Humour: Boozers don't bottle it

So this guy walks out of the liquor store in Daveyton, Benoni, with a naked bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in his hand.

As he reaches his car, he tucks the bottle into his armpit, fumbles for his keys and in the process, the bottle slips and shatters a few metres from him. For a while there is the unmistakable sweet scent of Scotch whisky in the atmosphere and I gulp in as much of the aroma as I can.

I haven't felt that sorry for anyone in a while. Almost R300 down the drain - literally!

As it turns out, I needn't have worried. He stared at the aromatic river of Scottish excellence for a few seconds before abandoning his car, turning around and with the determined look on his face of a Chihuahua attempting to mount a St Bernard bitch on heat, headed back towards the liquor store for a replacement bottle.

What a champ, I thought. Now, that's what I call unshakable commitment to a valiant cause!

For most people this incident would be just another innocuous anecdote in the collective madness we like to call Mzansi. To me it represented a bit more. You see, it has occurred to me, over the years, there is no group of people more dedicated to their favourite pastime than those who consume alcohol.

There is more commitment among drunkards than among thieves or even caucus members in parliament.

 Let's suppose a member of the Booze Sect fraudulently claimed to have gone to an international boozers championship some 40 years ago and won the title of Grand Wizard of Boozers (GWB), earning the right to put John Smith GWB on his CV. If some nosy reporter exposed him, other boozers would not allow him to fall on his sword and quit boozing.

There are few things drunkards loathe more than one of their own quitting alcohol. I tried quitting the "waters of immortality" about two years ago, with great fanfare.

For the first time in my life I got an insight into what it must have felt like to be a leper on the border of Samaria and Galilee who begged to be cured. The number of SMS's reading, "Hey, wanna hang out later?" dried up and I found myself watching "Happy Feet" and "Puss In Boots" DVDs with my midgets every Saturday evening.

After a few months of being a pariah, Gwede Mantashe's chilling words, "It's cold outside of the ANC" took on new meaning. I returned with my tail between my legs, albeit far more sedately.

But the scene I witnessed in Daveyton reminded me of the most sacred rule of the Boozers Society; never, ever break a bottle of liquor! Ever! I was reminded of this when I shared this story with my Facebook friends. Mathanda Ncube, the journalist, shared how one of his friends, a certain Ntuli, stumbled and fell with a sealed bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.

He apparently rolled down the stairs with the agility of a Hollywood stuntman, taking great care to place flesh and bones in-between the treasure and the steps. When he reached the bottom everybody rushed towards him and grabbed the bottle from his grip to see if it had suffered any damage while he lay on the ground groaning.

Once satisfied that the bottle was intact, they pulled him up and stopped just short of submitting his name to the Presidency for consideration for the Platinum Order of Mapungubwe.

Roaming the streets of KwaMnamatha Village back in the Valley of a Thousand Hills is another such hero, Tman, who damn near lost the skin on his forearms protecting two quarts of Castle Lager. I assure you boozers would sooner break bread with Eugene de Kock than speak to someone who breaks bottles of liquor.

My cousin found this out the hard way as a youngster when, en route to boarding school in Ixopo with his brother, his dad, Bab' Mazibuko handed him a plastic bag with his Gordon's London Dry Gin while entering a KFC to buy them provisions. The bottle slipped from Linda's hand and shattered. Let's just say that when they arrived at school, they had no chicken and they were sans pocket money.

Another friend of mine, Mzamo Madela, stayed at Stratford Hall, a (then) Natal Technikon residence. We had put money together to buy a bottle of Spiced Gold. We had another friend, Mpho, who loved to sit and drink with us without contributing towards the purchase of the liquor.

So when we heard a knock on the door, Mzamo quickly stuffed the bottle in his bar fridge. It was a false alarm. But just at that moment the unmistakable aroma of Spiced Gold filled the room. He'd forgotten to screw the cap on!

I dived into the fridge to salvage the contents but it was too late. We sat there staring at the golden nectar mingled with cabbage leaves and tomatoes, considering what would happen to us if we decanted the mengsel and drank it. I've attended happier funerals than that melancholic scene.

The next time you see a seemingly directionless individual staggering about, muttering gibberish to no one in particular, dismount your moral high horse and suspend your sense of propriety. That individual is a member of a revered Broederbond and while he might have misplaced his certificate, he could be a GWB. LS

ngcobon@sundaytimes.co.za @NdumisoNgcobo