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Microsoft word - going down gorgeous.doc
a one-person kugel cantata
What I want to celebrate tonight is being South African. My father Hannes Uys was
an Afrikaner; my mother Helga Bassel was a German Jew. So that makes me a Jewish
Afrikaner! At least I belong to both chosen people.
I’ve spent most of my time illuminating the Calvinist Afrikaner side of me through
Mrs Evita Bezuidenhout. Tonight I want to move to the left: Ms Nowell Fine. She
started more or less the same time as Evita did – 1978. Nowell Fine: the liberal white
South African. Member of the PFP and the DP. Jewish African Princess.
Kugel. Now a rare and protected species – the white ones. There are many black
kugels, some called Felecia, others called Dali.
So share with me the saga of Nowell Fine. Going Down Gorgeous. From 1981 to the
years beyond 2000 – a typical South African who was loudly left while secretly
voting right, and who believed she was right because everyone else had to be wrong.
In order to play a successful kugel, I need three things. Shoes, hair and mouth. I didn’t
learn much during my 54 years: can’t surf the sea or the Internet, can’t spell or play
the trombone, but I can put on lipstick without a mirror! Eat your heart out Nataniel!
Take it away, DORIS DAY!
(DORIS DAY sings between each episode. During this PDU dresses into Nowell
in full view of the audience, each outfit depicting her in a stage of her life and
reflecting the fashion of the time. Also to be as practical as possible for easy
addition on stage.)
Nimrod? Now where’s that damn garden boy! Nimrod? Careful with
those flowers! They’re flowers, Nimrod, OK? Not weeds! Weeds you
pull out; flowers you leave in. Not visa versa! No, leave those weeds;
I’m absolutely finished, I swear to God. If I don’t lose 2 kilos by
Monday, I’ll platz on the spot! Ever since I had my kids – it’s never
been the same. It’s all just too much for a white woman. Anyway, I’ve
just been to the hairdresser! Hey, there’s this fantastic new guy in the
Main Road? He frizzed my hair, freaked me out, blew my mind, ripped
me off and all for under R40! An absolute bargain, hey? And with my
latest facelift and boobjob, here I am, the Dolly Parton of Fresnaye!
I’m so glad you could pop in your 1981 tax deductible contributions to
the ‘Help Our Suppressed Blacks Charity’ of which I am the
Chairperson. Yes no well OK fine . . . .
Oh my God, Nimrod not that bush! It’s my yesterday today and . . . oh
Listen, just have some more champagne, while I have an urgent word
to my gardener. Oh, and while you’re about it, have a look at those
annual Black Sash reports on malnutrition in the Transkei! Look at
those pictures? Dolls, it’s enough to make you throw up the caviar all
of the paté! Those blacks are so thin. They don’t eat for days! How do
they do it!!! Nimrod? Nimrod! Now where is that black so-and-so?
Garden Boys . . . sorry, Pastoral Plurals! They’re so unreliable! They
squat all over South Africa, and then when you offer them a decent
job, all you get is damn cheek! They expect everything, including a
Oops! Oh, there you are under the bush! No man, sis Nimrod, don’t
give Madam such a fright! You merge with the shadows! Now listen,
did you weed the lawn? OK, you wed the lawn. Did you polish the oak
trees? Scrub the patio? See to Madam’s Mercedes? Master’s Audi?
‘Yes-madam-no-madam!’ Nimrod! Don’t be so submissive! Madam
won’t beat you. Madam will kill you with kindness. There, Nimrod, off
your knees. I’m on your side, true’s God. Remember, boy, Madam is a
liberal! Shame, one has to be so patient, so careful. After the Nats won
this 1981 election? What that damn PW Botha and his terrible
Government puts them through. I mean: Pass Books, Apartheid,
separate development, laws; it never ends! Look, I’m all for
integration. I won’t mind living next to Blacks. I swear to God.
Although on second thoughts, this suburb is so expensive, I doubt if
any kaffir could ever afford to live here!
Here he comes; change the subject. I don’t want us to talk politics in
front of the schwartze! What is it now, Nimrod? No, Nimrod, get off
your knees. Stand erect and show your manhood! No, Nimrod, put it
away! That’s a very naughty thing to do! Naughty natives!
So what’s it now? Are you hungry? Didn’t Dora feed? That maid!
Shame, Nimrod yum-yum? Don’t worry, Madam will see to
everything. Salieri? Leave something on the plate for Nimrod, there’s a
good Afghan. OK Nimrod, now don’t dawdle over your Epol, or
Adapt or die! God knows we try, God knows we try! My husband
Herbert and I are absolutely crazy about South Africa, I swear to God.
But now that we’ve got most of our money out, we might as well
emigrate. I mean there are two things we can’t stand about South
Is that the time! I’m late for the gynie! OK bye doll. Listen, next week,
we’ll do Sun City. There’s a new sex show on! ‘The Postman always
comes twice!’ OK Nimrod, Madam’s ready.
Now listen, today Madam is going to play ‘Lady Chatterley’ and you
are the young virile naked game keeper! Now no rough black hands on
Madam’s fair white skin today, Nimrod. I know yesterday we played
‘Rhodesia Rhodesia’ – so then it was OK. But today Madam is a truly
Victorian lady, so please wear your nice rubber garden gloves at all
Right. Madam is going to hide in the Jacuzzi. Close your eyes and
count till 10, if you can. And Nimrod, if you cheat or peep, or not do
exactly as I say, I’ll just pick up the phone and report you directly to
the police! You know what they do to cheeky blacks like you? You’ll
be on a bus back to the Transkei to starve before you can squat, boy.
I’ll always say it over and over: I hate apartheid! But thank God for the
DORIS DAY SINGS:
AS PDU DRESSES INTO NOWELL 1985
I’m in a state of shock, I swear! My husband and I just watched PW
Botha’s Rubicon Speech on TV? It’s the end for us now, I swear to
God! The end in English and Afrikaans. And my horoscope in Fair
Lady told me 15 August 1985 would be a good year? Goodbye Rand!
Dora? Are the kids ready for supper? Kids? Are you ready for supper?
Dora? Take the dogs! Get them some Kentucky Fried Chicken, they
love it! Those dogs really freak me out! But that’s what you get when
you cross a Rottweiler with an Alsatian: at last you get a white
Oh Dora? Don’t take the Master’s Mercedes or my BMW! Take your
shopping Honda! And Dora, see that the kid’s don’t have too many
Irish coffees! I don’t want my kids spoilt!
What would I do without Dora? Ever since she’s got her own driver’s
licence, Dora’s taken such a weight off my shoulders. She now drives
the kids to dinner every night. Aren’t I a lucky mother? All I have to
And anyway, most of the steakhouses in Sea Point are sort-of multi-
racial and don’t care who comes as long as they pay, which means
Dora can also eat at the same table with the kids. Except suddenly
she’s gone vegetarian! No meat! Just eats vegetables and salads! So
It reminds me of a joke my husband Herbert told the other day. He
says in the homeland casino of Sun City they now play a South African
version of Russian Roulette. It seems the white man goes to bed with
three black girls, and one of them turns out to be a cannibal!
I also don’t understand it, I swear to God.
Shame, Herbert can’t tell a joke! You won’t believe what he said to me
He said: “ So then why do you always keep your eyes closed while we
I said: “Herbert, God forbid I should ever see you enjoying yourself!”
No sense of humour at all. Hang on, I must do my mouth . . . .
I swear to God, that is the longest my mouth has been closed since
1984. Which reminds me of a George Orwell nightmare I had last
night! Did I have a nightmare last night? I can’t tell you! I’ll tell you!
I dreamt those AWB neo-nazi’s took over the SA government and
banned all us liberals to the Moon. The Moon? Oh no, that place has
got no atmosphere! Do you like my hands? I got them from my ma.
You won’t believe how many people stop me at the hairdresser, or the
supermarket, or the gynie and say: “Nowell Fine? What do you do to
keep your hands so nice and soft and smooth?” Nothing.
Of course Herbert never relaxes like me. He’s always wheeling and
dealing, either with the banned ANC on the one hand, or the hated
Government on the other! Anything to try to beat those damn
sanctions. Anything just to get our money out of the country! And now
this Rubicon Speech! I swear to God, if I knew the road to the airport
was safe, I’d emigrate! But where would we emigrate to?
Which country out there could offer us the standard of living to which
we have become so accustomed? Israel? Oh do me a favour! I’m
already in the frying pan; I don’t intend jumping into the fire!
Australia? Please! Final proof that there’s death after life! Herbert went
to look at New Zealand, but it was closed.
And London is out. My friend Thalia lives there now, and she says it’s
impossible to get a nice cheap clean reliable maid in London. So give
me Cape Town any day. I’d rather be killed in my own bed, than have
Anyway, I don’t want to talk about politics! I just want to say, if it
wasn’t for Dora, I’d have a nervous breakdown on the spot, I swear to
God! That girl is so outstanding. We’ve had her since she was R20 a
So, things being what they are today, I said to my husband: “Listen
doll, if we can’t get our money out of the country, let’s invest it here in
South Africa. Help some poor downtrodden black. You never know
one day . . .?” And so, let me tell you something outstanding.
Herbert and me have decided to build Dora her own little house in
Khayelitsha! No, it’s a bargain. Ever since those blacks started
throwing stones in the townships, you don’t even have to buy bricks!
It’ll be a nice kosher little pad, with a nice patio where she can
entertain. There’s even place for a pool, but Herbert said: “Wait with
the pool already! Rome was not build in one day!” Of course Herbert
Anyway, she’ll have a Jacuzzi in the bedroom and a bidet in the
bathroom where she can wash her hair. A sunken lounge like in
Dynasty. And a nice spare room for her family . . . . .
Can’t say I’m mad about that family trampling mud and muck all over
the wall-to-wall carpets, but they seem to have a very close family
thing going among blacks, hey? God, it’s revolting!
Anyway, we had the whole place burglar-barred and burglar-proofed,
so if a kaffir so as much touches the front gate, he’ll be locked up
without trial before you can whisper “Free Mandela”!
Well no actually doll, they don’t yet have real electricity in the black
townships as such. Just in visible places that appear on TV news, like
where the Tutus live and Winnie hides. Whatever else you see is just
for show. Wires hanging from ceilings; holes in the streets. With all
the burnt-out cars around, it could so easily be a scene from Beirut!
Anyway Herbert has put a nice portable generator in for Dora, so that
she can have all the nice things: hairdryer, Fax, TV, microwave,
If things go from worse to worst here in South Africa and we liberals
can’t get out of this damn country, because of sanctions, or civil war,
or God knows what other fucking catastrophe is waiting around the
next corner! And if we whites are then forced to hand over everything
to a black majority government, my husband and me will just move
Not only will we have a Jacuzzi, a bidet, a patio, a sunken lounge and a
microwave, but also a nice spare room for the maid!
Look, I don’t mind the blacks killing each other, as long as they leave
DORIS DAY SINGS:
AS PDU DRESSES INTO NOWELL 1994
These pills give me such a terrible taste in my mouth! I take pills to
sleep and pills to wake and then pills to remind me to take more pills,
by which time I’ve forgotten what pill I’ve taken and therefore take
more of the wrong pills and end up with such a terrible taste in my
What day is it? Why do I have a feeling it’s important? If the Election
is coming on the 27 April and that’s 42 days away, today must be . . .?
Oh shit, I’m late for the ANC meeting!
I want to speak to Dora in Fundraising! OK Comrade, I’ll hold. Ja,
awethu to you too. Sayibona Nomsa, where’s Dora? Well, tell her to
get off the other phone! Tell her, it’s her madam here!
Dora? I overslept! It’s those new pills. I know I was supposed to be at
the Fundraising Meeting at 11! What’s the time now? 2.00! Not so bad
Dora, you know me . . . I’m terrible in the morning! You weren’t my
19 years? Suddenly you’ve learnt to count already! Really? I never!
That’s a lie! I never paid you R20 a month? I can’t remember! Anyway
how could you get by on R20 a month . . . .
Oh my God, my favourite earrings from Poland! I’ve always wondered
what happened to them! Did you sell them? How much did you get for
them? Is that all? Dora you were robbed!
Look, if you didn’t steal from me as my trusted maid, you’ll certainly
going to steal from me as my democratically-elected government!
That’s a joke, Dora. Lighten up, doll. It’s 1994. You’re in charge now,
so develop a sense of humouur. Learn from us Jews: we call it bittere
gelachte. OK, I’ll get in the kombi right now, if it’s not yet been
God, If I ever thought my little Xhosa maid would be where she is
today, I would’ve paid her R300 a week! You’ve got to laugh, hey?
Isn’t that what we all talked about at dinner parties in the bad old days?
How after the bloody Revolution, the maid would become the madam?
And here we are and what’s really changed? The only difference is that
your maid’s probably sitting at the table with you now, wearing one of
your favourite outfits! Politically we’re post-menstrual as opposed to
premenstrual? No, we’re bleeding 24 hours a day and no tampon of
And what do we talk about round dinner tables now? Besides where to
get the cheapest tins of tuna to stack in the garage! A crash course in
Last night we exchanged tips on how to deal with the problems of
stone throwing on the N2 on the way to DF Malan Airport. Very
simple: stay in the fast lane, drive like hell and don’t stop for anyone in
distress, even a nun with a broken leg! Drive over the bitch! And wear
a crash helmet in the car! Over the main course we discussed how to
survive restaurant robberies in Johannesburg: you know, when those
shmucks run in with their AK47’s just after you’ve had your crayfish
cocktail? And force you to lie on the floor with a soggy chip up your
nostril? Firstly, don’t make jokes; no wisecracks. Also don’t wear any
jewellery in Joburg, especially not on pierced ears. The ears go with
the loot! Take some cash so as not to irritate the robbers. And keep a
condom handy just in case they understand English . . . .
The as far as foiling car highjackings? Slow down at a red robot but
don’t stop! Keep your windows closed, all the doors locked. Blowup
Rottweiler on the back seat going woof woof woof! Tin of DOOM on
The crime and violence is one thing. The other thing we’re all really
worried about is this proposed wealth tax! I suppose it makes sense,
considering we’ve got so much and they’ve got so little, in spite of
what we’ve allowed them to steal and sell. I even said it to Dora the
other day. I said I’m prepared to voluntarily contribute 15% of
Herbert’s assets. But who will gather this tax and decide how to spend
Don’t tell me these new politicians haven’t learnt all the lessons from
the past government to know what to steal, how to tax and when to
run? And, as irony will have it, after all those years in exile and/or jail,
they will win the coming election and toyi-toyi up to the Union
Buildings, only to find the National Kitty empty! Just a half-full bottle
of Pik’s 10-year old and a warped LP of Mimi singing Die Stem!
That’s one decision I made when I joined the ANC. I said: “Nowell
Fine, you see that each time you go to an ANC meeting, you go
It feels like yesterday, hey? 1991, when Madiba was freed and the
ANC made legal? Three and a half years ago! I went down the road to
Bantry Bay to the first ANC meeting that was held in the Cohen’s
double-garage. I went with Dora just to see who all those terrorists
were. My God, all the garden boys from the neighbourhood? Even our
latest Nimrod! And the local Anglican priest! I always suspected he
was a closet queen; not a closet democrat!
Anyway, I wanted them all to see me with a black just to show that I
was on their side. And Dora was perfect! So there and then I joined
provisionally and temporarily as an interim member of the ANC. Then
Dora started doing all sorts of work for the local ANC office, sorting
application forms and all those envelopes with donations from
Denmark. Our Rottweiler ate the envelopes! Hope they weren’t
So eventually her room in the yard was so cluttered, we moved her into
the spare room of the Big House and turned her outside room into an
office. Which turned out to be great for our dinner parties. No longer
do we have to hire some black stage managers from the Nico Malan as
token guests. We now just introduce Dora as our best friend and she
One day I was driving her to the ANC office and we saw one of the
returned exiles. What’s h is name? God they all look alike! High up in
the ANC, big comrade, big Mercedes, small brain?
Anyway I said: “I’m Nowell Fine, you might have heard of me? I was
in the Struggle. PFP! DP! Black Sash! I bathed black babies in the 80s!
Dora said they never bothered to bath black babies; they just had new
ones! But I bathed a black baby for democracy! Don’t you have
anything for me to do in the organisation? PR? Something
All he said was: “Sorry. Too old. Too white.” But then Dora told me
how much I was worth, and who I knew! I got the job! Nowell Fine,
Chief Fundraiser for the ANC in the Western Cape!
You’ll be amazed how easy it is, especially in these days closer to the
election. So many of my friends want out! But can’t get their houses or
antiques sold in time. So I arrange for them to go to Sun City for the
weekend. While they’re away, there is a burglary! The house is
cleaned out! They come back from Sun City and go oi oi oi. They
claim the massive insurance in off-shore bonds and go to California for
Meanwhile we sell all their antiques to some returned exile who can
afford to buy all the eurocentric shit they’re accustomed to at vastly
The ANC is so impressed with me, I got a nice T-shirt from Mbeki:
“Jesus raised Lazarus; Nowell Fine raises Funds!”
Now have I got everything? Filofax, lipstick, other lipstick, lipgloss,
keys, gun . . . Oh, I nearly forgot the crash helmet! It’s probably in the
car! Listen if you think I look like drek in a turban, you should see me
with a crash helmet on the turban! Anything to survive! I’m ready for
DORIS DAY SINGS:
AS PDU DRESSES INTO NOWELL 1995
Oh my God, I’ve got such a hangover. When will I learn! Yesterday’s
ANC Woman’s League meeting celebrating the first year in
government for the ANC? When will I learn not to mix Chardonnay
And I don’t even enjoy going to these meetings! I never know what to
wear! At least in the old SA you wore something no one could afford.
Now they say I must go ethnic! I said: I’m sorry, I’m Jewish. If I go
ethnic I look like Barbra Streisand or The Nanny!
Dora! Now where is that potential voter! Dora! Can you believe it?
Dora’s really taking democracy to heart. She’s on a go-slow. Won’t do
washing or the cleaning; just lies in bed all day eating chokkies and
And this after everything I’ve done for that girl. When I found out she
was a Xhosa, I learnt Xhosa! For three years, every Wednesday
between 4 and 7 behind the garage with the garden boy, I learnt Xhosa.
The clicks nearly paralysed my tongue, but I did it. And the day I knew
enough Xhosa to go up to Dora and say: howzit Dora, she answers in
Why am I always the last one to know what is going on in my own
Then, on top of it all, I can’t find my garden boy: is he in jail, in
parliament, or dead? Now they tell me he’s in therapy. This is not good
Then my husband’s just phoned me to say that our Construction
Company has been banned from putting through tenders to build
houses for the RDP! Banned, because of ‘affirmative action’.
‘Affirmative action’? Wake me when it’s over! What ‘affirmative
action’, for God’s sake? It seems our board of directors is too white!
Yes, it’s me and my husband! Have you ever heard something so
And then to put the cherry on the cake . . . no, that sounds too
Eurocentric . . . to put the mopaniworm on the putupap, I come back
from my holiday in Plett to find out we’ve got squatters on the front
lawn! On the lawn I imported from California! Me! After everything I
I went down to them this morning and said very civily and in their own
language: ‘Sayibona. I’m Comrade Madam from the big house.’ I said:
‘I just want you squatters to know that we are all on your side. We all
know you were promised so many things before the last election:
houses, cars, jobs, hope! And here you are still living in cardboard
Well my dear, life’s a bitch! We just want you to know that we think
it’s a damn disgrace and we’re all very very sorry, OK?
But you can’t have a squatter camp on my doorstep! I said: ”Look, it’s
not that I’m against squatters. Some of my best friends have squatters!”
I said: “It’s just that when my mother died, she left me this piece of
land in her will, and if my mother finds out that there are kaffirs
squatting on her land, she’d platz on the spot!”
I tried to negotiate with them like any other normal South African; I
wrote out a cheque. They didn’t know what it was. I waved a new
R200 note at them; they just waved back. I tried to give them my new
digital watch but they’d already taken it last week! I said: ‘please
understand, I’ll help you move! I’ll find you another place to live! In
someone else’s backyard! Just get the fuck off my land!’
Oh God, I mustn’t raise my voice with a hangover! I can feel the
reverberations through all my tubes! Maybe that’s why my silicone’s
gone sour. I’m having a nervous breakdown in front of my very eyes! I
just can’t calm down. Nothing helps. Aromatherapy makes me sneeze.
Valium’s a joke, even the Rottweiler spits it out. All I’m left with is
Prozac. But how many Prozac’s can I take in an hour? So call me old-
When I’m stressed out like now, I just fall back on an old therapy
that’s helped me through traumas for the last 30 years. Two husbands,
four children, 24 maids, 43 Nimrods and the menopause. And it’s
simply sitting down like now and putting on loads of makeup! So
forgive me: I can’t think straight until I see a real mouth!
So where was I? Oh yes, schlepping around the cardboard boxes trying
to blend in! I didn’t even speak English properly. I didn’t want them to
accuse me of Eurocentricity, or racism or – God forbid – class! I was
so politically-correct in my conversation with those squatters, that half
the time I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about! Then
suddenly I had an absolute brainwave. In my own brain!
I remembered my husband’s phone call, telling me that our company
letterhead was too white for business. And so I said: ‘Hello, squatters,
listen? Comrade Madam is going to make you an offer you can’t
refuse! I will give you a big car, white chauffeur, mansion, maid, pool,
Jacuzzi, servants, pets, aromatherapy, hydro. Health and Racquet Club
three times a week! All you have to do is become Managing Director
of our company! OK? You don’t even have to know how to read or
write – we’ll do it for you! All you have to be is Managing Director.
Be black, be beautiful, be on time once a week and leave all the boring
Not so fast. This is a democracy. They must now also consult each
other; negotiate with each other. Find a forum, a quorum, a shmorum!
I said: ‘you’re driving me crazy! I’ve got to be at the hairdresser!’ I
said: ‘here’s my spare cell phone with my number. Once you’ve
decided what sort of car you want, give me a call. If my maid Dora
answers, don’t talk. Just breathe heavily with intent!’
No, Dora must be frightened off to the townships! She wants to be
Managing Director, and she can read and write! And that’s our fault!
She makes me so nervous I can’t even remember her cell phone
number! No, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind!
Sayibona Dora? Yes, it’s Madam, how did you know? Yes, Dora,
Madam upstairs. No, I don’t want you to get out of bed! Stay stay, go
I just want you to know, has the chauffeur gone down to the garage?
Please fax down to the garage and tell Philimon to bring the new
Mercedes to the front. Oh, when was that stolen? Then send up the 4 X
4 – no one steals that! I first drive over the bastards. I want to go down
to the squatters. No, Dora, I’m not negotiating anything. Look, I’m a
member of the ANC now – I don’t bend over blackwards anymore. I
just have old clothes for them. Not your size doll! Yes, I’m wearing
my ANC colours, so no one will highjack the car.
Yes, Dora, Madam’s got the gun and condoms in her bag as always!
I’m on my way! Tell Philimon I’ll be down in 10 seconds! Don’t be so
cheeky, Dora . . . . I don’t understand that language, Dora, you’re being
You see what I mean? The blacks have taken over!!
The bad news is: the shit’s hitting the fan.
The good news is: the fan’s not working!
DORIS DAY SINGS:
AS PDU GETS INTO NOWELL 1997
Oh my God, I look like Winnie! “It’s a pack of lies! It’s ludicrous!
Poppycock! The concoction of a cabal! And I’m very very sorry!” No,
I won’t get away with that like she did! I can’t believe it! I’ve been
summonsed to appear in front of the Truth Commission! Why me?
What do I know about truth; I’m just a normal South African!
Dora! Where is that potential voter! Dora, please come and help me
choose a nice outfit! I don’t know how to wear it!
And it’s not just a Truth Commission like Winnie had. This is the
special Amnesty Commission! I said: I don’t need amnesty; just
Can you believe it! I’m divorced! I went to the 100 Club Lunch last
year to hear Buthelezi talk. A long talk! When I got home Herbert had
moved out and in with his young secretary. May the new sex kill him!
An Amnesty Commission? Am I in trouble, I said? I’m a member of
the ANC. Don’t we get a blanket amnesty or something?
No, it’s got something to do with a former garden boy who worked for
us in the 80s. Called Nimrod! Firstly I don’t remember the 80s. Total
blank. And secondly how should I remember that Nimrod? All our
garden boys were called Nimrod! Now I’m supposed to give him some
character reference? I hope it’s not the other way round, with him
giving me marks out of ten! I’m so sick of this democracy. In order to
get a bank overdraft I now need a letter of reference from the maid and
So I phoned Herbert. “Do you remember a Nimrod that was a
“They were all terrorists,” he said.
Then we knew. That Nimrod that weeded the law and smoked the
weeds? I remember saying: “Herbert, look at the way that boy weeds
the garden! He’s a damn terrorist!” Now suddenly he wants amnesty as
I wonder what he did in the Struggle in order to need amnesty? Put a
bomb in a bar and kill innocent kids like Robert MacBride did? Run
into a church with an AK47 and shoot up people praying like those
APLA men did? Put a tyre round someone’s neck and burn them alive
Well, if he did any of those ‘politically-motivated crimes’, he’ll get his
amnesty and a nice job in the Government!
And to think he worked in my garden in the 80s! I was so exposed in
the 80s. I had no guns, no rottweiler! Just a poodle with a bad breath!
God, I hope this wasn’t one of the Nimrods I did it with! Listen we
never slept together; we did it standing up. I drew the line: careful
Madam’s hair, madam’s lipstick, madam’s make-up. Just put it in and
I’ll walk towards you? Now, man, I’m joking!
Anyway I said to Dora: what must I do? Should I say something in
Xhosa? She says there’s not enough time to learn.
Then she tells me to ask her new boyfriend, Sipho. I said: I’ve never
liked your boyfriends! No, says Dora – he’s her cousin from Nigeria?
Oh Dora, do me a favour! I know a local cocaine-dealer when I see one
God, he’s so black! Because he makes me feel so white! Very political.
Never smiles. Hates whites. Makes me feel terrible. Calls me a
European Settler. I said, sorry Comrade, I’m no settler; I was born in
Everything about me is Eurocentric, he says. My language, my art, my
culture. The Struggle has no place for Eurocentric imperialist
I said: oh really? If it’s all too Eurocentric for your liking Sipho, give
back the Mercedes Benz you highjacked last week. Kick off the Gucci
shoes. Take off the Pierre Cardin suit. Spit out the false teeth! Flush
the coke down the loo! Get back into the tree and swing by your tail,
Next time I see him, I’ll say: true’s God, you win. I’m Eurocentric and
a settler. So I’m going back to Europe. But I’m taking the electricity
with me! Anyway, Dora tells me that Sipho says the one person the
Truth Commission must expose, is Nelson Mandela. I said, for God’s
sake, leave him alone. Nelson Mandela’s all we whites have got
No, Sipho says Nelson Mandela is an imposter! He’s not real. I said,
for God’s sake, look at the man! 27 years in a lime quarry and jails, he
comes out half blind, half-deaf, TB, half a prostrate! No wife! How
No, Sipho says the Nelson Mandela we call Madiba is not the real
Mandela, because the real Nelson Mandela died in jail in 1980!
I said, really? I never read that in the Citizen? No, says Sipho, no one
knew that Mandela has died because he was a banned person, no one
knew he was alive either. But President P W Botha knew and his
So they got some fancy Jewish plastic surgeon over from Sea Point,
you know, someone who wanted to keep his son out of the Army. So
he goes over to Robben Island and chooses four tall middle-aged
blacks who look like Sidney Poitier and gives them plastic surgery to
get them to look like what he thought Nelson Mandela would look like.
But no one knew what Mandela looked like because his picture was
also banned. All they had to work from was and old anti-apartheid t-
shirt from a rally in Trafalgar Square! I said, Sipho, you’re losing me
here, you’re losing me! I saw Nelson Mandela come out of jail! I saw
Yes, says Sipho, Nelson Mandela comes out of jail! And what is the
first thing he does? Does he pick up the ANC banner and lead the
blacks to victory? No, he speaks Afrikaans.
Does he demand that FW de Klerk and PW Botha be jailed as war
criminals? No, he forms a government with them!
Who does he go and have tea with? Mrs Verwoerd!
He wears the No 6 Springbok Rugby Jersey!
Nelson Mandela comes out of 27 years in jail a reformed Afrikaner
Except, of course, no one would ever say that, because he’s The Great
But she’s not saying much because she has quite a few skeletons in her
So they made a deal with Winnie. They said: if you keep quiet about
the ones we’ve done, we’ll keep quiet about those you’ve done.
But Winnie can’t sleep with an imposter, so that’s why she’s now
I said, Sipho, I swear to God! This is the biggest kak I’ve ever heard!
Stop spreading these rumours about Nelson Mandela’s health. You
know how the financial markets react? Mandela poeps and the rand
Anyway, don’t you realise that we whites are all terrified to death what
will happen to us after Nelson Mandela dies?
No, says Sipho, Nelson Mandela won’t die. Because there are five
DORIS DAY SINGS:
WHILE PDU GETS INTO NOWELL 1998
Please don’t say a word. Don’t say a word! If I hear another
“Amandla! Awethu!” I’ll platz on the spot!
I’ve just got back from Robben Island! And not as an inmate. Listen,
please, if I was an inmate, I’d be standing here a fat cat politician, with
a Nobel-prize in one hand and an Oscar in the other!
I went as a normal everyday member of the public. A tourist! You
know, one of the 1.4 million of us still paying taxes in this democracy
So you know how I felt, seeing where all my taxpayers money is
going! It’s not going into Health, Welfare or Education! It’s all going
Why? Because Robben Island is becoming quote a monument to the
struggle for democracy unquote. Oh wake me when it’s over! For what
a monument! What about us? Where’s our monument? For us white
liberals who stayed here when everyone else ran overseas? Us white
liberals who treated our servants like decent human beings in spite of
the fact that they behaved like kaffirs? What about us?
And what is Robben Island? We’re talking prime real estate here. Can
you imagine the billions we could get if we sold Robben Island? Get
Pam Golding to sell it to Michael Jackson! He could turn it into a
And then we’d have enough money to build those million houses, heal
the million people, educate the million kids. Even put a symphony
orchestra into every township. Do you get my drift?
And that’s the truth! But don’t tell anyone I’m telling the Truth! I’m a
member of the ANC. If they find out I tell the Truth, they chuck me
Dora, hurry up! I don’t want to be late because of you!
So I go to the Waterfront at 5 am. To stand in line for tickets to go to
Robben Island! A queue? Me? Sorry, doll, I don’t stand in queues!
Eventually I say to the man selling tickets: “Excuse me? Oi! Why am I
He stands up; now I see his t-shirt: I WAS ON ROBBEN ISLAND
“Comrade,” I say, “why am I standing in a queue?”
He says: “If you whites want to go to Robben Island you must first
Thank you very much! After everything I did in the Struggle. I
suffered! Sunburn, south easter, a seagull shat in my hair, seasick!
What a schlep! Eventually we get to the Island: single file among the
penguins and old warders. Cauliflower ears and broken noses, all
wearing t-shirts saying I WAS NICE TO NELSON.And on the back:
AND THAT’S WHY I’VE GOT AMNESTY – SO WHEEEE.
Eventually we get to Section B – where they all spent so much time in
solitary. Very depressing: Nelson’s cell, Sisulu’s cell, Sobukwe’s cell,
Tokyo’s cell. I don’t want to be a spoilsport, but I’ve got a nose for
renovation. The whole thing is just too too too Revolutionary
Roccocco ala Schindler’s List! And the emotion? Even the Japanese
are in tears! You’d swear this was Disneyland!
Eventually we get to the souvenir shop: called the Hard Rock Café. I
got this kaftan with Madiba’s face on it. A scarf with the flag for Dora.
Pair of sunglasses that Winnie left behind. A nice toilet roll with PW
Then it’s time to go back by boat. By now we’re bonding. I mean,
we’ve been through it together. So we’re swopping e-mail addresses,
singing protest songs: We shall Overcome, Nkosi Sikele Afrika, How
much is the doggie in the window . . . . you know, the usual.
We get back to the Waterfront? Chaos! PAGAD’s having a peaceful
demonstration – blood and Muslims everywhere?
Then the three hours traffic jam and now I’m here at home in my flat
in Bantry Bay and it feels as if I’ve been on the Island for 20 years
without the promise of a presidency or a quick divorce!
Of course, you realise the United Nations has put Robben Island on a
par with Auschwitz and Hiroshima. Well, I’m not so sure. I’ve never
heard of anyone who spent 20 years at Auschwitz. And as far as I
know, no one came out of Hiroshima and became President.
What is the ANC doing with their most potent symbol. Leave Robben
Island alone; let it live in the eye of the beholder!
But oh no, any excuse to make a quick buck. All those dinner parties
on Robben Island for anyone who will cough up quarter of a million
rand! Crazy! I’ve never heard of Jews having Barmitzvahs at
Auschwitz! But then maybe ANC doesn’t stand for African National
Congress; maybe it stands for A Nice Cheque. Let’s face it; we’ve got
the best government money can buy! Maybe it all just shows how bad
things were supposed to be, when they weren’t so bad at all. I mean if
Robben Island was really so terrible, how come everyone survived? A
whole Government! And they can’t wait to get back in.
But no, I’m glad I went! Everyone should go. Look, they won’t make a
Schindler’s List based on Robben Island, just simply everyone was
busy writing books and getting honorary degrees, no one bothered to
make a list. And there won’t be another Sarafina set on Robben Island
because the Department of Health and Racquet is bankrupt. So Robben
Island will just remain what it is – everything for everyone. Like
Oh God, this is not me! But Dora says, this is what all Xhosa virgins
look like! Dora? Hurry up, we must get to the airport in time. Quantas
Can’t believe I’ll be back in Australia tomorrow with my kids. They’re
doing very well there, but really are so homesick for South Africa. So
I’m bringing them the perfect present: the Maid, Dora!
And there I’ll be over the weekend surrounded by all the doctors and
dentists and vets, all wanting to know how terrible things are in South
Africa. From me who was on Robben Island.
They’ll never believe me in Perth. What can I tell them? That Robben
Island has become a joke? No, I’ll tell them what they want to hear.
“Dolls,” I’ll say, “Robben Island was worse than Auschwitz. Makes
Hiroshima look like a sick joke – I swear to God!
DORIS DAY SINGS:
AS PDU GETS INTO NOWELL 1999
As true’s God, if I hear the word democracy again, I’m going to have a
nervous breakdown on the spot. I mean, how long must I stand in a
queue in order to be able to vote on 2nd June?
It started three months ago when I had to replace my blue ID book with
a green ID book. One with a barcode! I said I have a barcode in my
passport. No, they said, you must have a barcode in your new ID book.
Mandela is very sentimental. He was behind bars for 27 years; now he
For five days I stood in the queue! Three of those days I was in the
wrong queue. And when I get to the desk they say it’s too late to get
the green book, but they will give me a nice certificate saying that my
green book is on its way and so I will be able to register.
So I leave the building and my handbag gets stolen. Back in the queue!
Then into another queue to register. Then they say go and check the
voter’s roll to make sure you’re on it, because you never know. So
back into a queue I go. As true’s God, I’m not on the roll in
Johannesburg; I’m on the roll in Umtata! So I have to queue up to
deregister and then queue up to reregister!
And now my ID book comes and look: there’s a black man in my
book! So now I’m back in this queue in order to get him out of my
book and me back in my book. Oh wake me when it’s over! Why are
they making it so complicated? All I want to do is vote in this second
democratic election! And I know whom to vote for. I’m one of the few.
So many people don’t want to vote! Most don’t know whom to vote
She said: ‘Madam, whom are you going to vote for?’
I said: ‘I’m not going to vote! I’m sick of it. Being taken advantage of
as a white liberal. Paying the township debt. The crime, the violence,
the corruption. This democracy is a joke; I’m not interested!’
So she said: ‘If you don’t vote for the ANC, madam, I leave you.
So I’ll vote ANC. Rather a good maid than a good government, that’s
Yesterday I stood here and nearly died of boredom and who should be
standing in front of me? Someone I new! Can you believe it. Forty
million people and the one in the queue I know is the last person in the
world I need to see. Such a Portuguese kugel. A compulsive emigrant.
From Lourenco Marques to Beira to Luanda to Windhoek to South
I can’t remember her name, but everyone’s heard the story. You know,
the woman who keeps all her keys on the same bunch: car keys, house
keys, gate keys, alarm lock keys, keys to unlock the cupboard to get
the keys to unlock the door to get to the keys that unlock the garage?
All on one bunch! That’s her! I mean, she puts her keys in her sling
bag and dislocates her shoulder! Anyway who even keeps their spare
keys in Johannesburg. My spare keys are with my daughter in Boston!
Schmuck. Spends her days lying next to her pool without a top on. At
her age? Disgusting. No wonder there are so many crimes against
women. There she is tantalising the black garden boys. The trees
around her property are full of garden boys being tantalised!
Then on top of it she’s a snob. When she has a dinner party, she
doesn’t order flowers from the florist like any normal hostess. Oh no,
she has to go out onto the sidewalk and cut roses hanging over her
security wall onto the pavement. The black women hate it; their velcro
gets caught in the thorns. Anyway, she needs roses for her dinner table,
so she puts her top back on, takes the shears, grabs her sling bag and
goes out onto the sidewalk. Nobody around. OK. Then the security
door slams shut. But she’s got her keys in the bag? Wrong! No keys!
So there she is in the street at six o’clock in the evening in her
underwear without a stitch of makeup and her hair looks like drek.
She’s on the verge of a platz! After ten minutes the garden boy from
next door gets back from the shebeen as pissed as a fart. She calls to
him: Oi Boy! He throws stones at her thinking she’s a burglar!
Eventually she takes off her top. Her tits drop to her knees. Now he
recognises her! She says: ‘I’m the lady that lives here! Please climb
over the wall and set off the alarm!’ At least then the security company
will come and unlock for her! He doesn’t want to. He’s scared of the
dogs. No, she says, the dogs all died yesterday! Lying bitch! So this
poor schmuck scrambles over the high security wall, tearing his clothes
on the barbed wire and ending up hanging 2 feet from the ground on
the other side with the three man eating rottweilers trying to chew him
The noise attracts the neighbours from watching TV. They now come
to their windows and see the black man hanging from the wall. They
start shooting at him. Thank God they’re so drunk, they can’t shoot
straight. One of their bullets hits the panic button at the pool. Thank
God. Now all the alarms go off! At least the security firm knows
there’s a problem. They take 40 minutes to get there by the way. They
find a half-naked white woman in her underwear huddled under a rose
branch, and see a black garden boy being licked by the dogs; they
shoot the black in self defence. Now his employer next door is suing
her for a fortune for the damage done to his garden, because his
excellent garden boy is now another crime statistic! Oi!
Anyway I didn’t let on that I knew the whole story. I just said:
I said: ‘ So what are you doing here?’
She said: ‘Don’t ask. I’m sick of it. This damn democracy. I’m sick of
the crime and the corruption and the violence and the townships being
subsidised by me because they don’t pay their electricity and water!
‘The last resort!’ I said. ‘Don’t keep all you keys on the same bunch
when you’re in Portugal. You might be mugged in Lisbon by an
Well, no, I didn’t say that, but I should’ve.
‘So what are you doing in this queue?’ I said, ‘Also getting your ID
She says: ‘ID, schmeidee, I’m getting my new passport. The old one
‘A passport? You’re in this queue for a passport?’
DORIS DAY SINGS:
AS PDU DRESSES INTO NOWELL 2005
In the old days when I called Dora, my maid came running. Now I call
Dora? Nothing. She’s in Parliament! Oh my God, I’m absolutely
finished! I don’t mind doing the housework, but it’s the shopping that
freaks me out! It was so simple: Dora would go with the mobile and
ring me from the delicatessen counter and I could choose my kosher
foods. Now I have to stand in a queue and most of the choices are
Look at this? I have to take spare Spar bags because we now have to
pay for our supermarket plastic. Something to do with pollution or
drugs or terrorists. I don’t know. Ten years ago I went shopping
carrying a Gucci Bag. Now I carry a spare Spar! That puts our
democracy in a nutshell: in 1994, we paid for condoms and got the
plastic bag free. Today it’s the other way round!
Well to hell with politics. My hands are full with my new baby. No,
it’s true: I’ve adopted a little black AIDS orphan! Yes, yes, they keep
saying to me: Nowell, don’t call him that. Babies born of parents who
died of AIDS don’t necessarily have AIDS. Okay, doll, I believe you,
His name is Sipho-Mervyn Fine and he’s black black black and
beautiful. Anyway I’m so sick and tired of all my friends moaning:
‘Nowell. In ten years we will have 5 million AIDS orphans!’ Well, no,
we’ll have 4,999,999 because I’ve taken one!
Don’t think it was easy. First of all, I had to pretend to be younger.
I’ve been taking the anti-wrinkle HRT for the last year anyway, and
the Botox seemed to help, except it sort of slipped and now I’ve got
three tits. Let’s not go there. My dear, I can only say thank God for our
constitution, because now anything is possible. Child Welfare do a
good job, but do me a favour! They’re like the Spanish Inquisition!
‘Mrs Fine? Are you married? Single? A widow? Were you a good
mother to your three kids?’ I thought: oh no, I can’t go there! If I tell
them about my family, they won’t allow me to adopt a cat! So I
said:’Careful. I’m a minority protected by the Constitution.’
They said: ‘What? You’re still married?’
It worked! Treated me with kid gloves. I was inspired to say that by
two girls I met also waiting for a baby and they were lesbians. I said:
‘Who will be the father?’ They said: ‘Both of us.’ ‘And the mother?’ I
asked. Both! Oi, don’t tell me what you do in bed!
So now I’m the old lesbian mother of an adopted black AIDS orphan.
Thank God my mother is dead. And my horrible racist homophobic
Auntie Sharon! Child Welfare said they’re not keen to put black kids in
‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I’ve never had a white home. I’ve been
everything else: pastel in the 70s, yellows in the 80s and blues and
‘Mrs Fine? What culture will you bring your child up in?’
Isn’t it obvious? Gucci! Lacroix! I’ve always been crazy about
Anyway, my political background is impeccable.
In the 1960s I was arrested once in a Black Sash protest against
In the 70s I was tear gassed by mistake in Cape Town while I was at
In the 80s I was hit on the head by an empty beer can at one of Helen
I could say to Child Welfare: As true’s God, I’ve really suffered. I’ve
always been anti-apartheid in word and deed. Treated my garden boys
like decent human beings and took no end of cheek from my maids . . .
Then came the cherry on the cake. They have my file right there:
‘So what religion will you be raising him?’
You’re asking me what religion? Sh-a-l-o-m??
No, my son Sipho-Mervyn Fine will choose his own faith one day. But
I had him circumcised but that’s got nothing to do with being Jewish.
It’s practical. I don’t want my 18 year old son to have to stand in a
queue at some sangoma-witchdoctors hut to be circumcised as tradition
demands. With the sangoma inside, pissed as a fart with one rusty
blade which he uses to cut into all the men.
How that HIV virus will leapfrog from one to the other? Anyway
there’s really nothing to worry about because I took Sipho-Mervyn
Fine to have an HIV test. And his little blood test was fine. HIV-
No, that sounds good, but it’s bad. Positive is bad. Negative is good.
Or is it the other way round. What the hell, I’ll just keep the rubber
gloves on and get a matching hat and bag?
I’m so proud of my son. I have a teeshirt that says: I’m the mother and
Yesterday I sat with Sipho-Mervyn waiting for the bank to open.
Everyone kept staring. A red-faced white man said: ‘So Grannie, your
daughter’s been pomping the garden boy?’
Never mind that my daughter’s living in London and that her garden
boy is a sexy Bosnian refugee and I think she did pomp him!
Then an Afrikaans woman sat next to me and nudged me and winked
horribly and whispered: ‘Are the black men as big as they say?’
I said: ‘Luvey it’s a democracy. Spend R20 and find out for yourself!’
The worst was the black woman in the green outfit. She looked so
smart. Elegant. I thought: as true’s God, I used to look like that 20
years ago. She with a Gucci Bag! Me with the spare Spar!
‘You white liberals make me sick! You first vote for apartheid and
I said: Excuse me! No money changed hands!
‘Take him back to the black township where he belongs! Take him
We used to call it Downtown Johannesburg!
DORIS DAY SINGS:
AS PDU DRESSES AS NOWELL IN THE FUTURE
Oh my God, I think I broke a nail. I don’t believe it! It’s been with me
since 1993. I still had that nail welded on in the confusing days of
CODESA 1, 2 and to be continued? When we were stacking tins of
tuna in the garage? Expecting the worst! And none of us could get into
Canada because we were too old! Or into the UK because of our rand
being where it was then? Thank God the Australians took anything that
I remember not being able to take out my money. So I went to see my
cousin Cyril, the only plastic surgeon still operating in South Africa. I
said: “Cyril doll, I have 4 million rand trapped in the Nedbank. Do a
plastic surgery job on me worth 4 million. New nose, new lips, new
cheekbones, new tits, new everything.” So he did. And look at me
now? He turned out to be a vet! Schmuck!
Anyway Herbert’s finally remarried. She’s young enough to laugh at
his funeral. They’re in San Diego USA, picking up really bad
American accents and probably HIV, knowing her!
My kids are doing well in Australia. I couldn’t stand it. Too many
Vietnamese and Orientals! God man, look at me. I am an African! I
should die an exile! Even Dora fled after a year. Remember my
domestic supervisor? An aborigine fell in love with her. Pursued her!
She said: no way, I’m Xhosa. I don’t want to mix my genes with an
abo! Hey Verwoerd, are you listening! So she came back. And now
Dora’s a Deputy Minister in the Government! From Maid to Minister!
Not bad for someone who still can’t spell the word ‘catastrophe’!
So, do you like my new place? It’s nice being here in the Waterfront! It
really cost a fortune! First I had to put down a million rand just to get
on the V & A List! Then I had to wait forever to get the place built.
But now here I am, in the year 2000. I can’t get used to that: 2000. Not
an overdraft; a date! Anyway Dora pulled some strings for me and got
me this condo on the waterfront. I can look out of my window and see
the fish float by. The ones that died of nuclear poisoning since the
Koeberg Power Station fell into the sea.
Last year’s 1999 Election? So many things have changed since
Mandela went. Shame. Hope Thabo Mbeki’s enjoying his exile in
Greece. But let’s not moan: we’ve still got a President called Mandela.
Never know what she’s got up her sleeve. But then if we are to control
this terrible violence and crime and killing, maybe we now need a
No, this is nice, far away from the electrical wires on the walls, the
watchtowers and those guard dogs! I swear there are now a million of
us whites huddled together here in the Waterfront Ghetto, determined
not to be the last to switch off the harbour lights. Because CNN won’t
stay to take that last snap! But I’m so excited! I’ve discovered I’ve got
a green finger. That helps a lot in a land obsessed with black and white,
you might ask? But suddenly my pot plants seem to like me and grow
and bloom! And I thought they were plastic!
Well dolls, I’ve just planted a tree! It’s only so big and it came in a
small pot, but they said in the year 2017 it will be big enough to sit
under! In 2026 they said you could hang a swing off the branches! And
in 2040 you can build a tree house! I said: “Thank you very much, I’m
not a monkey!” My garden is smaller than my persian cats’ sandbox in
the old days when Herbert and me had all those hundreds of acres in
A place for my tv, my video, my satellite dish, my internet computer,
my exercise bike, my mirror, my hairdryer, my microwave, my piano.
Oh, you can never live without a grand piano. Where else can you put
You as a baby at the Sea Point Pavilion. With your parents in
Hermanus. With your brothers; Muizenberg Beach. At school in Green
Point. At university in Cape Town. Your engagement to Selwyn
Bernstein. Your subsequent wedding to Herbert Fine. Your first baby.
Second baby. Third baby. Barmitzvahs. Matric dances. Lauren’s
wedding. You and your first grandchild. Pictures of you and Mandela
at all those fundraising dinners. Picture of you and Dora at the opening
of Parliament. Picture of you in your garden now. Just you.
I’m getting rid of all the old memories. I don’t want to look back.
Especially not here in Cape Town. You look back and you fall and
they steal your handbag! I’ve got lots of fabulous new friends here.
They love me. Invite me out to every time the Symphony Orchestra
plays at the Hard Rock Café or there’s a Toerien play on at Planet
All my old buddies are somewhere else of course. Canada, USA,
Australia, UK, New Zealand, France, Switzerland, Paris. But we e-
mail. Actually, it’s better than having them around! You just switch
off! No, next door is a Russian couple. He was big in the mafia in
Moscow before they were brought here. Then across there the
Nigerian. Big in drugs! Just lost his wife!
Behind lives a relative of Mobuto. Big in arms. I’ve even got a Muslim
friend at no 876. Big in Manenberg. He says he will protect me in the
Holy War against whites PAGAD is planning for Christmas. But
they’re usually too pissed to do anything!
No, doll, you don’t seem to understand. It’s OK. I’m OK! I’ve now got
choice! That’s what we fought the Struggle for: freedom of choice! My
tree! Either I can marry my Nigerian drug lord under it, or sit in the
tree house and look at the 2024 Olympics, or when all else fails, hang
myself from the branches with my Gucci belt!
Choice! That’s the basis for democracy. And our democracy is
working very well because no none is happy. The moment one person
is happy, someone else is exploited. So we’re all feeling equally shit!
How do I look? Is this colour good for the Nigerian? Hope it doesn’t
come off on the sheets. But then I can remember what a Nimrod taught
I’ll ask Dora. She always comes for tea on a Tuesday. What a business.
The Deputy-Minister arriving with bodyguards and sirens, in a
Mercedes like I drove in the 80s. Wearing the Peter Soldatos clothes I
wore in the 70s. Streaking her hair like I did in the 90s. My Dora, a
And she gets out of the car and says: Howzit Doll!, what can an old
Listen, I’ve been, I’ve seen, I’ve done!
I’ve even got the t-shirt in all eleven official languages! “South African
Can’t help hearing the voice of the kugel who stopped me in the foyer
after a show one night and said: “Pieter-Dirk Uys, I don’t know why
you keep doing that character Nowell Fine, because I don’t know
anyone who talks like that, I swear to God!”
Ovid: Parmet: J Occup Environ Med, Volume 44(3).March 2002.216-218 ©2002The American College of Occupational and Environmental Medicine Rapidly Progressive, Fixed Airway Obstructive Disease in Popcorn Workers: A New Occupational Pulmonary Illness? Parmet, A. J. MD, MPH; Von Essen, Susanna MD, MPH Midwest Occupational Medicine Kansas City, MO Pulm and Crit Care Med Department of I
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