It was a hard day’s night and I was sleepy like a dog, music all day long and eating like a hog . . . it ain’t easy for a Bajan of any complexion to fight the “itis”.
But that’s just what I had to do at Laff It Off last Sunday night. The wife stayed home to milk the goats. A nice female had to stop me toppling out of the chair.
Hard times tip: get into a music group. You don’t have to be good or anything. Forget the money. You get free food. We played virtually for rice and stew in the early days. Last Sunday I brought home from Juliette’s enough macaroni pie and bazooki rice to feed the family for days. Maybe “bazooki” isn’t the right name.
Next hard times tip: don’t be poor-great. Last week a sexy lady brought me her husband’s old clothes. “They’re too bad for St Vincent de Paul” she told me, “but I know you’ll wear them.” Wear them? Lady, I’m now set for Queen’s Park on Christmas morning.
Laff It Off was sweet. We got to see “Mia” naked. And our PM finally opening his mouth – if only for the dentist. I also got a free sample of Chai tea.
Maybe that’s what put me to sleep.
And as I dozed during a kung fu skit, Errol Barrow appeared to me chanting “Tai chi, Chai tea, tai chi, Chai tea, see the mirror image, Lowdown? Those other idiots have got it wrong. The mirror image wasn’t merely about introspection; it was an exhortation to look at thing from different sides, letting left be right . . . . ”
Unused land
Whereupon I awoke and all became clear. I mean, say a university lecturer claims we can’t feed ourselves so Bajan farmers should go to Guyana. Don’t reject as the nonsense it is, given that we have thousands of acres of prime, snake-free, unused farm land right here at home.
No, look at the mirror image. Which is, we transfer the Cave Hill campus to Guyana, letting each year’s students, inspired by their Jim Jones-like lecturers, gain character and experience clearing the jungle and building. Meanwhile we convert Cave Hill into a state-of-the-art pig-rearing facility to feed thousands of our people.
And now that breathalyser test may shortly be followed by “breast-a-lyser” tests, putting our well-endowed ladies who foul up the steering wheel at a disadvantage, let us not fight it.
I was talking to Bizzy at Laff It Off about electric cars. Should’ve asked if they could be equipped with steering levers at the side of the seat. Kinda like Bobcats.
Similarly, after many accidents, Junior Jordan and Sergeant Seibert keep giving tips on the use of highways and roundabouts. We need to look in the mirror. Should that not tell us that Bajan roadways are now user-unfriendly?
And that our many tourist drivers won’t be listening to tips or spending their Sundays watching the traffic lights at Hinds Hill? Change it.
Marriage on deathbed
Likewise, marriage is on its deathbed. Men get married for doobie-doobie. Amen. In Biblical days they had wives and concubines. No problem. The one-wife scenario sort of worked until they brought in a stupid law about wives getting half your property but with no compulsion to deliver.
I heard a woman complaining bitterly that her friend had “invested” two years in a fellow and now he doesn’t want “commitment”. Note that word “invest”. All that loving and ear-nibbling and back-rubbing, my brother, may just be “investment”.
Put on the ring and . . . . Expert Denise Charles says some women even want no-sex marriage. Makes sense, considering that you can get a “no-work” government job.
Let’s work the mirror image here. If wives won’t supply, they can’t object to a little outsourcing.
I am told Guyanese women can do amazing things with their salt-fish and bakes . . . .
So I was feeling upbeat about most things, even today’s technology. Until two mornings ago the wife wouldn’t talk to me. Strange. Then I saw she’d been reading my emails.
Including one from Ian Estwick of Laff It Off: “Hi, Rich, thanks again for coming. Sent you some pics”.
Yes indeedy. Four pictures of me at the show with a woman who is not my wife. Be a while before I can laff that off.
•? Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.
