Wednesday, April 24, 2024

THE LOWDOWN: T’ings getting hard


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Lord have mercy! Maggie Hoad last boy can’t tek it no more. Since they put Veoma Ali under me things hot up like nobody’s business.
One “Pretty Carib” calls it “the best Friday breakfast sandwich ever”: “Lowdown on top, Gal Friday in the middle and Looka Lew on de bottom”. I ain’t touching that one, no way, not me. Eric, you down dey?
But don’t talk about licks! A Liz Senior took me to the cleaners for mentioning “white people” last week. Even though I explained the reference was to white exploiters throughout the centuries who virtually destroyed whole civilizations, took over countries, sometimes hunted other races like animals.
And to today’s superpowerful, Barack Obama included, who dictate what values Africans and West Indians should have.
Liz say I insult white people, insult black people, would be punished in the British law courts for being “insulting, racist, badly informed and inflammatory!” Yuh think I nice? Do, God bless yuh, lady, don’t send Liz Junior to burst muh tail.
And now Al Gilkes wants me to say why white people not in sports. I should pass on this too. I never played nothing. Never went to cricket at the Oval, school sports, still can’t swim.
But, as Al says, we were big in sports. All my brothers played cricket, yachted. I saw clips recently of a sports day at YMPC. All white people running.
The Fontabelle crowd, including my cousins, had the Holborn Boys club with some keen cyclists.
I went to a few of those meets. Ken Farnum, Duncan Keiser, Carmichael, Nazi coming from behind, Joyce Marshall flogging the women, Remos and Demicelli, names like that.
So what happened? I suspect birds of a feather wanted to flock together but it looked kinda baddy-baddy to have exclusive clubs. The racial taunting that Al mentioned may also have driven some to move on.
My brother Joe played in all settings not only in cricket but also darts, draughts, table tennis and stick licking.
As Al said, today’s whites are more into tennis, golf, polo, surfing, rallying, archery and mud-doggery.
I thought the last mentioned involved punishing SUVs in impossible conditions followed by ribald orgies of drinking, smoking pot and having your way with wanton women in cut-off shorts. I was wrong.
Mud-dog champ Chris O’Neal assures me there is no drinking or pot.
But “whites” are also competing in disguise.
My grandson Raffie won his bout last Saturday in a karate contest. Last time he won a lady shouted, “Is de goat’s milk!” Not sure if she felt this gave him unfair advantage. Granddaughter Haillie was in the winning Eden Lodge Cheerleaders team and did well in recent NAPSAC relays.
With a view to collecting some of that big reparation payout, all my grandchildren have DTC status (darker than Comissiong).
Done wid dat. Last Thursday visited a friend who wants me to go into business with him. He is Melville Williams, still reading the NATION without glasses, 104 years old and “all parts working!” Can you claim likewise, Al?
On Friday, met the son of a former bandmate, Grantley “Short Grass” Foster, built like a tank and one of the nicest persons ever. Grantley died at 29.
Also on Friday a fellow came down kinda desperate for some goat’s milk. I could see why. It was his birthday and girlfriend Jackie (Jacqui?) must’ve promised to give him something.
Then Jackie insisted on having a picture with us hugging each other. Lord have mercy! Nearly had a ‘selfie’. That woman felt good! A feel-through bodice.
No evidence (I probed) of a Barbados Revenue Authority anywhere. Me smelling like a ram goat. (They always come when I smell so.)
Finally on Monday a fellow phoned. Would I test a new product? Sure. It’s a sexual enhancement pill called “The Erector”. The who??? All above board apparently. I am not required to perform but merely to exhibit readiness to perform.
However, we goat-milk drinkers have no problems in that department. And my brother George always warned that if you took such pills and the mutinous rogue wouldn’t retire, doctors would have to “cut the hawser”. (He would’ve needed a hawser.)
Maybe I’ll give mine to Al. Or, wait, Eric, you still under there?
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.


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