We were sent to Senekal to carry out a special investigation of the activities of a manager who Bush described during the special as “Crooked as a corkscrew”. It was in the Staff Performance Evaluation season and we found ourselves being called away to Kroonstad, (along with Messrs Wally Brown and John Bell) where Mr John Holding, Chief Internal Auditor, would be doing our evaluations.
Bush had a drab little white Beetle which he insisted on using and we drove off to Kroonstad (My birthplace). Mr Holding completed the evaluations by midday and we said goodbye to him and adjourned to the nearest pub. At least the senior guys did – I was to stay sober as I had to drive back. When they eventually rolled out of that pub, it was quite late in the day and the chaps quite merry. John & Wally had stuck to their Castles but I believe that Bush had comfortably outpaced them with double whiskys.
Driving back Bush was as happy as a sandboy – laughing and letting off snatches of song. He said, “Do you know what that bloody fool said about me – he said I was a wise man. ME! A WISE MAN” and he laughed uproariously. I gathered he had no time for poor Mr Holding. Perhaps he felt he was in cahoots with that evil cabal that controlled his staff file – I just don’t know. But anyway, on the way back to Senekal, we had to pass Ventersburg and he asked me if the town had a pub and like a fool, I confirmed that it had. And in we went so he could top up a bit. After a brace of doubles for him and a tomato juice for me, I got him back into the car and we got back on the road.
Just a few miles out of town, we passed a black man manfully wobbling up a hill on his bicycle. Bush was rocking back and forth gently and humming to himself. As we pulled level with the cyclist, Bush suddenly caught sight of him and jerked back in his seat, turning wildly to his left to try and get a better view as we we sped past. “S…t “ he shouted, “did you see that?” ‘What?’ I asked, mystified. “That effing CAMEL” he cried. Thinking I might just have missed something, I looked all around but then realized he was talking about the fellow on the bike. Laughing I said, “No, that wasn’t a camel – it was a black man on a bicycle”. Quite indignantly he turned to me and seriously said, “Listen my boy, I’ve been to Egypt and I damn well know an effing camel when I see one!”
In our family, rural cyclists are still known as “Morley Camels”.
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