Your call to arms regarding the ore dump in our harbour inspired me. I attach my letter to Ms. Nel and Mr. Phihlela. I was disappointed with their lack of response.
I contact you in tremendous emotional distress with a dash and twist of hatred.
It’s my cat, Mr. Fluffles, you see. He’s gone haywire. It’s like I don’t know him anymore. Sometimes, late at night in between wracking sobs, I think to myself “I wish I never knew him!”, but then I chastise myself for allowing myself to think such terrible things. Prolonged self-flagellation invariably ensues.
Let me fill you in…
We had been gentlemen friends for years. Ever since my wife passed away as a result of a serious case of death, we had shared an unrivalled companionship. We would do everything together – go to the opera, partake in wine-tasting, host book clubs and make tender love in the back seat of my mint condition Morris Minor. As you can see from the attached picture, he was a cat of refined quality and taste. His expertise in social discourse was the source of much pride for me at any luncheon, formal dinner or club meeting and the unselfish, genuine concern and full attention he paid to each and every one of our mutual connexions inevitably led us to be held in the highest social esteem.
He dressed impeccably. Rarely to be seen without his top hat, never without pressed trousers and freshly starched shirt; he was an example to all and sundry of reserved gentlemanly fashion mixed with just the slightest degree of panache. Stirred, never shaken. Attractive, never sexy. Dignified, never haughty.
He enjoyed classical quartets, yet could appreciate Tchaikovsky. He loved Gregorian plainchant, yet scorched the dance floors of Havana. He fucking hated Abba so much he once put his pince-nez through all of our speakers.
This has now changed. I blame you.
He suggested a walk along King’s Beach one weekend. I protested, announcing my distaste for what I deem to be a commoners’ parade ground. Mr Fluffles chastised me, informing me that were it not for the existence of the lower caste, our domestic staff of 55 peoples would not be financially viable. Besides, he continued, one must peep in the gutters of an occasion if one is to truly appreciate the stars. (I must admit; Mr. Fluffles had the ability to arouse me with such prose alone…)
I watched as Mr. Fluffles chased the seagulls composedly, walking stick in hand, never breaking from his swift gentlemanly stride. “Ha Ha!”, he called, rather than shouted, at the seagulls. “Fly! Fly you avian fools, lest I enjoy you delicately roasted with a fine glass of vino!”
Then it happened.
He paused.
Sniffed.
Sniffed again.
And once more.
“Dust!”, he exclaimed.
I gasped. Mr. Fluffles had always maintained that to exclaim was to display the ignorance of one’s soul.
He dropped to his knees in the dirt – Oh! But his linen trousers! I noticed the black line of ore dust in the sand. Then I noticed Mr. Fluffles snorting it.
“Honey! I don’t think you should touch that dirty substance!”, I warned shakily. He looked up at me with large, dilated pupils and with an unfamiliar curl to his lip replied, “Don’t interrupt me, putain!”
‘Putain’, as I had learnt from watching substantial amounts of art house cinema with Mr. Fluffles over the years, is an unpleasant French word. Naturally I was very upset. Everything went downhill from here.
He developed a Bethelsdorp accent. He began listening to the Sex Pistols at bathtime. He stopped bathing. He began showering. He stopped showering. I caught him sniffing ore dust off a pregnant crack addicts’ bottom in my Morris Minor. It is no longer mint. My Mr. Fluffles now refers to himself as “Just fucking Bob, hey?”. I have run out of excuses to explain away his absentia at social gatherings. I am distraught.
Your ore, Mr. Phihlela, has destroyed my life. I only recently received a letter from the adoption agency who have turned down our application on the grounds that substance abusers make sub-standard parents. There is nothing you can do to fix this, sir. (Unless of course you want to give me one of your kids…)
I urge you to remove your ore from the coast of Port Elizabeth and fling it to the far corners of the Earth. (Or alternatively you might investigate the viability of storing it in Calcutta)
I urge you to show compassion for the people of this city and respond to me on good quality vellum.
Yours in sorrow and heartache,
R. Dagless
But, WAIT, there is more when I asked the Legless one for an image of Fluffles he responded to me, thus:
Dear Mr. Strapon,
Mr Fluffles
Despite the fact that the majority of your website is filled with trifling nonsense, excessive information regarding your most hum-drum of personal lives and a propensity to kneel at the feet of any DA councillor who pays you more than a passing regard…I will be using you as a vehicle to publish my cutting attacks on the establishment.
No man will be granted sanctuary from my scything prose. No man will sleep soundly without shivering at the prospect of a viscous poem awaiting him in his inbox. No man, Strapon. Not one.
Port Elizabeth has been allowed to slumber for too long. Bellies have become round. Minds have become blunt. Pink shirts have become acceptable attire.
Fear me, Strapon, for I am everything this town’s media is not. I am,
R. Dagless. MD.
PS: If you ever allow my communications to be edited again, I will abduct your dog and shave him savagely. PPS: Please also tell Dean I am hurt that he would make my Valentine poem public.
Now, if I WAS allowed to edit the venerable foul mouthed Dagless’s vellum scratchings then I would also have corrected one or two spelling mistakes (viscous for one) that would have got him mercilessly thrashed on the bum whilst bent over the lap of a suited teacher, frantically pushing his pince-nez closer towards his eyes and breathing in a strange manner!
Chief Cook, Bottle Washer and Broom Mechanic at MyPE
Passionate about Port Elizabeth and definitely NOT packing for Perth.
Alan's ethos is epitomised in the words of Nelson Mandela; "I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the idea of a democratic and free society. If need be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die."
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