• 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.

A matter of class

Being a travel writer I fly around a lot – some of it by plane. I love taking off for an unusual destination. Even more, I love taking off from that unusual destination bound for home.

On one occasion I was flying first class to London – a rare treat but travel writers occasionally get upgraded – and I found myself sitting next to the head of the London Stock Exchange. (It wasn’t, of course, just his head on the seat. There was a considerable amount underneath.)

I shared with him my expert opinion on the world economy. He occasionally nodded and sometimes even seemed startled.

I had sworn that on this trip I would eat and drink in Spartan moderation and I had managed to stick rigidly to this resolution right up until I entered the plane and was offered champagne. Free champagne is difficult to resist. Then came dinner… well the meals are such that it would have been churlish to have sent back an unfinished one. The hors d’oeuvres was “Osietra caviar from the Caspian Sea”.

“I am rather partial to Osietra caviar,” I told my companion. “Much prefer it to Black Sea caviar.”

“Really?” he said.

I then had roast duck served with grilled mango.

My travelling companion had chosen a delicious looking fish dish. I peered closely at it and frowned. Then I looked again at the menu and saw he must have chosen the “Chef’s choice”. Now why didn’t I do that? I suggested we swop but he said he’d rather not.

I read out to him that the menu said the dish “was developed for the Culinary Olympics in Berlin”.

The Culinary Olympics! “Give me a knife and fork and get me to the Culinary Olympics and I’d do my country proud!” I said.

“Undoubtedly,” he said.

I chose a 1994 Pinotage because of its “soft tannins” and wondered aloud whether business class gets harder tannins and “cattle class” gets tannins as tough as old boots.

Airlines have, since then, mostly done away with first class and now meld it with business class which is also luxurious. Often, after travelling business class, I have difficulty adjusting to the social level of my family and friends.

I rummaged in the complimentary toilet bag and worked out how “Ooncle Jum” (as I am called by my English relatives whom I intended visiting en passant) would distribute the largesse among his nieces and nephews. I’d be able to give one nephew the shoehorn; another the tiny toothbrush with the tiny one-squeeze toothpaste tube; another the comb; while my four lucky little nieces would get, respectively, the little bottle of toilet water, one earplug each and the toilet bag itself.

My sniffy little cousin Prudence would get the sick bag.

After dinner I felt like pulling back the heavy curtains that divided first class from business class and then the curtains that separate business class from tourist and, in the name of egalitarianism, tossing my first class chocolates among those at the far back. But, instead, I ate them while revealing to my Stock Exchange companion my plan for accelerating the world’s economic recovery.

I noticed he drank champagne with his dinner. I mentioned that I had been told to avoid drinking anything sparkling when flying because if the aircraft has to increase altitude the bubbles in one’s stomach expand and one could find oneself floating, like a dirigible, against the ceiling with no chance of descending until the plane resumed a lower altitude.

He looked at me for a long time.

As I say, I enjoy flying overseas but there’s nothing quite like it when, at the end of a sojourn, one gets to the airport well in time to relax before one’s departure and settles in the business lounge where drinks and snacks are free.

On the return journey I acquire yet another toilet bag but the last time I did the distribution bit at home, one of my daughters said: “Oh no, Daddy, not another shoehorn!”

Talk about spoilt! There are some kids who’ve never even seen a shoehorn.

[Extract from “Recalculating” (The funny side of travel)  available on Kindle and Smashwords].

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