prez

The invitation plopped into my inbox. The pleasure of my company was being requested at “The Presidential Cocktail”. After Jacob Zuma’s reply to responses to his State of the Nation address, he was going to hobnob with diplomats, dignitaries, bigwigs, VIPs, whips and a crossword junkie.
This is my chance for a one-on-one with JZ, I thought, as I made my way to Parliament. This is an opportunity to register my disapproval of the government’s attempt to muzzle the press. Maybe with a few carefully chosen words I can convince Zuma to refuse to sign the anti-democratic bill.
Zuma walks in. He flashes his dazzling smile and chortles. I find a spot near a bowl of cashew nuts and wait for my 15 seconds of president time. What will I say?
“Please, Mr President, don’t silence the people” is all I come up with. If I want to save SA’s democracy I’ll have to think of something more profound than that.
Zuma greets his guests. He’s all handshakes, back-slaps and winning grins. What will I say? Maybe a cocktail will help, I think, after all this is The Presidential Cocktail. Maybe I could order an Msholozi Martini – Shaiken, not stirred, and so strong it will take your speech away.
I spy the indomitable Trevor Manuel and Maria Ramos. What cocktails would be appropriate for this power couple? A Manuel Mojito – lime juice, sugar cane, mint and enough Cuban rum to make your hair fall out. What would feature in a Maria-garita, I wonder. ABSAlut vodka and peri-peri sauce.
Zuma greets Mac Maharaj. Only one cocktail is appropriate for the spokesman – a Molotov Mac; it’s the bomb. Lindiwe Sisulu comes into focus. The ingredients in a Lindiwe Colida are classified. She won’t reveal her sources and leaks will be plugged.
What about cocktails for other political heavyweights, like the human settlements minister? Sexwale on the Beach? A Creamy Lamborghini is more likely. This buttery liqueur cocktail is made with Cape Velvet, Amarula, Irish whiskey and Kahlúa – probably a bit rich for most of us. Especially after Pravin Gordhan has his way with our cash. Gordhan’s Trillion Tipple is only half full and is served, like Greece’s economy, on the rocks.   
And then there’s Pieter Mulder’s Denialist Daiquiri, also known as a Fiery Volkstaat, which is so overwhelming you will want more and more, including huge tracks of South Africa.
As for our erstwhile national police commissioners – there’s the Selebi “Finished and Klaar” Slammer, available at (but not behind) bars and the Bheki Shooter-To-Kill Cele.
This clue sums up a brew named for Helen Zille: Daily whet? It’s a cocktail (5, 4).*
And then, of course, there’s The Juju. Tequila used to be The Juju’s main ingredient – that was when he vowed that he would tequila for Zuma – but the tequila has been replaced with absinthe. Malema will now be absinthe from ANC politics – thanks to Cyril Rum-aphosa.  
I emerge from my cocktail journey and look up. Zuma is heading towards me. He is in front of me. What will I say? I take a deep breath. He flashes his golden smile. Say something profound! Say something profound!
“How are you?” I say. Zuma chuckles.
“Fine, thanks,” he says. “And you?”
I’m trapped in his dazzle. Say something profound! Say something profound!
“Fine, thanks,” I say.
The president and his smile move on. I add another cocktail to the list: An AncerLacksa Punch – makes you fluff your lines and should be taken with a pinch of salt.

* WHITE LADY: An all-in-one clue from the Daily Telegraph where an anagram (“cocktail” is the anagram indicator) of DAILY WHET is described by the whole clue. A White Lady is a gin-based cocktail.

In a spin over virgin racists

Zulu raises problem of racism (4, 6).* This clue, from my favourite Twitter cruciverbalist, @aclueaday, is my spinning distraction. I’m in a class at Virgin Active in Claremont.
“Faster, faster,” shouts the instructor, eyes bulging like a coked-up TV evangelist. I hope the clue takes my mind off my saddle suffering. Problem of racism? Is the answer Liz Hleza? She raised racism problems after a spinning class in a Joburg branch of Richard Branson’s gym in which a fellow spinner racially abused her because she shouted “yebo” during the class. But Liz Hleza is 3, 5, not 4, 6.
“Faster, faster,” instructs the shouter, who has had one too many lentil-and-Red Bull smoothies this morning and looks ready to rip apart a stairmaster and start flagellating himself with one of the heavier pieces. The clue isn’t distracting me from the pain. I need a new strategy. I need to get cross. After all, cross training is the best kind of exercise. I decide to provoke a fight with a fellow spinner. I let off a few “yebos” and wait for someone to insult me. Nothing. “Yebo! Yebo! Yebo!” I fire off again with the orgasmic intensity of an unguided Vodacom advert. Nothing. Maybe Helen Zille is right and Cape Town is a racist-free city.
“YEBO!” I yell. A man nearby shakes his head, a “why do I always end up next to the loon” look on his face. “Crazy English boy,” he mutters. That’s a brilliant clue. Crazy English boy. Yes! (4).** Yebo is one of those power words that cuts through the bullshit. If “yebo” were a person it would be Clint Eastwood – understated, unpretentious and carrying a big-ass gun. Perhaps it’s because I’m yessing in the wrong language. This is Cape Town where Ox has a different tongue (5)***, but “ewe” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. It’s as feeble as “oui”.
At last the class is over and I head to the changeroom. I’m still puzzling over the racism clue when Gym Guy 1 walks in. He goes to Locker 91 and fiddles with the combination padlock. It doesn’t unlock. He tries again. And then a third time. And a fourth. And a fifth. He’s sweating. Gym Guy 1 fetches someone from reception with bolt cutters. Snip. The lock is cut. “Thanks,” says Gym Guy 1 and opens Locker 91. His jaw drops. “Er, um, well, this isn’t, er, actually my locker.” Where is Leon Schuster hiding? Gym Guy 1 stares for a bit and then begins a new search for his actual lock and locker. That’s when Gym Guy 2 walks in. He looks for his locker. Gym Guy 1 and Gym Guy 2 scratch their heads and stare at the lockers when it occurs to Gym Guy 1 that Gym Guy 2 is Locker 91’s rightful owner. “Um, is this your lock?” he says, showing him the severed padlock. “I have a similar lock and I thought it was mine,” he says and points to the bolt cutter. There’s a pause. No doubt in Joburg this is when someone produces a big-ass gun. I take a deep breath. And then an extraordinary thing happens. Gym Guy 2 apologises. The man who was wronged says sorry for having the cheek to bring a lock similar to Gym Guy 1’s lock and confuse him. I felt like I’d just been inside a beer advert.
A few hours later, I settle down to watch Liverpool take on Manchester United. But the beer tastes sour when Luis Suarez snubs Patrice Evra. Suarez had been banned for racially abusing Evra. If only there were more people like Gym Guy 2 in the world and less people like the Virgin Active racist and Suarez – people who perpetuate the problem of racism. The problem of racism? Luis Suarez? Yebo.

* LUIS SUAREZ: An anagram of “Zulu raises” (“problem” is the anagram indicator).
** YEBO: An anagram (“crazy” is the anagram indicator) of E (“English”) + BOY.
*** XHOSA: An anagram (“different” is the anagram indicator) of OX HAS.

Juju finds no comfort in the crystal balls

Dear Floyd

I’m history. I’ve been spiked, fired, axed and recalled. I’m kaput, a has-been and finished and klaar. My political force has been spent. I’ve been put out to pasture, left in the dark and out in the cold. I am finito Mussolini.
That’s what the bloody agent hacks have been saying. Speaking of bloody agents, could someone nationalise Cyril, please?
I was sure I was going to be acquitted. Before being run over by the Ramaphosa bulldozer, I was walking down a street when a pamphlet advertising the services of Dr Ali was thrust in my hand.
Dr Ali can bring back lost lovers, grow penises and help with low sex manpower. I guess that someone-I-once-would-kill-for has Dr Ali on speed dial, if you know what I mean.
I was about to crumple up the pamphlet when I saw that Dr Ali can also help people with a court case and get them promoted. For only R50. I made an appointment.
“Take this and all your bad luck problems will go away,” said Dr Ali, handing me a bottle of brown liquid. “Is this Moët?” I asked. He shook his head. “No, it’s muti.”
After taking a giant swig, I had my purple suit ironed and made a reservation at Nando’s for the celebration.
But Cyril bounced us and I was not promoted to president – the real president. Of. The. Country.
Floyd, is this really the end?
I needed to know what’s to become of me so I decided to consult people who can see into the future.
My first stop was a palm reader. She looked at my right palm. “You’ll overcome your enemies and become SA’s next president.” I was thrilled. Then she studied my left palm and said: “On the other hand, um, you may want to dust off your cowboy hat, Mr Cattle Farmer.”
I went to an astrologer. She looked me up and down and then hurled the worst insult imaginable. “Let me guess, you’re a Libra…” As if! “How very dare you?” I yelled. “I’m a radical revolutionary, not a lily-livered libra with Zille tendencies!”
My next stop was with a fortune-teller who has a magic ball. She peered into it. “Hmmm, I see delivery in your future.” I punched the air. “Look into your magic ball, fortune-teller, am I the cabinet minister responsible for service delivery?” She shook her head. “You’re at Scooters, responsible for pizza delivery.”
“There’s something wrong with that magic ball,” I shouted. She brought out another one and peered into it. “I see bars in your future…”
I grinned. You see, Floyd, I had a vision of you and me going from bar to bar with our good friend Johnnie Blue. Let the good times roll. “Yes,” she said, “I see jail bars and 15 years behind them for tender fraud.”
I kicked her balls and ran to my appointment with a psychic who can tell the future by reading tea leaves. We sat down. “You need a cup of tea,” she said. “Lindiwe…”  I fled. I have a tea-girl phobia.
My final stop was with a crossword clairvoyant – a psychic solver who channels the crossword gods. They have the answers to all of life’s mysteries – if you only know what to ask and where to look. I took a deep breath and asked: “Will I overcome the ANC’s secretary-general and become the next president? Or will I forever be an outcast? Tell me, oracle, what does my future hold: president or pariah?” 
The Word Oracle crunched some letters and then said: Secretary locks up undesirable (6).*
Floyd, the tribe has spoken.
Your comrade
Juju

* Pariah.  Pa (“secretary”) + riah (Hair reversed, “locks up”).

Save me from the police’s Smurfalizer

Smurfed-off

“Get the kids. ASAP and on the double!” I told The Shrink, my crossword comrade.
“What’s the matter? What’s going on?” she asked.
“Smurfs. I’ve seen Smurfs running around Rondebosch Common. Real live Smurfs! I’m going to invite Smurfette for supper. I wonder what she eats?”
“Ass,” said The Shrink.
“I don’t think so,” I harrumphed.
“No, you’re an ass,” said The Shrink. “Those are activists who’d planned to hold a summit on the Common. The police sprayed them with blue dye.”
It started to make sense – the Smurfs on the Common had looked pissed off and were way too big to live in an average-sized toadstool. But why did the cops paint them blue? Was it all part of an elaborate arts and crafts project – a collaborative installation between the Minister of Police and Spencer Tunick, the American artist famous for getting crowds of folk to get their kit off? This is what living in the Design Capital of the World is all about. Glad I finally figured that one out.
Of course, Smurfs generally don’t go nude (unless it’s a blue movie) and the comrades on the Common weren’t naked either. Nevertheless it all looked jolly exciting.
“I need to protest against something,” I told The Shrink. “Unfortunately, I can’t join the Occupy Rondebosch Common because I have dodgy knees and can’t run from the cops.  What cause can I take up?”
“Chappies?” she suggested.
Brilliant. I didn’t always object to Chappies, but Graeme Smith turned me into a chewing gum hater. 
 “Chewers are as bad as stompie-littering smokers,” I told The Shrink.  “They throw their gobby germballs on the floor for unsuspecting decent folk to stand in. I’m joining the anti-Chappie army. We’ll unite for a Gum-Free South Africa.”
“No, Chappies as in Chapman’s Peak,” explained The Shrink. “Residents are furious over plans to build a multimillion-rand toll plaza there. Why don’t you join their next march?” “Oh, it’s too hot to march. This heat-wave is not doing much for my activism.”
I had an idea. I’ll make global warming my cause.
“I can show my disgust at climate change by sitting with a cold beer by the aircon. That should teach global warming,” I told The Shrink.
“Do something useful,” she urged. “Get involved in something to show your kids you care about this world – and their future.” It was an impressive speech. I felt like I’d fallen into a Coca-Cola ad, I told her. She threw a dictionary at me. And then it hit me. I’ll campaign for the English language. I will fight against people who don’t know their “loose” from their “lose”, their “there” from their “their”, their “its” from their “it’s” and their “your” from their “you’re”. I will fight apostrophe abusers and concord criminals.
I decided to take my word activism to Facebook, but after reading a few hundred status updates my idealism turned into despair. The battle, you see, has been loosed.
I turned to the crosswords for inspiration. This Daily Telegraph clue sealed the deal: Two medium and extra large Cola ordered for US activist (7,1)*.
Of course, the X factor! I’ll be the X-word crusader. I’ll organise marches against newspapers that print incorrect grids, repeat puzzles or change setters without so much as a “how’s your father?” I’ll be a cross activist. And when the cops come for me with their Smurfalizer cannon, I’ll throw on a pair of thermal underwear and a white beanie and find a toadstool to hide under.

* MALCOLM X: an anagram (“ordered” is the anagram indicator) of MM (“two medium”) + XL (“extra large”) + COLA.

King Illwill comes out of the closet

You drive your ship like a Ferrari and crash on rocks. You break the seafarer’s code and abandon the 4 200 passengers on board. A humiliating exchange between you and the coast guard captain is made public. You’re the butt of jokes. Your country declares you a national embarrassment. Do you show remorse? Do you retreat into a corner? Do you apologise? No, you are Francesco Schettino, captain of the Costa Concordia.
You tell the world you are a hero, who saved hundreds of lives – perhaps thousands – by your bravery and quick thinking. Abandon ship? Who me? Never. It was an accident. I was trying to rescue the women and the children – mainly the women – when I tripped and fell into a lifeboat. It could happen to anyone.  
Max Clifford would have been proud. This week we learnt that there is spinning and then there is Schettinoing – extreme spinning. Schettino is facing charges of multiple manslaughter and causing a shipwreck. Will he be able to waltz his way out of this? The crossword gods had a message for how it’s going to end for him: A fitting conclusion for a scaredy-cat Captain’s slippery words dance (7, 3).*
The crossword gods also had a clue for the coast guard at the other end of the captain spectrum – Gregorio de Falco, who worked around the clock to co-ordinate the rescue of the passengers: Captain Fantastic not one for sleep (6).**
The world is full of Schettinos – people who duck responsibility and try to spin their way out of ignobility. We’ll never forget another captain who played the Schettino card to get out of a, er, fix. Captain Cronjé outsourced the blame for throwing matches to the devil. If only De Falco had headed the King Commission a decade ago. De Falco went on another kind of King Commission this week. He called King Goodwill Zwelithini, who caused a wreck when he said gays were rotten. In a world exclusive the Cape Times reveals a transcript of their conversation:
Gregorio: Hi King, where are you?
Goodwill: I’m in the toilet – what you overseas people like to call the water closet.
Gregorio: In that case I’ll get straight to the point: Are you anti-gay, your homophobic highness?
Goodwill: Hell, no, some of my best friends are queens.
Gregorio: Then why did you say gays were rotten?
Goodwill: I used “rotten” to mean the opposite of “rotten”. That’s how old people talk today. If someone is “fat” it’s not because they’ve eaten too much McDonald’s; wicked is good; sick is cool, which is hot. And by “old people” I mean young people – that’s how opposites work.
Gregorio: Does that mean you are full of ill will? Listen, King, you need to get on board the gay rights ship. If you don’t I’ll make you look like a royal idiot…
Goodwill: But… (inaudible)… and… (inaudible)… then…..   
Gregorio: I can’t hear you.   
Goodwill:  because … (inaudible)… and… (inaudible).   
Gregorio:  Speak up, King. I can’t hear you, dammit! 
Goodwill: Okay, let me come out of the… (inaudible)… closet.
And that, dear readers, is how Goodwill Zwelithini came out as the first gay Zulu king.

* COWARD’S END: an anagram of “words dance” (“slippery” is the anagram indicator) and a coward’s end is a fitting conclusion for a scaredy-cat captain.
** CATNAP: an anagram of captain (“fantastic” is the anagram indicator) minus the “i” (“not one”) gives a synonym for a “short sleep”.

A brainwave in the heatwave

When it gets hot people lose their cool

My eyeballs are melting. Steam escapes from all sorts of orifices. My blood is bubbling. If I were a car I’d be on the side of the road with smoke pouring out of my radiator. I’m not built for the heat. None of us is. Heat turns the cerebral stuff in our head into mushy brain stew.
The Shrink, my crossword comrade, and I are trying to crack this clue – Sartre novel about love for a hot day (7)* – and we can’t. I’m on the verge of an existential crisis. 
The heat makes us stupid. Just ask Jeb Corliss, an intelligent man in cooler times, who decided to jump off a mountain. Or Cape Town magistrate Chumani Giyos, who flirted with strippers in court. “You really are beautiful, hey,” he drooled.
The heat makes some people dof and it makes some people vicious. And it makes some people both dof and vicious, but mercifully Parliament isn’t in session at the moment.
Cape Town has been declared Africa’s most violent city – it can only be because when it gets hot some people lose their cool.
It’s Wednesday and it’s 33ºC (that’s even more degrees than the Mensa president has) when something remarkable happens.
My children, who usually swing on the curtains, paint the walls with toothpaste and chase each other with sharp sticks, are slumped on the couch.
It’s as if someone has turned their behavioural switch from “Hooligan” to “Meek ’n Mild”. And that’s when it hits me: if the heat is cranked up really high fierce tigers turn into purring pussycats.
In the middle of the heatwave I have a brainwave: Upington is South Africa’s hottest town with temperatures hitting the high 40s. Let’s make Upington our Australia. Let’s banish gangsters, thugs, criminals and Gareth Cliff there. They will be too hot to carry heat.
I tell The Shrink about my genius plan.
“What will happen in winter?” she asks. The heat is obviously preventing her from seeing the bigger picture.
“Besides,” she says, “have you solved the Sartre clue?”
I shake my head.
She gets up. “If you need me I’ll be in the fridge,” she says.
My brain, despite being able to solve complex societal problems, can’t crack Sartre. If I don’t solve the clue, do I exist, I wonder as I make my way to bed.
Night sweats and heat fever make for a Troubled Sleep. I dream Jean-Paul visits me. “I can’t solve this clue,” I tell the great existential philosopher. “I have nausea.”
“Oh, do you? Would you like me to sign it for you?”
“No, no, I mean, your clue is making me sick. I’ve lost the cryptic battle.”
“A lost battle is a battle one thinks one has lost,” he answers.
“Hell,” I tell him, “is unsolved clues. Can you give me a hint about the clue? Please just tell me what’s your ‘novel about love’?”
J-P smiles.
“Love is not always what it seems,” he says mysteriously.
That’s when I wake up.
Love is not always about love? Love is not always about love? Love? The penny drops. “Tennis,” I yell, planting a triumphant kiss on The Shrink.
“Tennis?” she says. “Are you crazy? It’s too hot to play tennis. Today’s a roaster.”

* ROASTER: an anagram of SARTRE (“novel” is the anagram indicator) and “O” (in a tennis match “love” is 0, which is O in Crosswordese) gives a synonym for a hot day.

G-Spot gyrations and handbrake turns as 2011 bikes the dust

G marks the spot

A parking bay in Camps Bay is like the G-Spot – it exists but only for the chosen few; everybody else only gets to hear about it. Why the hell did we decide to spend the last day of 2011 at this beach?
I switched on my parking karma, but my signal wasn’t getting through. We drove up and down the busy street, but there was nothing – side streets, pavements and driveways were jammed with cars. It was stuffy in our car. My fingertips were melting on the steering wheel. In the back seat, seven-year-old Khwezi was frying and three-year-old Rachel was frazzling. Even The Shrink, my Crossword companion, who is used to dealing with pressure-cooker drama, was in danger of popping.
She read out a crossword clue to distract us: It sounds like it hurts to keep the car stationary (9)*.
But it was too hot to think. And then, just when I thought I was about to have a Mayan-apocalypsesize meltdown, a car pulled out of a prime parking spot a couple of hundred metres away. The G-Spot was mine at last. All mine. My heart did a triple-back somersault. The theme to Chariots of Fire started playing. Fireworks exploded. A train went into a tunnel. The G-Spot was in reach – and that’s when I noticed that a red car travelling in the opposite direction had spotted it too.
We both headed towards the parking prize. I could see the determined glint in my fellow parking-spot seeker’s eyes. But I was more determined.
“Stand down, buddy,” I mouthed as I swung the nose of my car into the bay. Red car driver snorted and swung the nose of his car into the other half of the bay.
“This. Is. Mine,” I shouted.
“I saw it first,” he yelled back.
It was a parking bay standoff. I opened my car door to go confront Mr Red Car. If we’d been gunslingers in the Old West this is when the lone tumbleweed rolls between us on the deserted street, a mournful coyote howl is carried on an ill wind and the bell in the church steeple tolls noon. But before I throw my meatballs out of this bad bowl of spaghetti ala Sergio Leone, I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe,” counselled the Shrink.
I took a deep breath, closed the car door, backed out of the parking bay and waved goodbye to the G-Spot.  
Back home, as the clock ticked closer to 2012, I couldn’t believe that I was ready to roll in the gutters of Camps Bay with a stranger for a parking bay.
“You’re so stressed,” The Shrink said. “It’s been a tough year.”
“I really need a break,” I nodded.  
The next day I headed to Tokai Forest on my mountain bike. I was determined to solve the “sound like it hurts” clue. Unfortunately, the answer – like yesterday’s G-Spot – was out of my reach. Frustrated I turned my attention to 2011 – the year Mark Boucher blocked me on Twitter (the equivalent of throwing his drink in my face) because he took offence at my “wikkie leaks” pun; the public humiliation at the school’s father-and-son camping night when I couldn’t get it up (the tent, the tent); and the rage when a Home Affairs blaps saw my son’s surname change from “Ancer” to “Anger”. It was also the year I was stalked by a cyber crossword setter, received hate mail from Bavid Dullard, got locked in a shed, and went in search of Joseph Williams, the thief who invaded my holies of holies and stole my chequebook I kept in my underpants drawer.
I don’t know if it was the frustration of not solving the clue or if my annus horribilis distracted me, but what I do know is that I hit a stump and flew over my handlebars.
I phoned The Shrink. “It hurts,” I yelped. I was finding it difficult to speak. “Hand,” I winced. “Break.”
She sighed. “It’s not the break you needed, but at least you solved the crossword clue.”

* Handbrake: A broken hand “hurts” and “hand break” is a homophone of handbrake, which keeps a car stationary.

My left hand of darkness