DE ERF TRIBUNE

REVISION - THE RETURN OF THE TRIBUNE

Much of what follows is old news. But then again everything over here is old news. The last new news we had here was so terrible that one cannot talk about it, which means there is much talk about it, anyway. All I can say for now that it was known as the great handbag fight. And, I tell you, Mrs. Kerr-Philips packed her handbag with many bricks (not pricks) - obviously much to the surprise of Ms. Finkface who deserved the odd piece of building material even though it did not do much for the appearance of her house; let alone her upper torso. Anyway, De Erf Tribune is back in business after two uncontested (defamation driven) liquidations. Watch this lack of space.

LATEST HOTTEST NEWS ABOUT THE PAGE 3 GIRL

The page 3 girl made off with the editor who, in a weak moment, gave her a fake diamond ring - with the last of his money (although word has it that he kept enough back for a bottle of brandy and three cigars. Rumour has it that the editor is a slime ball - something which he denied vehemently when contacted at Osama Bin Laden's head quarters in Nieu Bethesda. He claims to be the victim of a conspiracy and that the author hereof had to speak to one Mr. Bush "to clear matters up". Having spoken to a Mr. Bush (who appears the president of some country and who made mention of air-to-ground (and vice versa) missiles and all sorts of vile other methods of “taking out” author hereof and others in a fashion similar to that which was employed to get to someone who goes by the name Dassam Hosepipe or something like that) the author of this bulletin had to go into hiding. He was followed by the page 3 girl who (upon trying to sell it) discovered that the ring was fake. The author hereof is looking for anyone prepared to bid on either the rights to his story or the page 3 girl. Money is no object — peace of mind is. Thus, bids on the girl will receive priority.

SEE ALSO UPDATES ON ALL NEWSFLASHES BELOW

PAGE 3 GIRL (OLDER STORY)

(We confess: due to limited web space and funds that she won't be here. Also, the editor and the PAGE 3 GIRL did not get along for reasons unknown.)

UPDATED VERSION

As can be gleaned from the above this story was untrue. In fact, the editor and the page 3 girl exhausted the entire supply of condoms stolen from US AID.

HORRIBLE STORY NUMBER 1

The attack of the Killer Peanuts

News has broken (no, no nose has been broken) a new ceiling. The outbreak of the killer peanuts overshadows avian flu. It all started with a raisin. A very upset raisin that revolted against the years and years of slavery asked: “What is a peanut, exactly? I mean with all the healthy vinaigrettes in me, who do they, think they are”. The head honcho of the peanut gang shrugged his shoulders (when asked for comment) whilst throwing an explosive device known as slow cooking olive oil with crunchy peanut butter into the main bunker of the defiant raisins who promptly responded with an enthusiastic reply comprising mostly vinegar bombs and fresh grapes. Anyway, at the close of press this mess was not resolved. (Editorial comment: the grapes of wrath are upon us — God guards Graaff-Reinet.)

UPDATED VERSION

The killer peanuts are under control. Ever since the editor has made acquaintance with Mr. Faulty Towers (sin bin whatever) it seems as if the raisons — obviously afraid of Boeings and the like — have taken to their vines. Having their bombs turning sour due to the sudden sift in temperature must have given the peanuts some hope: watch this space.

HORRIBLE STORY NUMBER NOTHING

General Museum Mayhem

Graaff-Reinet is known as a town run wild with extreme museums. Some full of some stuff, others filled with other stuff. (Not a decent glass of wine to be seen). Ms. Martha Smith (whose husband absconded with her mother) has a few things to get off her chest. (Editorial comment: she should rather look at her own chest even though no else wants to; not even Kermit). Anyway, a fight broke loose in the public library between two curators. No one knows why, but the librarian said that it turned ugly once Mrs. [name withheld because she has lots of money and we cannot afford a law suit] attacked poor Ms. Smith with a Mills & Boons book (title withheld - but lots of innocent useless sex stuff inside) whereupon Ms. Smith attacked SHE WHO HAS MONEY with a library card. The matter is being investigated. (Editorial comment: Who is busy investigating whom is unclear because the police are accusing the traffic police who, in turn, accuse the museum committee. And no one knows who or what that is). You know what it is like, don't you? Seeing that you have to cheat once a year on your tax return - if you don't, you are either very honest and poor or lying. Or both.

UPDATED VERSION

The police could not be reached for comment. Neither for anything else not even when the fake diamond ring was reported as stolen by the page 3 girl (i.e. an attempted fraudulent insurance claim - little did she know that the editor had already claimed for the ring. And was paid, hence the joy at the Hosepipe camp: booze)

The horrible thing that lived under my cellar and who ate my discarded chickens (not bones) has died an untimely death — we are sad to report. He was shot, poisoned and clubbed to death whilst eating the neighbour’s dog. (Some say child but that does not sound good for business so lets assume it was a dog, a nasty rabid, mad dog otherwise I will have the SPCA all over me.) Anyway, I was over the moon: no more noises in my study, guests arriving and departing in good stead (i.e. alive). Little did I realise what a scumbag that thing was. He never told — even under duress and a little bit of torture — that he had a little sister. OK, you ask, what is the problem with a little sister? Well, I will tell you: that sister is not little in the way little is understood, generally. Not even Biggies’ Best will clothe this gargantuan blob. What to do? Well I don’t know for now. I am at a loss for size. All I can say is keep your windows closed and pray. I have, since she moved out, moved into the cellar and bolted myself in. Not because I am scared of this little blobby but because I am conducting serious scientific experiments. Whenever I come out from there, I move — very quickly to the nearest tree. She is not keen on shadows which are, incidentally, something we don’t have in the Karoo.

OLD NEWS

This horrible thing was seen at close quarters by our oldest visiting guest just before he chew her leg off. (I [as opposed to the guesthouse] deny all liability; the guesthouse having been liquidated, sequestrated and sold since. There goes all Yankee related class actions. So much for foreign invasions.)

Anyway, for good measure I need to tell this tale as I almost (me, yes me, who has absolutely diddly squat to do with guest house) died. This nasty creature (albeit friendly when fed live chickens) lived in my cellar for about two years. (I, confess (many a chick later) that it was rather annoying hearing the awful gnawing of the floor boards and thus I let him loose — what a pleasure, what a mistake, what a lawsuit on hands.) When the cellar door opened (by itself of course — me denying all responsibility) he made a duck. Avian history in fact, he went and the turkeys (we had none, but it sounds good), the peafowl (politically correct for “cock”) and the ducks (one) and the little nice kitten we bought from the butcher’s shop disappeared. But that duck was short lived. The thing came back when he ran out of feathers. I almost died, as I said, but thank God I hate chicken pie.