Curb this enthusiasm

Spare a thought for the havoc that hacks could wreak on an unsuspecting world if driven out of the safety of their newsrooms

The Rugby World Cup is taking place in the land of the long white cloud. (Do they call it that because of all the weed smokers? Must be. Judging by how vigilant their cops are at tackling black rugby writers who are, obviously, easily confused with dope dealers.)

Anyway, in keeping with that whole crouch, touch, pause, engage theme, I got to thinking how silly we can be when we forget the basics.

As one of this country's foremost rugby coaches noted on SuperSport, "you have to be competitive at the set pieces" to win games.

Trite. But. True. You can't win the cup if your scrum is toothless and your lineout's being poached like a rhino in the Kruger.

Similarly, you can't call yourself a truly democratic state when there are serious threats to media freedom. I know. You fear I may be getting sanctimonious.

Well, you're right. I am.

You see, in the ongoing battle over the Info Bill, we're at a critical point. It's a crucial scrum on our five-metre line. Now that the ANC has called a time-out on passing the bill, you could say both sides have crouched, touched and now paused. But when the ref yells "Engage!" right-thinking South Africans had better give one helluva mighty shove.

Because the next time the cops arrive at our building to collect one of our reporters it won't be to keep him in jail for a day or two - they'll take him or her away for 15 years.

What's that got to do with you, you may be asking.

Well, there's a terrible scenario that could unfold should journalists start to have second thoughts about their commitment to the republic. And it's got nothing to do with your right to know.

You see, like many journalists, I'm not built for prison. It's not my natural habitat. I have serious doubts that I'd thrive in that environment. So, I got to thinking about Plan B. What could I possibly do?

Well. They say do the things you love. And, when it comes to occupations, I think I can be polyamorous.

I love food. I love drink. So naturally I would want to get into the restaurant business. And if you were not scared before, well, now you should tremble with fear.

Plan B has now become a solid, well-thought-out idea (it took an hour of reflection in the bath tub) the purpose of which is to keep me under open skies.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Accelerated and Shared Kilogram Initiative for Expanding South Africa. To be known as Askiesa.

I already know how I will fire my first broadside on the gastronomic gurus out there.

I shall do the anti-Nobu. It will be called Nobru.

The tagline: "Do we got sushi? No, bru. Do we got seaweed? No, bru. We got meat, my china!"

After the spectacular success of this venture I will move on to bigger things.

Next up will be the subversion of all things Ferran Adrià and his (in)famous El Bulli in Spain.

I will open a posher version of Nobru. This one will be called El Boerie. Roll with me on this. The essence of boerewors distilled in a mousse that's almost as light as air. An eight-course tasting menu will feature biryani presented as foam.

So, if you do not want me to perpetrate these crimes against gastronomy, please sign a petition, join the Right2Know campaign and make sure they don't criminalise what I do now. The world will thank you.

And hear me now, Big Business. If Harry Oppenheimer could exercise statesmanship during the dark and dangerous days of apartheid, what's keeping you lot silent now? Hey?

Come on Corporate SA, grow some backbone. So far it's only been Pick n Pay's Gareth Ackerman who has had the stones to speak out.

One day you may well find my restaurant concepts become so popular that I'll end up joining your golf clubs. Teeing off at midday with my boerie roll in one hand and club in the other. My golf cart turned into a mobile draught beer dispenser. It will have a personalised licence plate: Askies' GP. And you will have no one to blame but yourselves. Tricking out a yacht in matte black. Mooring it in Cape Town and sunning my, by then, massively expanded belly on the deck. Nobody wants to see that. I'll get many models to attend parties on it. Hold on. That doesn't sound half bad.