On The Road Again

Good morning dear readers, we are coming to you live from the bristling metropolis of Jozi, and here is the weather. Today it is fucking cold, with heavy spending and intermittent road rage. The forecast for tomorrow is much the same, as it was yesterday. Johannesburg may be the New York City of Africa, replete with opulence, extravagance and behaviour more usually associated with New York in the 80s, but have no fear, it remains steadfastly African throughout. Amongst the Bentleys and Roederer, we have fat ranting racist bastards contrasted by thin racist crazies on Prozac with French manicures. It’s a lovely city when it rains, which is when everyone stays indoors and cannot be seen. But dear God in heaven above, it’s a huge and ever-expanding amorphous conglomeration of industry and decay which knows no bounds and will swallow you up and spit you out without so much as a ‘How’s your uncle?’

I like it, in small doses, but unfortunately I have swallowed a particularly large chunk of it this past ten days.

Which is why I cannot wait to see the back of it.