Reverse psychology
Late 80s. The then-missus and I went to South Africa for a holiday – mainly on the basis that we knew a couple of people who were working over there at the time and it seemed a good way to go somewhere exotic relatively cheaply.

First stop was Joburg, with a couple who, since their arrival, had been robbed three times and who, by the time we arrived, were totally fucking paranoid. Three alarm systems and, worst of all, they were in bed by 9pm each night. We were real night owls, used to working night shifts so to see them go off to bed when we were just coming alive was very disheartening.

We decided that wasn’t really the way to go so we borrowed their car one day and drove the hour or so to Pretoria, to find our other friend over there, who was working at a casino on the outskirts of the city. With only the most rudimentary directions to the place he was living, we had a very pleasant amble around in the African sunshine.

We were driving through a suburb on the edge of the city, we turned a corner and out of nowhere appeared a policeman, right in front of the car, with his hand raised. Even though we’d just pulled out of a corner, we still had to do an emergency stop, he was that close. He’s a white guy, crisp uniform, bristling moustache, and what follows is like a Tom Sharpe novel come to life.

He’s pulled us over for a traffic violation – not stopping at a ‘stop street’, a T-junction – and there’s an on-the-spot fine of 20 rand or so. I’m a bit worried because I’m the one driving and hadn’t at that point passed my test back home. Didn’t think it would be a problem – my wife drove for a while and since it was so quiet we swapped over for a bit. But he’s a Crunchie policeman (Afrikaner to his face) who really don’t have the best of reputations. He’s looking stern and disapproving and I’m more than a bit worried while he’s writing out the ticket, just waiting for him to ask for my licence.

But then he finds out we’re English and his whole manner changes. Not because he hates the English. It’s quite the opposite – he wants to chat.

‘So, you’re English?’

I say we are.

“Very nice. I like the English. Where are you from?”

I tell him Manchester, my wife’s from London.

“Very good. I have a friend from Blackpool – a Mrs Jones. Do you know her?” (I kid you not – this is exactly what he said.)

I explain that Jones is quite a common name and there are a lot of people in England, so probably not.

“Oh, you’d know her. Tall lady, blonde. Very well spoken. Are you sure you don’t know her?”

I say sadly, still not.

“Well, if you meet her you must say hello from me.”

I assure him that we will. He then goes on to ask what kind of food we like (I was dreading an invitation to dinner) and asks how we cook things. It became a conversation of unbelievable banality, which finally ground to a halt. We were preparing to leave when out of the blue he looks me straight in the eye and says:

“Of course, you know what you must do if you run over someone, don’t you?”

As you might figure, this throws me somewhat. But the answer is fairly standard so with some confidence I mention phone calls, emergency services, blah, blah. But he’s wagging his finger and shaking his head.

“No, no, no”, he says, interrupting me and enunciating very carefully: “If you run over someone you must reverse and make sure they are dead.”

Not at all the answer I was expecting. I thought he was joking and was about to laugh it off when I realise he is absolutely, deadly (npi) serious.

“Right”, I say.

“Three times is best”, he says. “Maybe twice, but three times will definitely do it.”

“Right”, I say again.

“And you must do it,” he says earnestly. “Because if you don’t, these people will sue the shit out of you.”

“Right”, I say again. “Well, thanks for the advice.”

“Not at all”, he says, and touches his cap. “Enjoy your holiday.”

We drive off and I can see him in the middle of the road, hands on hips, watching us drive away.

Fucking shithole of a place, Pretoria. Full of khaki and gun-toting, bearded twats. Never known a country be so beautiful and so ugly at the same time. We were there almost three weeks and if it hadn’t been for a really laid-back week in Cape Town, I’d have gone home early.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Mon 22 Apr 2013, 17:20, 7 replies)

tl;dr

( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Tue 23 Apr 2013, 6:10, closed)

No surprise there janet.
But srsly, there were only a few words that had more than 2 syllables and weren't "the, and, it, a" or personal pronouns.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Tue 23 Apr 2013, 6:32, closed)

break it up a bit make it more friendly on the eye
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Tue 23 Apr 2013, 11:10, closed)

Clicks
I can hear the voice ... "too ar dree time ya!"
(Biff..., Tue 23 Apr 2013, 11:57, closed)

If you squint at this one there's quite a good story in there.

( Pig Bodine., Tue 23 Apr 2013, 12:01, closed)

So that's what 'edit' means
I did wonder. Too late now, but never mind.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Wed 24 Apr 2013, 9:49, closed)

You could've always tried to claim
Deeplometic EEmunitee!
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Wed 24 Apr 2013, 22:33, closed)

Well, I was very diplomatic.
Didn't feel as if I had a choice.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Wed 24 Apr 2013, 23:18, closed)