Jack Snaps Read online

a beer can and the steering wheel in his one hand! Often that hand left the steering wheel, to turn as it wished, while the hand was lifting the can to Jack’s mouth. As often as I could I offered my car for our transport, and I did the driving. This suited Jack, it saved on fuel.

  After the spare room debacle Jack never took beer home again. We started visiting the local pubs with serious intent. We soon settled on our favourite drinking hole, at the hotel on the banks of the river. The ‘men only’ bar, not that many people paid attention to that sign, fronted out on the river, about twenty meters away. The slant from the pub door to the river bank was fairly steep, with paved paths leading to various points on the river, also a jetty for patrons who preferred visiting by boat.

  This steep downhill to the water’s edge caused problems from time to time. With a couple of rounds inside, many guys were not always too sure of their footing when they went outside for a pee, and landed up getting very wet when they rolled down into the water. Jack, the leg irons took most of the blame, had a dip at least once a week.

  Why would we choose to pee outside instead of in the toilet you may well ask. Simple, it is easier to aim at a tree than at a narrow trough or small bowl, and it didn’t leave a puddle on the floor if you missed!

  I regularly had more problems with Jack in the pub. His intelligence level reached majestic heights when his stomach was full of liquid, and many of the huge farmers did not take kindly to Jack’s forceful opinions. To make his point stick, Jack would invite them to meet him outside, one fist raised. This was not always pretty, a one-armed one-legged man with a belly full trying to enforce his views on a drunk giant. Thus some pub regulars, including myself, landed up in ‘bloody nose’ scuffles once in a while. We had no desire for this rough-housing but also had no desire to sing at Jacks funeral.

  As Jack’s father had some serious concerns about his son’s drinking habits, he and his fellow important people kept a close eye on the pubs. Fortunately, as it was against their high standards of civilization, they did not enter any hole, but checked the parking areas for Jacks car.

  That was no problem for my friend; he quickly mapped a route from the parking, through the gardens, between the bungalows and over the verandas to park his car right outside the pub, completely out of view. Four times this feat of incredible off-road driving landed up in disaster. Bend veranda pillars, flattened rose bushes was taken as standard procedure when Jack was involved, but getting tow trucks to the pub door was not.

  Somehow Jack’s car landed up in the river too, rolling down the slope. Twice, shortly after Jack had arrived and had entered the pub, twice with Jack inside the car while he was trying to depart. These occasions did have some sobering effect that never lasted more than a few days.

  In a small village a newspaper- man had a lot of influence, and was shown a lot of respect. He was treated in the same way as preachers, lawyers, teachers and politicians. Only doctors had more clout.

  Everybody has some secrets, those little actions and habits they don’t want others to know about. In small towns this is much more important than in cities, as everybody knows everybody else in town. Anything of real interest seldom happens, so these little indiscretions become big news. A reporter is reputed to have a nose for newsworthy dirt, and do talk to a lot of people, and do visit all the pubs too. As a result all the sinners try their best to stay on the newsman good side. And on his photographer best side too! Officially Jack never was part of the newspaper staff, but whenever he was bored he travelled around with me, taking all the photographs, and more, that I might need.

  Thus Jack’s and my drinking habits were not overly expensive, offers to pay for our drinks always streamed in. There were many other advantages too. We received golden invitations to many parties, weddings and product launches, as everybody hoped for a nice write-up, and a photograph, in the local paper, to enhance their standing in the community.

  One day we were confronted by two heavyweight farmers, accusing us of not giving the local rugby any publicity. We promised to rectify the matter and duly showed up at the towns club on the Saturday afternoon, notebook and camera in hand. The match started on time, which is 16 minutes after the time advertised on the ten posters pasted on lamp posts in the village.

  Here I must interrupt the match to introduce Mister Poppy van Eck, the nearside linesman. Poppy was too huge to play rugby himself, weighing in at just over 200 kilogram. Poppy didn’t take nonsense from rugby players or referees, and nobody argued with him either. A line-out took place where Poppy indicated it should take place, at the spot where he happened to be at the time, not necessary where the ball crossed the line. As a result very few line-outs took place on the near side, the kickers in the game preferring to direct their kicks to the far side where a smaller and fitter linesman did duty, and did take in consideration where the ball more or less did cross the line.

  The match progressed well for about seven minutes; there was a lot of running up and down, falling about, tackling and cursing. I got the distinct impression that the back line players were wishing for thicker jerseys, and if permitted, coats. They were standing around getting cold while the forwards spent a lot of time scrimmaging. Jack and me agreed that if Poppy was a front ranker for the local team, the opposition had no chance.

  Then all hell broke loose. The scrum popped up with everybody in it throwing wild punches. Poppy, standing next to us, let out a roar of pleasure and with a: “Ah, let the bony balls fly!” he stormed onto the field to assist his team. Poppy actually ran!

  Jack didn’t let this opportunity for publicity for the local rugby team go by, his camera starting snapping like a machine gun! It was not long before somebody in the free-for-all noticed, and with a scream of “Don’t take pictures!” started coming our way at a full run, followed by a number of his team mates. Fortunately for us they had to cover about thirty meters, and our car was only five meters away. Even with Jack’s impediment we made it, just, and got away.

  On Monday morning a number of sheepish looking burly guys came into Jack’s studio, asked to see the photographs of the rugby match, and bought some. Jack had the best daily turnover ever.

  As a result of this our team of two, Jack and me, became a team of three. Poppy had come to the conclusion that being a news reporter and photographer was not always that safe, and voluntary became our bodyguard. He accompanied us wherever we went, that is when he wasn’t working.

  The leader of an ultra-rightwing, white-supremist, political movement visited town, to convince the citizens that if they were not prepared to stand up and fight, the future of the white race in the country was very dark indeed.

  Jack, Poppy and I went to the public meeting in the town hall; somebody had to spread this message of doom to the nation. It quickly became apparent that this man was just a rabble-rouser, misquoting history to his own ends. Yes, he was a good speaker, in the same class as Adolf and many happy-clappy preachers.

  After a short while we decided to leave, we really had better things to do down at the local. We got up from our seats and started leaving the hall. The man of the moment didn’t like this; he didn’t appreciate his audience being reduced and demanded over the public address system as to where we were going. Jack couldn’t resist a retort, and shouted back: “To the local pub, the guys there talk more interesting crap than you!”

  Again I found myself running for my life next to Jack, with Poppy in the rear, chased by black clad militia men with deadly intent. Again Jack and I, and Poppy in fleeing mode for the first time, got away, making it to the pub alive.

  Poppy did comment later that our actions were the safest option; these SS Trooper types were far more dangerous than any rugby front row, due to a lack of intelligence.

  Yearly the town fathers arranged a show, on the auspices of it being agricultural. It was the opportunity for the town folk to show what they have, can do, and sell whatever they can to whoever they can. It was three days for drinking, partying and kissing the neighbour�
�s wife.

  Jack and I decided that we were not going to let the chance to have some fun go by. We would arrange and conduct a beauty pageant for all the pretty young girls in the area. Being in the press we soon convinced some local business people to sponsor some amazing prized to compete for.

  The first condition was that all potential contestants had to submit at least two photographs of themselves for pre-judging; only the ten best would be invited on stage for the judges to select their favourite. As most young girls don’t have recently taken photos in their possession at all times, it was a golden opportunity for Jack to practice his craft. We required a head and shoulder picture, and also a full body shot, in swimming costume or similar revealing clothing.

  Vanity is a strange thing. We quickly learned that a number of the contestants were quit prepared to pose full length topless, just to supplement our private collection of pictures. As long as Jack didn’t charge them for the photos needed for the pageant, they were willing to undress to panties only.

  One of these contestants was the barmaid from our local, a really attractive young girl.

  I must stress at this point that we did not think of the pictures as pornographic, more in the artistic