Saturday 20th April

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SPUD MILTON!

I got a Sony Walkman from Mom and Dad. For once my presents weren’t complete rubbish. (Apart from Wombat’s, who gave me a two rand note and three British stamps to the value of just under a pound.) Even better news was that with my music voucher from Uncle Aubrey and Aunt Peggy I bought REM’s Out of Time and spent the afternoon playing it over and over while walking around and singing. Blacky gave me a packet of biltong although he growled at me when I opened it. The Guv called me and sang the entire Happy Birthday song and then abruptly hung up.

11:30 Mom dropped a pink envelope onto my bed and casually sauntered out of my room without saying a word. Just one look at the writing and I knew who it was from. I ripped the envelope open. Inside was a card with a picture of a big red tomcat licking his lips.

Dear Johnny

Happy Birthday

Love

Ps I miss u

Mermaid

I jumped off my bed forgetting that I was wearing my headphones and ripped them clean out of my Sony Walk-man. I then had to piece the ripped envelope together to see where it was posted from. Turns out it came from Jeffrey’s Bay, the big surf spot near Port Elizabeth. Mermaid must be on holiday there with her boyfriend. Did she send me the card because she’s feeling guilty or because she still loves me? I read the card a few more times and hid it under my pillow. I played Losing My Religion and pressed repeat.

18:45 Mom shook me awake and told me to get dressed for dinner at Mike’s Kitchen. We waited on the road for Dad to arrive with Wombat. Eventually headlights came into view and the old station wagon screeched to a stop.

It was clear from the outset that my father and Wombat had been fighting on their way to our house. Wombat accused Dad of trying to cut her head off in the window. Dad said he was trying to close his own window and had hit the wrong window button. Mom tried her best to cheer everybody up but Wombat was so angry that she didn’t even wish me happy birthday.

Dad told our waiter that we were having a family emergency and that he should bring a double round of drinks at once. Dad winked at me and then ordered me a Castle Lager. Clearly Mom and Dad have decided that fifteen years old is a perfectly reasonable drinking age. What with my balls about to drop and now legally having a beer on my birthday, I doubt I’ll be called Spud for much longer.

Mom spotted a woman from her book club sitting at the next table and urgently ordered me to hide my two beers under the table, but before I could move the woman’s large face was looming over us like a cold front. Mom looked down in embarrassment. The book club lady tried her best not to stare at all the booze in front of me but couldn’t help her eyes darting from the beer to my face and back to the beer again. Dad then pointed at me and said it was my birthday. The book club woman said ‘Happy Birthday’ and then asked me how old I was. I said fifteen but if you were going by the high-pitched tone of my voice she’d probably have thought twelve. The book club woman left us, and Mom and Wombat spent the next half hour gossiping about the cold front’s sex life. (She basically sounds like a female Boggo.)

Some time after dessert Mom, Dad, Wombat and the waiter sang me a raucous version of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow… Everybody in the steakhouse turned to stare although nobody sang along. After the cringy hip hips and hoorahs, Wombat stood up to make a speech to the restaurant. She raised her champagne glass and thanked everyone for attending her birthday party and said that she was feeling younger by the day. She then sat down and wolfed down a plate of melba toast.

Sunday 21st April

I arrived home after my afternoon bike ride to another rendition of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow. My report card had arrived.

3 As (English, History and Drama)

3 Bs (Science, Biology and Geography)

2 Cs (Afrikaans and Maths)

On the back side of the card was a comment from Sparerib. (Obviously a new ruling from The Glock.) I have stuck it into my diary:

John needs to apply himself more to achieve what I believe to be his full potential. He is a well-liked member of the house but is sometimes prone to moments of introspection and solitude. Whilst finding him to be a well-adjusted boy, he needs to maintain higher levels of scholastic endeavour to realize the faith this school has put in him. A suggestion would be less focus on writing in his diary and more on the coming examinations. John has impressed me with his courage, and despite his late physical development has bravely borne the trials of recent months and continues to exude warmth amidst a troubled year of boys. I continue to follow his development with great interest.

Underneath Sparerib had signed his crab-like signature. I couldn’t resist writing Sparerib’s report card.

Sparerib is a solid enough housemaster who needs to do more should he want to achieve the post of headmaster. Besides looking like a gnome and having to shoulder a serious defect (pardon the pun) he is also beset with squint eyes, bad breath and a slutty wife. He allows boys to bully, tease, mock, raise cats and show signs of extreme madness while thinking that his weekly thrashing of some boy is a good example of keeping discipline. Despite all these problems he continues to be an unliked housemaster and a compulsive skulker. I continue to follow his lack of development with little interest.

I considered posting Sparerib’s report card back to school but by then my anger was gone so I stuck it in my diary instead.

Sunday 28th April

Tomorrow it’s back to school. For once I’m actually looking forward to getting back to the old asylum. (Although I know I’ll be regretting it the moment I set foot into the quad.) I’m also determined to be brilliant in the house plays. I have taken Julian’s hint and have read quite a few classic plays over the holidays in preparation.

MY EASTER PLAY READING LIST
(With comment and rating out of ten)

Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw. Not bad but not as good as the musical version, My Fair Lady. Spud Rating 6/10

Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. A bit boring but still very good. Spud Rating 7/10

Endgame by Samuel Beckett. Very disappointing and nowhere near as good as Waiting for Godot. Most of the time I didn’t know what was cracking. Spud Rating 2/10

Saturday Night at the Palace by Paul Slabolepszy. Despite his weird name I reckon this is the play of the holiday. Holding thumbs Julian chooses this one and I can play the character of Forsie. Spud Rating 9/10

Monday 29th April

HOLIDAY SCORECARD

RAMBO Has taken up smoking. He reckons he can smoke 20 a day if he really wants to. FATTY His mom put him on strong medication and he says he’s lost ten kilograms although it’s impossible to tell if this is true. On the downside he seems to have brought a trailer-load of tuck back to school. SIMON His parents got divorced. He says he doesn’t give a stuff. BOGGO Spent the entire holiday with his new girlfriend, Ali. He says that on Sunday night he got her top off but it was too dark to see anything and Ali wouldn’t let him switch on the light. To prove he wasn’t pulling a fast one he hauled out a whole series of photographs of himself and Ali at a party. I must admit she’s a lot prettier than I expected. VERN Hard to tell, but it sounded like Rain Man killed a cane rat with his hat. When I asked him how big the cane rat was, Vern indicated that it was up to his waist. (?) MAD DOG Was arrested for driving a car on a provincial road. His father (Dad Dog) was fined two hundred bucks and was told to keep his son under control. Dad Dog then thrashed Mad Dog with a sjambok. ROGER Spent the holidays in a cupboard sleeping on Sparerib’s underpants. SPUD Got a Sony CD Walkman. (I kept the caravanning at Park Rynie to myself.) Mad Dog told us he had arrived before everyone else this morning and had spent the day booby-trapping the first year dorm. After congratulations and high fives we crept into our old dormitory. The Normal Seven were still awake and chatting, but when they heard us coming, they dived into their beds and played dead. Rambo stepped forward and said, ‘We know you’re awake.’ There was complete silence. True to form, the cowardly first years were obviously under the impression that if they didn’t make a sound then we would all give up and go to bed.

Mad Dog moved to the nearest bed, pulled out his deodorant and sprayed his candle flame. A huge blue and orange flame lit up the room. There was a terrified squeal and then one of the Darryls jumped up and fell back against his locker clutching his face. Rambo spoke again. ‘Anybody else still asleep?’ There was a chorus of groans and whimpers and gradually the Normal Seven moved out of their beds and sat on their lockers.

Rambo welcomed them back to school and told them that they would be seeing far more of us this term. Spike then stupidly told Rambo that he would report us to his brother if we so much as touched any of them. While Rambo twisted Spike’s arm behind his back, Boggo informed him that his mother was rubbish in bed and has serious body odour problems. In the ensuing chaos, one of the Darryls tried to make a dart for the door but was caught by Vern who shouted, ‘Stop, thief!’ and wrestled him to the floor. Simon and Boggo told the fleeing Darryl to take his pyjamas off and sing the school hymn. The poor Darryl slowly took off his shirt and then his pants. Vern immediately grabbed hold of Darryl’s willy and shouted, ‘Spud!’ He then cackled with laughter. Maybe he realized he was behaving like a psycho because he then let go of the Darryl’s penis like it was burning hot, and his hand shot up to his head. Runt looked horrified and held onto his own crotch, probably without realizing it.

There was a flick of a knife up in the rafters, Mad Dog shouted ‘Bombs away!’ and Thinny and his bed were instantly drenched by a bucketload of water.

Mad Dog instructed Rambo to make the entire Normal Seven sit on JR Ewing’s bed. The Normal Seven may be short on spine but they are crafty and sneaky when it comes to getting out of trouble. They realized that Mad Dog must have rigged something nasty above JR’s bed and they all moved towards us instead to get away from certain disaster. I decided to flex my muscles and ordered the Normal Seven to JR Ewing’s bed immediately. Maybe it was the spudly voice or the fact that half of them are bigger than me, but nobody moved. Rambo and Boggo sniggered and suddenly everyone was watching me. I should have just shut up, but now I was in a catch-22. If I backed down then I would never be respected again in either dormitory, but if I didn’t back down then that meant I had to do something to someone!

I viciously swung a hockey stick into the back of Thinny’s thighs. He screamed, stumbled a few metres and fell over. I felt awful. The Normal Seven panicked, sprinted to JR Ewing’s cubicle, and squashed onto his bed. Above us there was a wicked cackle, then a snip, followed by a cascade of eggs raining down on the first years. They groaned and whimpered as the eggs splattered all over their heads. Mad Dog jumped out of the rafters and onto the floor with a loud baboon bark. He then put away his hunting and filleting knife and led the Crazy Eight back to our dormitory.

As we lay in bed giggling and mocking I could hear JR Ewing sobbing in our old dorm while he changed his bedding, and suddenly I felt ashamed and couldn’t sleep.

Tuesday 30th April

Saw The Guv outside the vestry. He was reading a notice about God and spiritualism that Reverend Bishop had obviously stuck up in a moment of religious excitement. I stood behind The Guv but he continued to read with absolute focus. When he’d reached the end he sniffed and then banged on the vestry door, shouting, ‘The truth will out, Vicar! You may rob me of my pride but the truth will out!’ He banged again and shouted, ‘Frailty, thy name is Bishop. Priest by day, yellow-belly by night!’ I wasn’t sure what was going on but it looked like The Guv was picking a fight with Reverend Bishop. A few boys gathered around, eager to see a lunatic English teacher beat the hell out of a crazy priest. The Guv gave up and swung around, looking wildly into my eyes. He then jumped back in fright and said, ‘Madness, Milton! Madness! He butchers me at a game of tennis and now spurns my moral masculine outrage!’ The Guv looked wildly at the door again and shouted, ‘Injustice, Vicar! Agony piled upon shame!’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘Monday lunch, Milton – for you sure as bloody hell won’t get a decent education around here!’ With that he turned on his heel and strode off.

UNDER 15 RUGBY TRIALS

We no longer have to play rugby but I reckon it’s far better than tennis or hockey (mofstok). Simon, after playing flyhalf for the under 14As last year, has quit rugby and is playing tennis instead. He reckons he doesn’t want to get injured before the cricket season. Rambo and Mad Dog called him a fag and refused to talk to him at lunch.

Most of last year’s dodgy under 14D side were back for another season, including Vern, who ran the wrong way three times during the trial matches. I wasn’t much better and dropped the first pass I received. At the end of the practice Mr Hall, the first team coach and master in charge, said there would only be three under 15 sides this year and the rest would have to fight it out to be on the reserves bench. Great. That probably means a whole season of carrying oranges and passing the ball back and forth to Vern on the sidelines.

Thinny’s got a huge bruise on his left thigh. He’s also behaving weirdly to me. He doesn’t say a word but keeps staring at me at mealtimes.

22:30 The bastards did it again! Like something out of last year’s birthday nightmare, I was carried down to the bogs by a mob of marauding Spud attackers. This time I kicked and bit and scratched and shouted until I had no more strength left. I managed to injure about three people before Fatty sat on my chest and nearly crushed me to death. I looked around the mob and saw the triumphant face of Thinny, who was watching with glee as Rambo shaved my ball hairs off with an electric razor.

I have stubble for the first time – unfortunately, it’s in the wrong place.

Wednesday 1st May

The Crazy Eight (minus cat) are going on the Adventure Club three-day hike next week. The other five hikers are from Larson House. One of them is Geoff Lawson who used to be my big buddy but still hasn’t forgiven me for running off with Amanda last year. Mad Dog is beside himself with excitement. The moment Mr Hall left the class he jumped up and whooped loudly. He then tied Simon to his chair and teased him about being a tennis player. Simon lost his sense of humour so the class left him tied to the chair in Mr Hall’s classroom. I snuck around the corner and waited until everybody had gone to lunch and then slipped back into the classroom and untied our cricket captain. Once he was released he said, ‘Bastards!’ and stormed out without even looking at me or saying thank you.

Thursday 2nd May

Boggo has invited us to his girlfriend’s house for a party. He didn’t say when it was going to happen. All he said was that it’s going to be ‘wild, sick and porno’. I’m very excited.

RUGBY PRACTICE HORROR

Mongrel is the under 15C rugby coach! The man is a sadistic, brainless, heartless monster. I wish I had taken tennis instead. We spent the first hour of practice running and the second half leopard crawling. A former veteran of the Rhodesian bush war should not be coaching under 15C rugby, or any rugby for that matter. Just about everybody collapsed or puked at some stage and poor Vern ran into one of the posts by mistake and had to go to the san because he was seeing double. Mongrel said we were the worst rugby side in the school last year and we have to pay for the shame we have brought on our comrades. With his thick moustache (he looks like a traffic cop) and thick accent, he keeps saying, ‘You guys is a bunch of girls!’ or ‘Rugby are not a game for poofters!’

Last year’s under 14D captain, Pig, said he was seeing triple and staggered off to the san to see if he could convince Sister Collins that he had a serious and possibly life threatening injury.

Friday 3rd May

There’s no rugby tomorrow although Mongrel has called the under 15Cs and reserves to a practice at 10am. Underneath the order were the words:

Bring Tackies

Sounds ominous.

We visited the first year dorm in another Crazy Eight show of strength. Boggo forced Spike to shag his pillow and make orgasm noises. Spike was very realistic and after a few minutes it started to look like he was enjoying himself and everyone felt a bit embarrassed. Thankfully, Fatty farted and we all scattered back to our beds. I lay down and shouted out Goodnight to the Crazy Eight. Unfortunately, it came out as a terrible squawk that sounded like a cross between a donkey bray and the shriek of a six-year-old girl. I drew my hand up to my mouth but it was too late. Within seconds I was surrounded by a crowd of cackling mouths. I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or proud so I laughed and blushed and shook seven hands and a paw. I was then told that I had just had my first knackjump. Once the laughter died down and everyone had taken their turn making a joke with Simon’s toy magnifying glass, I settled on the window ledge and looked out at Pissing Pete. I heard the sound of a distant train clattering along through the Midlands and tried to work out whether it was coming or going. I felt a surge of excitement – in fact I felt more relieved and proud. At last my balls are dropping!

Saturday 4th May

Extra rugby practice. We carried huge logs up and down the rugby field until our backs were too sore to carry on. Mongrel called us a bunch of moffies and ordered us to run the cross country course. Even worse was that he ran along with us, blowing his whistle and calling us girls and monkey naaiers. This is worse than Mordor!

Sunday 5th May

MY VOICE IS BREAKING!

I could hardly get through a verse of the school hymn without knackjumping. In the end I mimed singing. The first year sitting next to me in the choir stalls thought I was insane and kept looking at me out the corner of his eye. I hope this terrible donkey squawk doesn’t hang around for long or this could get really embarrassing.

Monday 6th May

House plays auditions are taking place next Monday.

Last year house plays were cancelled because of Oliver – so this will be my debut in a non musical. I was the first person to write my name on the board. The play is The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams and according to the director (Julian), it’s a classic. Apparently it’s all about a woman with a deformed foot who falls in love with a good-looking friend of her brother. Julian said he was planning on playing the girl with the deformed foot.

13:00 I knocked three times on The Guv’s back door as usual. There wasn’t a sound from inside the house and all the curtains were closed. I tried the handle and the door opened. I called out, ‘Sir?’

From a pitch black lounge came a low voice. ‘Milton, damn and blast your punctuality.’ I said, ‘Afternoon, sir.’ Then the voice from the dark replied, ‘Do not set forth upon this room.’ He then went on a long rampage about technology and how it was the great evil of the earth. I hung around in his hallway. I noticed his answering machine had thirty-two unheard messages. The red lights flashed urgently on the machine like it was begging me to do something. ‘Right, you miserable little whinging stickleback, that will teach you.’ There was the snapping of plugs and then came a loud shout – ‘Enter!’

I found The Guv in the middle of his lounge, standing beside a slide projector with his walking stick.

‘Pull up a pew, Milton. I guarantee a religious experience.’

I felt for the armchair while my cricket coach snapped on the first slide. It looked like an ancient old house somewhere in England. The Guv tapped the slide projector with his walking stick and said, ‘This, Milton, is where the greatest writer of all time laid his seed.’ I wasn’t sure what he was on about so I just grinned back at him like a loon. ‘And in case your corrupt adolescent mind thought I was talking about barbaric sex, I refer of course to Shakespeare’s house!’

I told him it looked very nice. The Guv barked in uproar and thoroughly abused me for calling the ‘Mecca of literature’ nice. He then opened the curtains and collapsed into his rocking chair, looking exhausted. ‘God, living is such an awful waste of one’s energy.’ He uncorked his wine and said, ‘Good holiday, Milton?’ Before I could answer he said, ‘As you can see, I went off to the Isle of Pom. Grey and dismal, old man. There’s no two bones about it. You’re abroad in July?’ It sounded so grand the way The Guv said it that I shrugged nonchalantly like going abroad was a standard Milton holiday.

And so the wine disappeared and The Guv continued his descriptive abuse of everything from the weather to the lack of basic hygiene on your average Brit. After a lunch of chicken and salad he handed me Alan Paton’s Cry, The Beloved Country and told me it was a belter. The Guv poured more wine and began telling stories about people from his university days before falling asleep in his chair.

Tuesday 7th May

If today’s rugby practice is anything to go by I should be the under 15C fullback. Unfortunately, when I told Mongrel I would miss Thursday’s practice (because of the three-day hike) he started shouting at me in Afrikaans and then ordered me to drop for fifty press-ups in front of the whole team. While I was huffing and puffing he said, ‘You okes want to go and sleep in a tent together and play with each other’s pielies! I’ll have no monkey naaiers in this team.’ Once I had finished my press-ups and was helped to my feet by Pig, Vern stepped forward and told Mongrel he was also going on the hike. Mongrel stared at Vern and said, ‘Who the hell are you?’ Guess Vern won’t be playing on Saturday.

12:30 We have been given our hiking instructions by Mr Hall. We have to walk over 20 kilometres a day and we are carrying a 15 kilogram backpack. (That’s almost a third of my weight!) We leave school tomorrow morning and set up camp on an Old Boy’s farm near Fort Nottingham. The second day we go cross country and camp at the foot of Inhlazane and then on the final day we make the 26 kilometre trek back to school. Surprisingly, Fatty looked really excited about three days of trekking through the bushveld. Mad Dog was so excited that he asked Mr Hall if we could leave tonight. Mr Hall took a long drag on his pipe and told us to be patient and prepare ourselves for the mission. We have each been given:

Backpack

A wafer thin mattress

Tent

Bottom sheet

Bowl, mug, spoon, fork and knife

Small gas cooker

Tin pot

Miniature torch

A length of rope

Raincoat

Mini first aid kit

Compass

Map

Two drumsticks (not sure how they got into the ration)

A packet of food rations

After lights out everyone packed up their backpacks. Mine was so heavy that Vern had to help me sling it over my back and steady me when I was upright. Mad Dog threw his backpack into the corner of his cubicle and then dug around under his bed. He then pulled out his own heavy-duty rucksack that was already packed with everything a hiker could possibly need. Mad Dog reckons his own backpack is 22 kilograms but said it was like carrying a feather. He told us that he once carried a dead goat for 8 kilometres. He didn’t say why.

Meanwhile Fatty announced that he would rather be well fed than comfortable, so he left everything behind except for food and cooking equipment. He then added about ten kilograms of nosh from his own tuck reserve.

Vern packed all his toiletries, including a razor and shaving foam. He tried to pack Potato the teddy bear into his backpack but then couldn’t fit in his cooking pot. Eventually he gave up and told Potato that the mission was too dangerous and that he should stay behind to protect the dormitory.

I think Roger knew that Vern was going away because he slept the night in his backpack.

Wednesday 8th May

THE GREAT THREE-DAY HIKE BEGINS…

07:00 We all gathered in the main quad for a prayer with Reverend Bishop and a lecture from Mr Hall. The weather was clear and bright although there was a nasty backstabbing wind that snuck around the cloisters and made my teeth chatter.

Mad Dog reached the fence to cross the railway line before the rest of us were even out of the school rose gardens. The Larson boys stuck to themselves as a group and so did we, although Geoff Lawson did come across and say ‘Howzit.’ Unbelievably, Fatty was full of cheer and even got us singing an old marching song as we made our way towards Fort Nottingham.

After a few minutes Mad Dog had disappeared completely – obviously he’s not doing the group thing. Then there was a crunch of tyres and a small white truck came into view. Smiling behind the wheel was Geoff Lawson’s farm housekeeper Joseph. We all followed Geoff and sprinted to the truck. We leapt on the back but then had to jump off again and help load Fatty on. Joseph pulled a tarpaulin over our heads and soon we were bouncing along the road listening to the roar of the diesel engine. Underneath the tarpaulin Fatty and Geoff shared a high five. Fatty winked at me and said, ‘Spud, I love it when a plan comes together!’

I’m not sure this is quite what Mr Hall had in mind for our adventure hike, but a relaxing day at Lawson’s stud farm sure beats lugging 15 kilograms up and down hills all day.

Mad Dog missed a day of fine food, fishing in the dam and a Crazy Eight versus Larson House touch rugby match. Fatty said he would be the ref, but sat under a tree eating snackwiches and shouting ‘Forward pass!’ whenever he felt like it.

16:00 Joseph dropped us a few hundred metres from Eaglederry farm. It would have been splendid to sleep at Geoff’s farm instead of the Old Boy’s farm but it was decided that it could be risky because the farmer Old Boy could rat on us if we didn’t rock up. On arrival we all tried to look as exhausted as possible in case the farmer was watching us through binoculars. Mad Dog was there already and had set up a huge green army tent with a veranda attached in the pine plantations. Fatty took one look at Mad Dog’s mansion and announced that he was sharing with him. He settled himself down on Mad Dog’s veranda and started unloading 15 kilograms of food.

Simon suggested to Rambo that the two of them set up their tents next to Mad Dog’s. Rambo looked at Simon like he was mad and said he didn’t want to sleep next to a tennis player. Simon tried his best to laugh it off but then moved away and started erecting his tent by himself. Rambo and Boggo moved off together and started setting up some distance from the rest of us.

Unfortunately, that left me with Vern. My cubicle mate put his arm around my shoulder and said, ‘It’s you and me, Spudeeee.’ The thought was horrible so I said, ‘Sorry, Vern. Actually I’m setting up with Simon.’ Vern looked confused and a little crazy like he couldn’t comprehend me not sleeping alongside him every night. Then there was a voice from the bushes. ‘If you so much as set up within ten metres of me I’ll shit in your tent, Milton!’

18:00 It was nearly dark and Vern and I were still nowhere near getting our tent up. Twice it looked like I had worked out the tent riddle but twice Vern got caught inside the tent, freaked out and pulled everything to pieces. Simon, Fatty, Rambo and Boggo shouted nasty comments at us from Mad Dog’s veranda.

While I was brushing my teeth at the tap near the dam I heard loud shouting from the direction of Mad Dog’s palace. I sprinted back to camp to find Fatty in a foul mood and Mad Dog holding out his hunting and filleting knife. Mad Dog told Fatty he wasn’t sleeping in his tent and called him a slob.

Later I slipped into Mad Dog’s tent to find him sharpening his hunting and filleting knife in the light of his gas lamp. His tent was huge and looked extremely warm and comfortable. He looked at me as if he was about to tell me to get lost so I jumped in quickly and asked him if I could join him on the hike tomorrow. I told him I wanted to get the real adventure experience and not hang around at Lawson’s farm. Mad Dog shrugged and said, ‘Cool.’ I thanked him and returned to my backpack, pulled out my sleeping bag and used my raincoat as a pillow. I added some logs to the fire and settled down for a night under the African stars.

Thursday 9th May

Mad Dog and I left Eaglederry farm at first light and made our way down the dust road and then scrambled through a fence and into some open grassland. We marched along at a good pace with the rising sun warming our backs and with the crunch of fresh stalks of grass beneath our walking boots.

Later in the morning Mad Dog showed me a brown bird called a honeyguide that he said would lead us to a beehive. He pointed at the bird that was calling madly at us and said, ‘Spuddy, I bet you ten bucks he’s gonna take us to honey.’ Mad Dog explained that honeyguides lead honey badgers to a beehive and then pick up the scraps once the animal has eaten himself to a standstill. This is quite a cunning hunting ploy for a bird who isn’t brave enough to rob the hive himself.

After trailing this crazy bird for what seemed like a million kilometres, we approached a small patch of wild forest. Mad Dog pointed towards the trees and said, ‘I bet you a hundred bucks the honey is somewhere in that forest.’ Mad Dog’s bet had just jumped tenfold so I figured the chance of actually finding honey was improving. We stored our backpacks behind a big rock and then started running after the honeyguide, which was looking more and more desperate as it flew from tree to tree. I knew we were getting close to the hive because there were bees buzzing everywhere and the bird was becoming more and more hysterical. Mad Dog told me to hang back and disappeared into the thick bushes ahead. I retreated to a rocky outcrop and waited for something to happen.

Mad Dog returned with a huge honeycomb brick and about thirty nasty bee stings. We sat down on the warm rock and tucked into a delicious breakfast of stale bread and fresh honey. The honeyguide was chirping loudly and hopping closer and closer to our rock, begging for his share of the loot. Mad Dog slid his hand into his backpack and pulled out his catapult. Before I could even try and stop him, there was a loud THWACK and the honeyguide lay stone dead and bleeding on the rock in front of us. I felt terrible for the poor bird. The surprise of being betrayed was still frozen onto his death expression. Fatty would say Mad Dog has now completely screwed up his Karma and will be in for some misfortune.

Mad Dog roasted the honeyguide corpse over his gas burner, feathers and all. After his breakfast of honey and honeyguide, he started pegging his hunting and filleting knife into the ground rather close to my foot. I soon realized that the point of the game was to peg the knife as close to my foot as possible. I charged off and hid behind a tree. Unfortunately, Mad Dog then started pegging the knife into the tree very close to my head. I decided to surrender before Mad Dog became even more dangerous and I was murdered with a hunting and filleting knife to the brain, and accepted his offer of a blindfold while he spent the next ten minutes throwing his knife at the space next to my foot.

An important lesson has been learned.

Mental Note: Never hike with a madman.

14:30 Arrival at the foot of Inhlazane. The local farmer didn’t seem overly thrilled to see us and told us to set up camp as far away from his farmhouse as possible. Mad Dog chose a flat patch under some trees near the farmer’s dam. I collapsed in exhaustion and put off trying to set up my tent until I was rested. Of course Mad Dog had his mansion up in minutes. He then said, ‘You’re in with me tonight, Spuddy. You can set up your sleeping bag on the far side.’ I was terrified. I told him I wanted to sleep alone but then he pulled out his hunting and filleting knife and started sharpening it on the tent pole. I lost my confidence and carried my backpack meekly into the Mad Dog mansion.

17:00 There was a huge commotion when the others joined us at the camp. Boggo and Rambo accused Simon of trying to spade Geoff Lawson’s maid. Simon told them to F-off and set up his tent away from the group again. He seems to be having a miserable hike and is now being called Gabriela Sabatini by everyone.

Then Rambo pulled out two bottles of vodka and four litres of Sprite. Fatty pulled out two loaves of bread, cheese, tomatoes and a whole roast chicken. The feast was on! Unfortunately, Rambo said that we could only eat dinner after drinking five shots of vodka and smoking a cigarette. Simon told everyone to get stuffed and sulked in his tent. The rest of us shot back the vodka. It was like setting fire to your throat. Why would anyone drink it unless they were forced to?

Vern downed a cup of neat vodka, lit his cigarette at the wrong end and then vomited on the fire. The smell of burning Vern vomit was awful and everyone ran for cover. In the commotion I made a break for the bushes and threw up in peace against the trunk of a tree. Only Mad Dog, Fatty and Rambo were able to reach dinner without throwing a cat.

I was hoping that the release of the booze might mean that it wouldn’t affect me. However, I found it very difficult to stand up and everyone kept laughing at my voice, which was not only slurring but knackjumping badly as well. Vern passed out on Mad Dog’s veranda while Rambo led us on a raid on the Larson Losers who had set up camp near the dam. Fatty launched himself like a jumbo jet and managed to completely flatten two Larson tents in one fell swoop. The others sprinted away into the bush so Boggo pissed all over some poor guy’s sleeping bag and Fatty stole their food rations.

19:00 A drunken debate broke out about how everyone was planning on getting back to school tomorrow. Fatty said he would rather commit suicide than walk the 26 kilometres back. It seems that Joseph has to drive to Pietermaritzburg tomorrow so he won’t be able to drive us around. Mad Dog told us that if we walked seven kilometres in a north-westerly direction we would find a tar road from where we should get a lift to school. Mad Dog then announced that we (him and I) would be walking back over the Seven Sisters (also known as the Seven Bitches). I didn’t argue in case Mad Dog slit my throat while I was sleeping.

Friday 10th May

05:10 Mad Dog shook me awake. I felt awful. My head was throbbing and I still felt groggy. I tried to puke again but nothing came out. I sat on the grass trying to convince my body to wake up while Mad Dog flattened the tent. It was still dark and the early morning mountain breeze made my teeth chatter. I desperately wanted to sleep some more and then get a lift back to school with a kind hearted farmer or a hot farmer’s wife. I was also terrified that Mad Dog would torture me again and murder more wildlife. I approached Mad Dog while he was cleaning his cooking equipment and told him I was feeling ill and that my left leg had gone lame. He pretended not to hear me and carried on with his cleaning. I repeated my speech again but Mad Dog walked away without even listening. I tried a third time and this time he just handed me my backpack and said, ‘Let’s hit the road.’

In my sorry state I followed Mad Dog up a steep slope that never seemed to end. I couldn’t see where I was going but it felt like torture and I kept stopping to vomit but nothing came out. In that moment I made a solemn vow to myself:

I WILL NEVER DRINK AGAIN!

Thankfully, Mad Dog didn’t torture me today because he was too busy killing wildlife.

MAD DOG’S MIDLANDS MASSACRE

A purple crested loerie

10 doves (which he had baited with bread)

2 guineafowl

3 blue-headed lizards

1 stray cat (Mad Dog said it was a stray cat but he did shoot it within a hundred metres of a farmer’s yard. It also had a blue collar and a bell.)

If Fatty’s theory about Karma is true then Mad Dog is in serious trouble with the man upstairs.

We staggered into the school grounds (I was staggering, Mad Dog was still marching along) just in time for war cry practice.

17:00 The first war cry practice of the year was pretty intense. Anderson got so fired up in his captaincy speech that he told us to not only destroy the Blacksmith College rugby teams but to ‘mangle their broken bodies and spit on their corpses’ as well. This seemed to go down well with the school because there was screeching and sounds of horror from the backbenchers (matrics who don’t play rugby). Pike showed his school spirit by hurling two of the Darryls off the top of the stands and then bleating like a sheep. Luthuli didn’t look impressed and didn’t swing his flag around with as much passion as he used to. After the practice I saw Luthuli having some serious words with Anderson behind the scrum machine.

22:45 The rest of the Crazy Eight came stumbling into the dormitory like they’d spent a year in the desert. In actual fact they had been on an 80 kilometre round trip thanks to a deranged chicken farmer who drove them all the way to Mooi River. Fatty was so exhausted he collapsed onto his bed and asked Mad Dog to put him out of his misery. Mad Dog pulled out his knife and looked quite keen to oblige until Rambo had to explain that Fatty wasn’t being serious. Mad Dog looked a little disappointed and sheathed his knife before returning to sticking the loerie’s wings to the side of his footlocker.

Saturday 11th May

True to his word, Mongrel has dropped me from the under 15C rugby team. At first I was feeling hurt and embarrassed, but after watching the team lose 36-0 to Blacksmith, the sideline looked like a good place to be. Mongrel was so angry that he kicked over a rubbish bin and slapped Pig on the back of the head.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 549