Buddy, can you spare a dime?—or a million?

When I lived in South Africa, one of the Government Institutions which the Afrikaans people were so proud of was the Land Bank. Now this was a bank like no other, because it existed solely to provide loans for the farming population of South Africa, to farmers of all colours and races, basing it’s loans purely on the business plans and proposals of the prospective borrowers.

It was difficult to get loans from the Land Bank, but not impossible, because if you fulfilled the strict criteria, you got your money for your farming needs. The officials who ran the bank looked after the money lent as though it was their own, and because of that, there were very few defaulters, and even fewer bad debts.

However, move on some twenty-three years, and the arrival of the wonderful all-Black A.N.C. Government, and the days of milk and honey had arrived! See what happens when you let a bunch of coons get their hands on the reins of power! The Land Bank has confirmed the suspension of chief executive Alan Mukoki, chief financial officer Xolile Ncgama and credit general manager Godfrey Masilela.

Democratic Alliance spokesperson on agriculture, Kraai van Niekerk, on Wednesday said the bank had been steadily deteriorating with three consecutive audit reports from the Auditor General leaving it technically insolvent with over R2-billion needed to keep it afloat.

Moneyweb reports that in the Land Bank’s 2006 annual report, a R330-million loss was reported, compared with the loss of R207-million the previous year. The National Treasury had provided a R700-million capital injection and a further R1.5bn guarantee to the Land Bank “to turn around and refocus the Land Bank to ensure that it delivers on its mandate…particularly its contribution to promoting previously disadvantaged individuals in the agriculture sector, development in the agriculture sector and AgriBEE, and that it remains sustainable.”

So what you see is the White business and tax base cash being sent to plug holes in the bottomless pit of giving loans to useless “Affirmative Action” farmers of a particular skin hue, and brother; it ain’t White!!!

Remember Richard?

It’s now eighteen long months since Richard Whelan died from stab wounds inflicted by a black savage masquerading as a human being! Who he, you may ask? Well he died on a London bus, after remonstrating with this black murderer because the bastard was throwing chips at his girlfriend, and who casually walked away after stabbing Richard through the heart. His death received little attention from the media; possibly because he wasn’t black, but an ordinary white bloke. No nation-wide appeals for his killer to be brought to justice! No funeral mass in a cathedral! No high profile discussions on late-night television! No outpouring of grief on television! No grim-faced senior policemen interviewed on the t.v. news vowing to catch the perpetrator! No column of grief-stricken friends and relatives being paraded before the media, to show how much he was missed! Just a stunned girlfriend, sobbing her heart out in private!

This crime was committed just around the same time as Anthony Walker was killed, but his death produced rather different results. A huge task-force of police scoured the area, his killers were speedily identified and tried, and are now serving sentences! Anthony was also given a huge memorial service in a Cathedral, with all the trappings, including time on all main news channels, and the usual sanctimonious waffle from politicians on the make!

Funny that, one black bloke gets wiped out by two whites, and they’re in the slammer before you can shout out “William Wilberforce!” ; the other man, white killed by a black man, hasn’t got many who mourn for him, but I do!

Black Brethren!

Black savages from Ghana, Nigeria, and all the other garbage dumps around the coast of Africa have refused to apologise for their part in the history of slavery; despite the well-documented fact that if they, or rather their own bloody ancestors hadn’t sold their brothers into exile, there wouldn’t have been a slave problem in the first place!!!

Another drop of humour!!!

A friend and I were idly discussing the one happening in our lives which truly stands out and sticks in our memories. For him, it was watching his son being born; for me, as I was far too chicken to even contemplate viewing any of my own children arriving in this world, it was an episode from my sea-going days.

Our ship was a general cargo jobbie, running out of Liverpool, through the Med., to Greece, Turkey, Romania, Bulgaria and then back home to Liverpool. The scene was the Mediterranean on a Saturday morning, after a cold breakfast, which was the starting point for what became known as “The Galley Stove clean-up”. Our galley-boy, a Barnardo’s orphan, had signed on with our ship as his first trip to sea, and he was always getting into scrapes; not, I would think, intentionally; everything just turned to crap in his fingers! If there was something to be spilled over the food, or kicked off balance, he would do it, he was a natural disaster area! Canny enough lad, not an ounce of harm in his make-up, you just had to watch him like a hawk when he was in the vicinity! He had persuaded firstly the chief cook, then the chief steward and lastly the chief engineer, who really should have known better, that the exhaust pipe leading away from the oil-fired galley range was choked with soot, thus reducing the draught available to let the range get hot, and he was the person to arrange a thorough cleaning of the afore-mentioned stack-pipe!

His preparations were thorough, with all food placed in freezers and fridges, lots of old sheeting placed strategically over flat cooking surfaces to avoid contamination, and in general following the plan agreed between the chief cook and chief steward. Now his plan was truly simple, in that there was to be a hose-pipe connected to the compressed air cylinder in the engine room, the other end of the pipe would be shoved up through the range and into the base of the stack, the air would be turned on and the air would evacuate the choked-up soot from the pipe. In theory, nothing could go wrong, but we, the engineer officers, reckoned we knew better and prepared for some gentle humour! The final phase of the genius’ planning was to unroll the rubber pipe, have it taken along and dropped through the engine room access. The junior engineer on watch was waved across, and the galley boy uttered the immortal words, “The chief engineer says you have to connect this to the compressed air connection.” Now the words which our hero was supposed to have told the junior were ‘Connect to the LP compressed air connection!’ To the uninitiated and non-engineers among my readers, an LP or Low Pressure connection ranged from 14 pounds per square inch (atmospheric pressure) to forty p.s.i., which is a little above the pressure held in a car tyre! The junior attached it rather firmly to the HP or High Pressure connection, rated at 600 p.s.i. which is what we used to start the engine with! Nothing of course is turned on, as yet!

Back at the galley entrance, our hero gets the hosepipe set firmly into the base of the galley stack, the chief and second cooks are standing back towards the rear of the space, and the rest of us are grouped further back on deck, ready to watch the fun! Two deck-hands were positioned at the doorway of the deck and the engine-room access, and at the signal, the call went out, “Open the valve” Now a small engineering lesson is due, in that compressed air valves, by the very nature of what they are holding back, are rather tightly closed, and when the air is required, a pipe-spanner is placed on the wheel rim, and the full weight of the operating engineer swings the valve open, thus ensuring a full blow of, in this case, compressed air at six hundred p.s.i. The junior, who was the only person not in the know about what was happening on deck, duly swung the valve wide open, the air comes blasting along, and the whole of the galley disappeared in an impenetrable black cloud. As we fell about in hysterics, this totally black vision, which turned out to be the chief cook, stumbled out of the galley, swearing vengeance on the galley boy. Behind him came the second cook, who had had the foresight to turn away and close his eyes, which were the only white things on him, and last but definitely not least, the galley boy, also like ‘the Black and White gang’ crawled out on his hands and knees. No-one present would ever forget the immortal words of the second cook, a ‘Scouser’ or native son of Liverpool, spoken five minutes after the disaster after most of us had stopped laughing, when he said, “I’ve been many things in my time, but it’s the first time I’ve ever been second man on a bag of soot!”

A good dose of humour!

The following is a direct copy of my younger son’s e-mail message to me, and as I think it truly is worthy of a wider distribution, here it is!

Warning, slightly TOXIC!!


Notes From An Inexperienced Chili Tester Named FRANK, who was visiting Texas
from the East Coast: “Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a
chili cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment and I
happened to be standing there at the judge’s table asking directions to the
beer wagon, when the call came. I was assured by the other two judges
(Native Texans) that the chili wouldn’t be all that spicy, and besides, they
told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I accepted.”

Here are the scorecards from the event:


JUDGE ONE: A little too heavy on tomato. Amusing kick.

JUDGE TWO: Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.

FRANK: Holy s &* t, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint
from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope that’s
the worst one. These Texans are crazy.


JUDGE ONE: Smokey, with a hint of pork. Slight Jalapeno tang.

JUDGE TWO: Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.

FRANK: Keep this out of the reach of children. I’m not sure what I am
supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to
give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they saw
the look on my face.


JUDGE ONE: Excellent firehouse chili! Great kick. Needs more beans.

JUDGE TWO: A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of peppers.

FRANK: Call the EPA, I’ve located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have
been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now get me more beer
before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back; now my backbone is in the
front part of my chest. I’m getting s &* t-faced from all the beer.


JUDGE ONE: Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.

JUDGE TWO: Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other
mild foods, not much of a chili.

FRANK: I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste
it, is it possible to burnout taste buds? Sally, the barmaid, was standing
behind me with fresh refills; that 300 lb. bitch is starting to look HOT,
just like this nuclear waste I’m eating. Is chili an aphrodisiac?


JUDGE ONE: Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding
considerable kick. Very Impressive.

JUDGE TWO: Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must admit the
cayenne peppers make a strong statement.

FRANK: My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can no
longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics.
The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me
brain damage, Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly
on it from a pitcher. I wonder if I’m burning my lips off? It really pi$%ed
me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming; Screw those


JUDGE ONE: Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spice and

JUDGE TWO: The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic.

FRANK: My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulfuric
flames. I s%$t myself when I farted and I’m worried it will eat through the
chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except Sally. Can’t feel my
lips anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone!


JUDGE ONE: A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.

JUDGE TWO: Ho Hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chili
peppers at the last moment. I should take note that I am worried about Judge
Number 3, He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing

FRANK: You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn’t
feel a damn thing. I’ve lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it
is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili, which slid
unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava-like shit to match my
damn shirt. At least during the autopsy they’ll know what killed me. I’ve
decided to stop breathing, it’s too painful. Screw it, I’m not getting any
oxygen anyway. If I need air, I’ll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole
in my stomach.