What with installing slabs of dynamite under Moron Tsvangirai’s bed at the negotiations and watching the Olympics, I haven’t had time to write a word in my diary. Still no deal, but I think that hope lies on the horizon (best place for it, I reckon). Moron has already signed a declaration accepting mutual responsibility for all the pre-election violence. Alright, so Thabo and I might have made a few ‘alterations’ to the document Tsvangirai thought he was signing, but the world’s media didn’t comment on the white-out and felt-tip pen insertions on the statement, so I guess that’s it “for the record then”. Heh heh.
The key question is now over a “Hung Parliament”, which my negotiating partner thinks means “a parliament based upon the results of the March election”… but which actually means “a parliament where all the opposition MPs will very shortly be hung by the neck”. It’s sooo tricky to understand the legalistic niceties of these negotiations when you’re a simple, uneducated miner… And when someone’s put arsenic in your coffee.
I did make sure that I got to see my good friend Beny Steinmetz while I’m in Johannesburg. He and his people at Ascot diamonds have been so accommodating. I dropped off a load of uncut stones and he gave me a trunk of cash for the last batch I sent to him. He was also kind enough to give a few of the cut diamonds that they had for me to give to the missus. That should keep my little blonde bombshell happy for… oh, about 10 minutes.
The Chinese aren’t nearly as reliable. I instructed my Little Yellow Friends to fix a couple of events on my behalf in the Olympic pool, in order to demonstrate the continuing might of Zimbabwe – the country that makes the American hand tremble and the British bowel leak like a rusty sieve. And what do they do? Make a WHITE girl win the 200 metres backstroke for Zim… Damn Kirsty Coventry and damn those take-away-munching, dragon-worshipping Commie wannabies!! I soon had my revenge when the CIO took out their beloved hurdler Liu Xiang with a well-aimed blow to the hamstring from a heavy gardening tool. Confucius, he say: Don’t ever mess up Comrade Bob’s Chinese order again, boys.