Durban’s city fathers – less polite citizens might call them mothers – really murdered my Sunday. I work Saturdays. My Sunday is your Saturday. It’s the day me and my congregation flock to cathedrals like Moses Mabhida, the Emirates, Orlando or the Camp Nou. But there’s more to the sanctity of Sunday than mere religion. Sunday is very much Funday. It’s the only day in my week on which work isn’t lying in wait like a Tactical Response Team sniper on a rooftop waiting for a clear headshot. It’s a day for hungover sex, live music and a frolic in the ocean between games, for quaffing appalling quantities of Guinness, Jägermeister, whiskey, for toking with impunity, safe in the knowledge that my Monday is your Sunday. Even being babalaased is cool on Monday. It passes unknown to the world. Just knowing that you’re working while I’m sleeping it off in a puddle of my own effluent, washed away in the ocean around midday, takes away the bulk of the pain. But back to the city and its violation of my holy day. It had been a stankmonster of a week. Flu had mutated into bronchitis. It bucketed down with rain for five days. I got cabin fever. There was no league football anywhere. My younger offspring, Small James, left the nest to start a job in Pretoria. I was on antibiotics and couldn’t beverage. The only hope for me was a mini acoustic festival, scheduled to be held at Live The Venue in Stamford Hill Road as part of the heats for the bands wanting to play at the White Mountain Festival. Jazz or blues it was not, but when times are hard you work with what you can get. Then reality strikes. Live has closed down – the city’s criminally slow and mind-bendingly dof bureaucracy has cost them R50 000 in licence fees and hundreds of thousands in lost profits. Officially this is because the city is busy sorting out the squabble between its departments over their differing interpretation of bylaws. Word on the street is that it’s because the city, and the businessmen who grease its wheels, don’t want Live (and punters like Harper) lurking in the area and frightening the well-heeled cokeheads nearby into messing their Armanis. So the mini-festival migrates to “Babylon Central”. Me and my Funday are royally screwed. The place hosts fund-raisers for the Cato Manor hit-squad accused. Some of their groupies have been stalking me on FreakBook. Others have offered to beat me up free of charge. I walk in there and I’m dead. City Muppets: 1; Harper: 0.