Imbibing generously of the fruit of the vine during the festive season with family and friends, discussions inevitable at some stage drifted towards dronkgatstories (drunken tales).
Just in the village where I live – Mtunzini – memories of erratic behaviour under duress, which can be squarely blamed on the spirit in the bottle, abound.
For the protection of the innocent, names will be changed or omitted.
One good example of such alcoholic impediment was an incident involving a member of a village bridge club, which meets once a week to match their skills.
Card playing being a strenuous affair, the crew obviously bought into the concept of ‘sportsmen’ having to stay hydrated and invested heavily into the Country Club’s budget.
They were not prepared to take any chances and hydration overload – or tanking up if you prefer – was seen as a necessity.
It also made them brave. So when late one night the one member weaved into his garage when arriving home and got out of his car, in the blurry darkness his eye caught what he considered one of the biggest Black Mambas alive curled up in the corner.
With a fearless Captain Morgan heart he did not hesitate and in a flash grabbed a nearby panga and chopped up the Grim Reaper there and then. Catch and release wasn’t such a big thing in those days.
Relating his brush with death to his better half the next morning (no doubt emphasising his heroic response), he took her to have a look.
There in corner was the scattered remains of their hosepipe. Keen golfers, the Van der Merwe couple were also club regulars.
Likable and popular, they later brought along newly born ‘Little Van’ in a carry cot to share in their twice-weekly post-hacking hydration activities, the burden of which often left them in a tired and emotional state.
So much so that when they couldn’t find ‘Little Van’ in the baby’s room one morning after a particularly congenial night out, he was discovered still in the car, Papa Van having mistakenly taken out his golf bag instead of the carry cot.
And then there was a party of friends – a spunky blind woman among them – who conducted some serious sampling of one of the village restaurant’s wine collection one evening.
When the raucous ensemble was eventually kicked out and told to go home, the breast-beating crew promptly appointed their blind friend to be the designated driver – who, incidentally herself keenly participated in the wine tasting.
Miraculously after much frantic cries of ‘left, left, left… nooo… right, rrrright!’, they made it safely back to their respective abodes. At least they had the presence of mind not to leave the designated driver to drive home alone.
On another occasion…… Old wive’s tales? Nope, scouts honour, s’true – all of it.
