Do you think you’re funny?

For my girlfriend’s birthday, we went to see a TV programme being filmed. It was like a sort-of Pop Idol for Ugandan wannabe stand-up comedians, eight of whom had 2 minutes each to try and make us laugh, most of them failing embarrassingly. The worst one must have endured the longest two minutes of his life – after bounding onto the stage like a demented goat, his attempts to tickle the thousands of ribs before him became increasingly frantic, and the anticipation in the auditorium thickened into a bitter soup of agony. How unfortunate that he was called Mercilus.

The judges followed the now formulaic good-cop bad-cop routine, with one following the Simon Cowell school of judging, pitilessly crushing valiant candidates with deft put-downs (e.g. “John? [pause for effect]. You’re not funny.” Ooh, harsh!)

Close Encounters of the African Kind

My girlfriend’s ex is a peculiar lad who I’ve spoken to on the phone once or twice and even had the honour of meeting – he dropped in unexpectedly to the office a couple of weeks back. I was hoping he’d at least try and threaten me or something, but it seems he was just curious to see if I was as beautiful as him. Sure, his sculpted musculature gave him a natural flair for intimidation, but nothing can win in the face of my devastating wit.

It was rather absurd, then, that we took our seats in the comedy show only to discover he was sat a short distance away on the same row. In such a situation, a sardonic smile and wave is a dangerously compelling course of action for a bold usurper to contemplate. Tempted though I was, I decided that I was above such an undignified display of smugness. But to pretend I hadn’t noticed him at all would have been a sure sign of weakness in this world of alpha-male competition. I considered standing up to stretch ostentatiously, as if limbering up, to show that my streamlined physique could give me a speed advantage if not a strength one. A casual glance in his direction at the end of the movement, to make sure he’d noticed my quivering calf muscles bulging beneath my straining trouser seams, would do the job nicely.

In the end I opted to meet his gaze and give a subtle and manly raise-of-the-eyebrows. I was rewarded with an even less perceptible nod in return. Job done, I settled down to watch the show, albeit taking care not to appear to be having *too* much fun with this lunatic’s ex-girlfriend lest I feed his thirsty wrath and get embroiled in some primeval showdown on the steps of the theatre at the end of the show.

Friendometer

Someone pointed out to me the other day that in order to make friends you have to leave the house, an observation that I had to admit seemed to have been eluding me. Waking up on a Saturday morning to glorious sunshine tempered with a cool breeze, eating homegrown paw paw on the verandah, and watching tweeting birds and fluttering butterflies frolic across verdant lawns edged with relentlessly blossoming bougainvillea, never gave me much incentive to step out on the weekend, especially when someone else is doing the cooking. And being white in Uganda, it’s not so crazy to expect someone to knock on the door and beg for you to accept them into your elite group of friends. Is it? Maybe it’s time to acknowledge that this lifestyle, though good for getting through lots of books, is not likely to bring much social gratification. Get a life, Nigel!



Working Hours I’ve made my first bold step on the ladder to becoming a famous, respected author – a national treasure, even – by being quoted. Volunteer Jo – gone but not forgotten – has decided to feature my grumbles about the Uganda NGO board in her Cambridge University (nothing but the best) dissertation. Apparently she has to first seek permission, which of course I granted as long as she paid the £500 fee.

Competition Time

Volunteer Jo also noticed the obviously deliberate error in the last entry – that Uganda used to be a British colony so of course it knew ounces. Whether or not mercury powder was sold by such archaic measures is, I suppose, a moot point. Either way, she’s earned herself two points in one go, catapulting herself with acrobatic ease to the top of the leaderboard.

Volunteer Jo 3
Ben 2
Nigel’s Dad 2
Nigel’s Mum 2
Uncle Simon and the Family Hipps 2
Julia 1
Nigel’s Gran 1
Brother David 1
Phil 1
Mr Ibbs 1
Suzanna 1
Charlotte 1

Tip of the week

As follow-up to the ‘ten steps to tyranny’ programme outlined in the previous edition of this publication, your ever-willing author hopes to bring periodical updates that will assist those aspiring dictators hoping to speed their ascent to despotism.

I’m starting the series with a suggestion that has a sure-fire guarantee of efficacy. It goes as follows: if any constituencies have had the impudence to elect, by fair and democratic means (heaven forbid!), an opposition MP, then you should be sure to tell them, on your next visit there, that they’ll get a smaller portion of the national cake as punishment. The principle is, “if people won’t vote for me because they like me, then they’ll vote for me because otherwise I’ll make sure they starve”. Don’t worry about seeming like a five year old (“you didn’t choose me so I’m not sharing my Wine Gums with you”), because the desired effect will come about hastily.

And by the way, as you tick off these ethically bereft actions, don’t worry about what your donor government friends over in Europe and America might think. Their love is unconditional, provided you’re not a communist or Muslim. In fact, if you’re lucky, they might even let you host the Queen of England and all the Commonwealth Heads of Government, even when they know that you’ve just bribed MPs a paltry 300 quid each to get the constitution changed so you can get re-elected for a third term after 21 years in power. How’s that for an endorsement of corruption?!

Friendometer

My neighbour’s watchman collared me on my way out of the house the other morning with an arresting proposition: would I like to buy any mercury powder, he asked. “Mercury what?” I countered. Powder, he said. He had about 15 grams.

Now even though metrification was easy in a country that never knew ounces, small quantities of powdery substances sold on street corners by strange men tend to draw one’s mind in a certain direction. I have no idea whether mercury powder is the sort of thing you snort through 50,000 shilling notes, or whether it has more reputable uses, but I promised to ask around for potential clients. He thanked me, and said if he did well with the powder he would move on to mercury liquid. Well, good luck to you, mate.

Competition Time – It’s back!

I’m relieved someone is still ‘on the Ball’ (pun fully intended, even though I hate people who attempt to craft cripplingly unfunny puns from the family name). And I’m even more relieved that it’s Suzanna, who’s been pestering me for a point since goodness knows when. But I am incorruptible, and my points can only be earned by legitimate means, as my faithful cousin Eleanor is also seems to be discovering, given her complaint in the comments section.

Well done Suzanna – my arithmetical messiness was due to a desire for prosaic tidiness, but was indeed a deliberate mistake, so the point is heartily awarded.

Charlotte wants a point for spotting a typo, but I made it clear long ago that we’re not about nitpicking here. However, she has found some feature of this website whereby I can have ‘followers’, like some sort of cult leader, so gets a point for such a show of loyalty. But don’t expect me to dole out more for those who follow suit – I’m rewarding the pioneering spirit.

Ben 2
Nigel’s Dad 2
Nigel’s Mum 2
Uncle Simon and the Family Hipps 2
Julia 1
Nigel’s Gran 1
Brother David 1
Volunteer Jo 1
Phil 1
Mr Ibbs 1
Suzanna 1
Charlotte 1