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