A motely mix

Initially: Make good use of office facilities this evening by visiting youtube and asking, when offered a drink, for a big cup o’ Borat

Speaking of Sacha Baron Cohen, Borat on Borat...

Consequently: Every Thursday night, I sit perched at this desk in this cold and lonely office, wretched and bereft, and I dream. I dream of freedom. I dream of rock n roll.
I dream, particularly, of bum rushing the stage at Steak Out during Rock Night with a silver Stratocaster and ripping into eighteen minutes of Hey Joe. I’ll need a band to do that, though. Who’s with me?

My bass guitarist says Hey Joe will not go down too well, cos a lot of yuppies have never heard it. He says we should try something more contemporary, like Linkin Park.

I told him that if he doesn’t want to split up over creative differences before our first performance he should never repeat those words again. We compromised. We shall be performing a big stadium-sized rendition of Blaze of Glory.

Now we need a drummer, another guitarist, a percussionist and roadies. No Project Fame rejects.


Finally: Jack Mataachi is one of the most phenomenal writers in this region today. He is not just brilliant, this guy is … he is incandescent. I may not have any credibility as a critic left after admitting to having enjoyed Tindatiine for a while, but trust me, I know books and I have only read one other Ugandan who even comes close to his level.