And what, you may well ask, could possibly be worse than a fate worse than death?

Could it have been that President Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo, Equatorial Guinea's big stuff despot, had wanted to have his way with Mann? If what I read here is correct, Obiang had threatened to "personally sodomise" and then "skin (Mann) alive".

(Note to self: Personally sodomise? Can one do this any other way? Must inquire of chaps in the know.)

As an African, I cannot condone such things, but I do understand why Obiang would want to have relations, if I may call it that, with the mercenary leader. Mann, even bedraggled in prison garb, is not an unattractive fellow.

And as an Old Etonian he is more than likely to have had experience in these matters as a schoolboy. A bit of nudge, let's say, with some senior after Latin prep followed by tea and crumpets and a few knowing winks in the common room.

But it is puzzling that Obiang would want Mann flensed so soon after sharing a tender moment with him. Could this have been to prepare the mercenary for eating? Now I know that you're thinking, Hey, don't go down that road, what with the suggestion of cannibalism and stuff. But it is said to be something of a noble practice in certain warrior societies, where devouring the heart of your foe will give you something of his fighting spirit, although I can't really see why this would be.

Besides, if it's a fighting spirit that you want, you can get that in spades from cheap rum. This, at least, is what we've come to know on Friday nights at Mahogany Ridge.

But why would anyone want to eat someone as unsuitable as Mann? At his age, he is tough and leathery and probably ruined by too much gin. He wouldn't even make a halfway decent curry.

Far better, I'd suggest, to make a meal of Marlize van Emmenis, the young performance artist responsible for the Joost van der Westhuizen video.

Poor Joost. How he has suffered. No, really.

First, there was the sex-and-drugs hell with this woman. And make no mistake, gentle reader, it was hell. Worse, even, than a fate worse than a fate worse than death. Snorting A-grade cocaine off the body of a naked and firmly toned stripper in a sexual frenzy is not an experience that one easily forgets, I can tell you.

He lost his job at SuperSport, and that was a particularly harsh blow, it seemed, coming at a time when what Joost really needed was the support of his colleagues. But perhaps it was for the best, given the whiff of hypocrisy about the studios.

Then his former colleague, Darren Scott, interviewed his wife, the singer Amor Vittone, on his Radio Jacaranda breakfast show. Now that they no longer get to spend time together on a lot in Randburg cackling about boys with odd-shaped balls, Joost can't even moer him for making her cry on the air.

And to top it all, you can't even buy Joost's book because the bloody publishers didn't print enough copies. How stupid is that?

IN other matters, I have been reliably informed that one or two of my colleagues have attempted to explain to the president of the ANC Youth League why he is called Jelly Tsotsi.

The obvious explanation, of course, is that he is called Jelly Tsotsi because that is his name. We all know this.

But poor Jelly appears to have lost his memory and, incredible as it may seem, doesn't know who he is. Why else would he have demanded of the metro traffic officers who had pulled him over for speeding, "Do you know who I am?"

That time when he supposedly klapped his neighbour who'd popped over to complain about the loud music? That wasn't arrogance, but fear. That time, he also had to ask if anybody knew who he was.

I hope the amnesia is temporary.

It would indeed be terrible if he would never again recall that he is, at heart, a really super person, kind and generous, and not only a professor in woodwork but a great statesman, too.

And probably quite tasty, not to mention sprinkled in powdered sugar.