I was woken at about 11:30 by a phone call from Chris’s fiancée, Tabitha. "Still up for seeing Soweto?" I love reliable people. I hardly know any back home!
While I waited for them I tried to check my email, but the internet wasn’t working, so I went over to tell Barbara. She got her son, Andrew to check. (BTW my brother’s name is Andrew. This is getting plain creepy now!). He tells me that they’ve used all of their download limit and need to buy some more. Oops. That’ll be me then.
As we headed to Soweto, Tab reassured me about my safety. “Nobody’s going to rob us at gunpoint.” To be honest, I was more concerned with Chris attempting to drive and program the SatNav at the same time.
We arrived in time for some authentic African food. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet featuring such local delicacies as: pap (maize meal), samp (maize rice), and magodo (tripe) - no prizes for guessing which two of those I tried - followed by jelly, ice cream and custard.
Then we headed up to house 8115 in Orlando West. The house where Mandela lived from 1945 until his arrest, and then again, shortly after his release. Our guide, Freedom, tells us that the house has been restored to exactly as it was when Mandela lived here. Really? Then why is there no bed, or kitchen? And I’m guessing those two plasma TVs weren’t there either.
As we took the scenic route home they gave me a fantastic running commentary. For example, there’s a cylindrical building in Hillbrow next to the centre. It was supposed to be flashy apartments for the jet-set, but never quite worked out that way. In fact, so many people have committed suicide by throwing themselves into its hollow centre (It’s built like a giant tube of Polos) that they’re going to fill it full of sand. I’d recommend a big bouncy castle instead
They drop me off at Fourways shopping centre, and for the first time I walk home in the dark. Barbara will kill me .. if someone else doesn’t on the way.
My night was filled with more football. The first half of Newcastle/Middlesbro’ in a Chinese Restaurant at Lonehill, and then, because everywhere closed, the second half in an “authentic Irish” pub called The Brazen Head. The brazen cheek more like; it’s about as Irish as I am … which would be “half”.
I watch the game with a guy called Graham from The Wirral. He clearly relishes the Scouser-overseas persona even though it’s dubious how long he actually lived there. At one point he makes a joke that it’s been so cold in Liverpool that Scousers have had their hands in their OWN pockets. Hilarious! I’ll have to use that .. because ALL Scousers are thieves. Cunt. Although I’m a big fat hypocrite because I let him give me a lift home. I even got his car started for him… and not the way his idea of Scousers would
That’s that. Full of a cold, no plans for tomorrow, waiting to hear from the club.