Those prophets and their profits ... and a nude beach frolic

2014-09-23 15:51

Tuesday morning. I’ve been reunited with the Croc after two weeks. The poor bastard has been on wedding duty. I’ve dodged the bullet for both of the Kingdom’s big celebrity hitchings.

Me turning up at some people’s weddings these days is like the Grim Reaper popping over to look at prospective customers, so it’s better for all concerned if I stay away. It is what it is.

It’s been a great weekend. Three minutes of brilliance by Santi Cazorla and the boys racked up three very cool points. The Red Scum got gutted, Liverpool and Everton saw their asses and Mourinho got out-Mourinhoed by Pelligrini.

Back home things were less groovy, with the Bucs cup hoodoo taking a grip again, and Diego Simeone’s members dropping two points in a big win week for Madrid and Barca ain’t cool.

Back to Tuesday. The Croc’s prepping for Heritage Day. I’m trying to convince the boss to run pictures of me getting my gear off at the proposed nude beach at Mpenjati on the south coast.

The boss seems less than convinced by my pitch – probably because of the Facebook evidence of my naked frolics at Port St Johns and St Lucia while on the clock – which is a pity.

The local municipality seems equally unmoved by the idea of freaks like me having a 500-metre strip of beach on which to strip and to generally frolic. Which is even more of a shame.

I’m also thinking about TB Joshua. I’ve never been able to trust anybody named after a disease I’ve had. I’m like that. I just can’t help it.

TB got me thinking about prophets and profits and a trade unionist, button head and preacher called Fally Veeran. Fally was an organiser with a transport sector union and drug fiend of note.

Fally quit the union movement and set himself up advising workers with legal issues for a cut of what they got back if they won their hearings. He was pretty good at it. Fally also started a security company.

Then Fally started a church in Phoenix. Got a decent sized flock going. Then one morning Fally walked out of his front door in Newlands West into three bullets.

Not that I’m advocating anybody giving TB two in the chest and one in the head, or anything else along those lines, but he did get me thinking about dead prophets.

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