It’s so nice to see that some contributors to News24 write about crazy things that has happened, and are still happening, in their lives. It certainly makes a welcome change from the Christians and atheists who try to convince each other of their religious beliefs – or the lack thereof.
The following tale is loosely based on the truth – unlike the stories of Struggle Heroes and Honest ANC Politicians – which are based on outright lies.
Years ago, while we were living in a rented flat in Pretoria, a group of us would get together at one another’s homes once a month. The women would gossip and the men would taste expensive wines and read classical poetry. The aim of the exercise was ostensibly to become more sophisticated and give us a better appreciation for the finer things in life. In reality it was just an excuse to *suip and relax.
The gathering usually ended late at night, with boisterous singing from the thoroughly sophisticated, refined men – before we were chauffeured home by our exasperated wives and girlfriends.
One Friday night, at the home of a fellow **connoisseur – who also kept Bantam chickens as a hobby, I mentioned that my brother – who lived on a farm near Rustenburg – had two Bantam hens but no cock. (No, dummy, my brother is well endowed with procreation equipment – I meant that he didn’t have a Bantam rooster.)
Now, as most of you know, after an evening of appreciating the finer things in life, some people tend to become extremely generous. My friend was overcome with an attack of wine-induced bonhomie and promptly gave me a Bantam cock as a present.
So, at the end of the night, with the wife behind the wheel and me sitting next to her with my cock in a box, we headed for home amidst loud songs of farewell and wishes for a safe journey.
We arrived home in the early hours and I decided to put the cute, feathery little creature in the bathroom till morning. Off to bed at last. To sleep, perchance to dream.
But fate had other plans.
This little fowl had a voice box that would have put the Heavy Metal band, Manowar, to shame! Serious decibels, I tell you.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Every five minutes – with the neighbours banging on the wall and the wife complaining.
But, being a resourceful type of guy, I got up and wrapped the crowing fowl in a bath towel and left him in the bath. (OK, you bunny huggers can relax; the bath was empty.)
To sleep, perchance to dream?
Ten minutes later the ***Chanticleer from hell had escaped from the confines of the towel and was standing on the toilet seat, doing the cock-a-doodle thing with renewed gusto.
But, being a resourceful type of guy, I got up and re-wrapped the flipping foul beaked fowl in the towel. This time I took him to bed with me. I had him in a double nelson under the blankets, and within minutes was fast asleep. Perchance to dream?
Ha! Guess again.
Before I even started perchancing, the feathered Houdini had escaped from its towel and blanket jail, climbed onto my chest, and once again, started crowing at the top of its evil little Manowar lungs.
Now, let me tell you what Hell is. I’ve been there.
Hell is a throbbing headache from an overdose of the finer things in life – together with the cacophony of a bitching wife, a crowing rooster, and neighbours banging on the walls – at three o’clock in the morning.
I must say that my brother did look at me rather strangely when I arrived on the farm at five o’clock that Saturday morning – bearing a Bantam rooster as a gift.
But then – the family always thought me a little strange.
*suip – get plastered
**connoisseur – drinking buddy
***Chanticleer – Satan’s pet
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