Rampant readers will readily recall recent references to a proposed “one-on-one” meeting between Nation columnists and new Editor-in-Chief Kaymar Jordan. Such a meeting did take place last Thursday afternoon.
Lord have mercy! How could I who have studied Brer Fox’s devious efforts to trap Brer Rabbit (and the latter’s equally brilliant escape techniques) fail to see what was coming? All the signs were there – a last-minute switch from the boardroom to the library, a large increase in numbers invited, and the strange concept of a one-on-one with so many people.
The Nation library is a long, narrow room with, as far as I could see, no windows and no back door. I arrived to find it packed, seating available at the back only. Already assembled was the cream of newspaperdom.
Kaymar is hot! She outlined plans for a new, dynamic Nation and, like the others, I was impressed. But, at her every mention of my name, I couldn’t help but notice all eyes turning in my direction with feeding-frenzy eagerness. And I recalled the chilling remark by an earlier speaker that “it’s going to get steamy in here”.
Suddenly it hit me. Almost everyone in that room had good reason to hate my guts! Rickey Singh and I bassa-bassa over CARICOM. I’ve questioned the Healing Herbs lady’s advice on inserting aloes into sundry orifices for curative purposes, misquoted Pat Hoyos, disagreed with Peter Wickham on the merits of Owen Arthur, attacked Ridley Greene’s editing, pummelled Clyde Mascoll, maybe tackled Carl Moore, Al Gilkes and Market Vendor . . . .
B.C. Pires and I trade insults. And over the years Dawn Morgan and I have been at it hammer and thongs. She’s taken my relentless thrusts without flinching and responded in kind, but she can’t be happy that Lowdown is still shotting while New Dawn had to take a breather.
They had me good and proper in that library. Peter Wickham was well positioned down back with me to cover my rear. Matthew Farley, just in front wearing square-tipped shoes designed for kicking backsides. Clyde Mascoll and B.C. handling the midfield.
And, lest I should make a break for it, two heavies, Pat Hoyos and Ridley Greene, were standing guard at the door. “Lowdown,” I said, “this is guh-down time.” And I wouldn’t be guh-downing like Al on his 70th birthday. There would be no coming back up in a hurry.
What saved me, I know not. But a nice gentleman gave a story about a dog food company whose sales were plummeting. They had the best sales team, the best delivery, the best packaging.
“So why,” asked the CEO, “are our dog food sales falling?” No one could answer except one old salesman: “Because the dogs don’t like it.”
The Nation crowd probably realised there and then that many anti-Lowdown dog owners buy the Nation to get my column for their dogs to poop on. The dogs love it. As did one lady who bragged she wee-weed on my picture in a stack of old newspapers and got a thrill.
Things cooled after that. Al Gilkes told them how he discovered me. I in turn discovered that columnists are just as big hypocrites as politicians. We fight in the paper but meet like long-lost comrades.
Peter Wickham turned out to be a friendly young gentleman, B.C. hopes to do a column on me, Clyde Mascoll promised to stop by with his wife some afternoon, Rickey Singh and I chatted happily, Pat Hoyos wanted to play guitar. And so on.
Even Ezra Alleyne smiled a lot. Thanks to him I’ve only been sued once for libel in over 20 years, an experience I hope never to repeat. Thanks, Ezra!
Afterwards, my editor Antoinette Connell took me to meet the staff. One lady had a patch over her eye. A former pirate, perchance? But no. One glance at
Toni Yarde’s bosoms revealed all.
Whenever Toni takes a deep breath, I was told, buttons fly all over the place. Eye protection is recommended.
Finally, happy 76th birthday to outstanding repeat visitor, Canadian sex-stud Roger Wright. Roger can reportedly still “guh down” with the best of them.
“I just wish he would get up sometimes,” sighs wife Gloria.
