• Message from James Clarke

    "South Africa's Best Humour Columnist"

    - SA's Comedy Awards September 2008

    “South Africa’s funniest columnist.”

    - Financial Mail

    WELCOME TO MY BLOG

    The name is Clarke. James Clarke. I have been told by people who know their way around the electronic world with its iPads, USBs, processors, modems, 500 gb hard drives, Blackberries and microwave ovens, that as a writer I have to have a blogsite. Otherwise, I am told, it is like passing oneself off as a CEO and you haven’t a leather chair that tilts back.

    Yet after four years of having a blogsite I still don’t really understand what it is or how it helps sell my books which is my major concern in life apart from not stepping on cracks when walking on the pavement.

    I am also told that on a blogsite it is customary to refer to oneself in the third person. This enables one to grossly exaggerate ones attainments without appearing to have done so personally.

    Not being one to buck the system...

    London-born James Clarke is your average tall, dark, handsome fellow who writes books – fiction and non-fiction. As a humorist he has been compared with PG Wodehouse and James Thurber. (The Daily Bugle in Des Moines said “compared with the works of PG Wodehouse and James Thurber, Clarke’s writing isn’t worth a row of beans”.)

    He long ago settled in South Africa where he became a mover and a shaker in the world of the environmental sciences. As a youth, being a mover and a shaker, had made it impossible for him to follow in his father’s footsteps as a bottler in a nitro-glycerine plant. Hence he turned to journalism.

    But around the time he retired a few years ago he found a new pursuit as a humorist. He wrote a daily humour column in the Johannesburg Star (now syndicated) and began turning out books of humour in the UK and South Africa.

    Clarke very recently moved boldly into the electronic publishing world. It was, he said afterwards, like a non-swimmer diving into a pool without first testing its depth.

    In November 2011 he re-issued his latest book of humour, “Blazing Saddles”, as an Amazon Kindle e-book under the title “Blazing Bicycle Saddles”. For a mere US$4.99 you can download a copy of this seminal cycling book in a matter of seconds by clicking here ....


    ooo

    He did this with the full realisation that he is totally at sea in the electronic world with its telephones that take movies and receive faxes and sports results.

    The original edition of “Blazing Saddles”, published by Jonathan Ball, has been out of print for two years. It reveals the true story of how six retired men – five of them journalists – year after year set out (intrepidly) from the African continent on a series of exploratory expeditions cycling into “Darkest Europe” to bring back to the people of Africa tales of its funny natives.

    Clarke will also shortly be publishing, via Amazon.com, another of his action-packed autobiographical books – this time an account of his Second World War exploits as L*E*A*D*E*R of the Yellow Six Patrol of the 1st Streetly Boy Scouts in the English Midlands. He recounts the patrol’s ceaseless campaign to defeat Adolf Hitler’s plan to invade England.

    You can read about “The Yellow Six” within this blogsite.

    Clarke, apart from moving and shaking, is a travel writer and proud father of two highly successful daughters – one a biologist and the other an environmental impact analyst. He and his wife, Lenka, live north of Johannesburg.

The garden gnomes liberation front

A couple of years ago London’s Chelsea Flower Show reluctantly admitted garden gnomes for the first time in its 100 year history.

The English are funny about gnomes.

A few years ago somebody sneaked some into the show and unveiled them when nobody was looking. Shocked, show officials reeled about clutching their head bones – mainly I think because the gnomes were naked.

With or without clothes garden gnomes have come to be regarded by “top gardeners” (to quote a Chelsea horticulturalist) as the worst kind of garden kitsch.

Nevertheless, gnomes keep coming into the news.

A few years ago a house-owner in Tipton in the English Midlands was advised by the council that the two garden gnomes outside her front door were illegal. Each was no higher than a milk bottle. The council said “people might trip over them when running from a fire” – and I suppose, go arse over Tipton (if you’ll forgive me madam).

I would have supported the council but only because I believe keeping gnomes is cruel.

In Paris there’s a movement called the Garden Gnome Liberation Front. The GGLF kidnaps garden gnomes “to free them from domestic captivity” and returns them to their natural woodland habitat.

A few years ago 11 were found hanging from a tree – a mass suicide.

Some years ago I wrote about the GGLF and a woman telephoned to say her garden gnome had been stolen and that a week later she had received a postcard from the gnome saying he was at the seaside and having a wonderful holiday.

As I had, not long before, written about liberating gnomes, the woman (who sounded genuinely upset) blamed me for putting the idea into somebody’s head.

A week later she phoned again. She said that when she woke up her gnome had mysteriously reappeared. (Her gnome was ghome.) She said his face and hands had been varnished to a deep tan.

Gnomes do deserve sympathy.

Just listen to the story of Rumpelstiltskin.

“Rumps” is head gnome in a suburban garden. He has faced the same fence for 24 years.

He can see the front gate and one of his favourite distractions is the tumultuous arrival, once a week, of shouting, whistling angels in funny clothes. They come for the dustbins. Rumps has no doubt that they are angels and I’ll tell you why if only you’d be patient.

Rumps can also see the ridiculous little fishpond where dwells another garden gnome, Cyprinus, with his pointy red hat long faded to pink, holding a fishing rod with no line attached. His mind has long gone.

(Gnomes – their name is from a Greek word meaning intelligence – generally communicate using an extrasensory method.)

Rumps frequently ponders human heartlessness. He’s heard all about the human cruelty to metal birds which people buy at the roadside only to condemn them to a lifetime standing rigidly in one spot.

But metal birds at least have an ally – rust! Rust soon puts them out of their misery.

But ceramic gnomes go on forever.

A few doors down the road a gnome has stood “frozen” for 10 years in a bed of agapanthus whose pointed leaves tickle his noise and about which he can do nothing.

There is a rather gloomy gnome whose mismatched head comes from a different body – he came from a broken gnome.

Fortunately garden gnomes have their faith. Rumps often has to remind the more despondent gnomes that when they are irreparably broken – mercifully smashed by small children, or sent flying by a clumsy dog, or hit by a lawnmower – the pieces are placed in a large bin behind the house from where they are taken to the gate. Their remains are then carried off by the shouting, whistling angels in funny clothes who empty the bins into the Big Truck  that takes them off to paradise.

 

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One Response

  1. Reblogged this on Citizens, not serfs and commented:
    More philosophy and politics

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