What liquidity crunch?

You will be happy to hear that the drinker from another brewer has returned. Yes, Bra Gee is back and will not tolerate any funny jokes about old wine in new bottles and so forth. Contrary to the weird and wonderful rumours that made the rounds at the usual place, Bra Gee is alive and very well, thank you! The good throat did not get squeezed by the uncouth fingers of a jealous husband. The mouth did not get disconnected from the stomach at the gullet by some cloak and dagger types or anything weird and wonderful like that.

The truth is that I had gone to make good on one of the resolutions we made in the years yonder. A stint in the cloth has been very profitable and wonderful. The offering plate provided enough bounty to endow the Drinkers’ Eternal Slush Fund for well, eternity.

So while the rest of the country moans and groans about the lack of cash, at the usual place the beady-eyed bar owner will be grinning as the good waters flow this merry season. And the butcher fellow will not be complaining either as we keep the braai stands fully stocked.

For us a liquidity crunch will only happen if the wonderful machines of those good fellows who turn water and grain into something palatable break down all at the same time. Knock on the wood of the bar counter to ward off such a calamity!

A calamity where you are stuck with money in your hands and have to drink the first liquid that splashes into your glass. That takes me to the bad old days when that shiny-faced fellow reigned supreme and constantly raised our ire as he told us the bold-faced lie that failure was not an option while our throats cracked with thirst.

No wonder why his sneaky departure is unlamented. In fact, today we are going to be having a send-off for him at the usual place sans the guest of honour. Better aende! In his place we only ask for a fellow male or female, who will not let the taps run dry.

Who cares what the sheaf of papers that they have on their walls read? As Paul, my dear mate always says when beaten to a job by someone with a heap of qualifications: It is not the certificates that work, but the person.

All we want is a person who will do the blasted job! Forbes Magazine claims that uneducated billionaires make three times what their counterparts with PhDs can scrap together. Who are we to argue with the gurus?

The only thing is please let it be a fellow male or female, with the idea of making money for the country not for themselves and their significant others like spouses, children and playmates.

Now that we have put in our two sips worth on that one, let us turn to another national debate of better humour. I mean this goblin nonsense from the middle of the country.

Even a new-born rabbit could tell you that there is not juju of any kind and that ridiculous object could not hurt a fly. The guy is a con-artist, period. And with so many people willing to believe in exploding lightning and leaf dollars, who can blame him for jumping onto the gravy train?

At the usual place we maintain that no one should blame the Tsikamutanda whether he comes in traditional regalia, robes or a shiny suit with a matching tie and pocket hanky. Oh, no. Blame those who keep on begging such people to rid them of the demons of poverty, prostitution and over-drinking.

That is why in the 16-day period when all donor agencies have poured in money to complain about what men are doing to women, the sisters show each other solidarity by turning out to demonstrate against those of them who have accused a pastor of forcing them to receive his word while lying on their backs.

And the contents at the pastor’s dwelling answer the question of why women are so passionate about their faith these days. It surely fulfils a primeval need!

The church is a good and wonderful place to frequent, even for patrons of the regular place. But it is not a panacea for all ills. To get rich you must work hard and save more than you earn.

In the past year that is what Bra Gee has been doing, scrupulously stashing the huge piles from the offertory bins and resisting the urge to buy a convoy of flashy cars, designer suits and whole streets in the northern suburbs while jet-setting to hobnob with the ruling elite of the African continent.

So as a result now all patrons of the usual place can drink until the liver gives up, which sadly it eventually does for even the best drinkers among us. But for now we will drink and be merry as we enjoy this season of selfish self-indulgence. More on that later. Meanwhile, Bottoms up!