OUT TO LUNCH
An exciting week beckons. As you read this column (depending on when it appears) America is either voting or will already have voted for the next President. I have to say that in a country the size of America, if the best you can do for Presidential candidates is a choice between Donald Trump or Kamala Harris then you deserve everything you are about to get. I have no great affection for either candidate but I have come down on the side of Donald Trump recently, to the great irritation of friends and acquaintances who probably are now fully convinced that I am a Neo-Nazi.
As I try as patiently as possible to explain to them, the alternative is too horrible to contemplate. A Twitter post recently mentioned that Kamala Harris is a successful (?) lawyer while Donald Trump has no qualifications at all. What entitles him to think he is suitable to win this election asked the lefty? I posted a swift reply “Well, he does have four years of previous job experience, unlike his opponent”. ___STEADY_PAYWALL___
The South African lefty media have been getting their collective knickers in a knot recently at the prospect of another Trump presidency. It’s been hilarious to observe and it’s going to be even more hilarious if Trump’s victory is announced next week. I predict a huge increase in prescriptions for anti-depressants and, in the case of our friends in the mainstream media, a sharp rise in the use of recreational narcotics.
Many people are unaware that our cost cutting newsrooms don’t exist on the sniff of an oil rag these days but on the sniff of a line of coke. When I was at the Sunday Times back in 2007 our premises at 4 Biermann Avenue became a virtual clearing house for street drugs. I had my one and only schnarf of cocaine off the back of a toilet seat in the Park Hyatt Hotel in Rosebank courtesy of one of my editors at the time who had impeccable Nigerian sources.
I was rather proud of myself because I had obviously watched enough movies to know what to do. So I got out my Standard Bank World Elite credit card to plough a straight furrow, rolled up a R100 note and snorted like someone from a Quentin Tarantino movie. I waited but nothing … zilch. I thought it might kick in when I got back to the table in the bar with my Sunday Times colleagues. Still nothing. So I put that down to the fact that I had spent most of the day in pursuit of the perfect dry martini for a magazine article with my good friend Michelle Garforth and was so pissed that no amount of Columbian marching powder could checkmate a heady mix (or maybe six of them) of Tanqueray and Noilly Prat vermouth.