Walking down the aisle (part 2)

There are some truly hard-core stunts that my Moonman saves for special occasions. At the Spar in Kleinmond a while back, he pretended to be… uhhmm… mentally challenged (yes, I know, it’s not politically correct at all). He clung to my arm and said loudly, “Mummy! Mummy!!” and proceeded to slobber over me a bit. Then he loaded 17 packets of Eatsumor biscuits into the trolley, and ran off following an imaginary dot which was swiftly racing along the floor, all the time mumbling incoherently and flapping his arms. He chased the shop assistants and they ran for cover, shrieking. Those of you who don’t know the Moonman, need to understand he is not a small and unobtrusive type of man. He is BIG. He is very tall, and sometimes wears a beard like a Voortrekker. Now imagine this man shouting “Mummy! Mummy!!!” in a shop.


That same memorable day, the man walked out of the liquor store and pretended to be falling drown drunk. He was weaving from side to side, tripping over his feet, shouting and slurring loudly. He staggered to his bakkie, took forever to unlock it, dropped the keys, stumbled over his shoes and kept up a drunken running commentary all the while. Eventually he fell into the car, then fell out again, managed to close the door and start the car after a while. Of course, as you can imagine, I’m crying with laughter by this time, which makes me look like a drunken hussy on a hot date. I saw two men hesitantly coming towards us, but then they decided to let us go – which was the scariest part of this joke. That no-one stopped this drunkard from driving off. Which we eventually did, with much lurching and stalling and screeching of tyres. PS: don’t worry – the man really only drinks tea. The dop was for me.

One day in Langebaan, while seeing how close we could get to the little harbour down the hill without actually starting the bakkie, we ended up on the wrong side of the road (these things happen). Two young women were walking past. Without missing a beat, the Moonman rolls down his window and asks, in his best German accent, “Exkuze me, but do you know vere is ze yacht klub? Ve are from Chermany, und ve don’t know ze vay.” (Keep in mind, the man IS half German, so he can pull it off). The women politely pointed us in the right direction. As an afterthought, he calls out, “Und vitch side off ze road are ve to drive again?” “On the left, always the left!” the one replied, a little shaken. “Ach zo! On ze left, das is gut. Danke! Sank you!” and off we went again, waving happily (I’m bent double in the passenger seat, howling with laughter).

Have you ever been at the Caltex garage on the corner of Merriman and Bird Street, filling up your car, when the whole place suddenly explodes into cat screeches, miaauws, dog barks, whistles and chicken noises? Well, don’t be alarmed. This simply means that the Moonman has either driven into or past the garage. They recognise his old bakkie, his new bakkie and his motorbike. Sometimes he sneaks in under the radar, if he’s in my car with me, and surprises them, causing even more raucous laughter, shouting and caterwauling. The pump attendants love it when this crazy white man arrives with his farmyard cacophony. The other customers are no doubt completely baffled. Man, I miss him – and I think the garage attendants do too – and it’s still weeks before he gets back from the Arctic circle.

One afternoon, the Moonman and I were sitting at my dining room table having lunch. The neighbours’ dog started barking furiously at something in the street. My three dogs replied enthusiastically. And the Moonman? He’s happily barking along with them. I sighed and said, “Stop barking at the neighbours, dear.”

Never thought I’d ever need to say those words…

There have been a few good neighbour pranks too. We used to have a student house next door to us. After a night of drunken partying and noise which made sleep impossible for us, Moonman went into my garden, right under their bedroom windows, where we hoped they would be, semi-comatose and hung-over, and proceeded to shout in his best Eastern Cape accent: “Medem! Medem!! I am coming to wek medem! I have come medem! Sho sho sho Medem! The bell she is not wekking medem! Medem! Wake up medem! Meeee-deeeem!! I come to clean the house medem!” He kept this up for a looooong time, punctuating his yelling with piercing whistles. At top volume. It was great.

The Moonman is a master of accents. He can do any accent you can think of, and he can speak what sounds exactly like French to anyone who doesn’t speak French. At the wedding of my friend Philma and her French-speaking husband Milo, he had a lively conversation with the groom: “Oh, oui, bien sur, allons le bateau et le frommage, voulez vouz le renault et le citroen? Oui, c’est la vie, au revoir la mer et le chateau. Le bebe, je ne sais quoi avec moi!”

At the reception, the bride complained, “I’m so tired, I hardly slept last night. Milo’s battery was low and it beeped every few minutes, all night long!” To which the Moonman piped up, “His battery?! I thought he was a real man!”

Sometimes, as a very special treat, I let the Moonman ride my scooter. Interestingly, when riding his own big BMW, he rides gently, smoothly, sedately, but when put on a little 110cc scooter, his inner demon is released. And if I’m riding bitch, I have trouble staying on, mostly because I’m laughing so much. He likes to bend over really low, racing style, which leaves me sitting upright behind him like an idiot. He puts out his knee when going around corners and would wheelie if he could. OK, he can, but he doesn’t dare to, because he knows I wouldn’t allow him back on the scooter if he did.

Once, someone in a car tried to intimidate him off the road and Moonman, who doesn’t take that kind of insult lying down, banged with this fist on the car’s roof when they both stopped at the next intersection. A “high speed chase” through town ensued (well, high speed might be an exaggeration, it’s a scooter we’re talking about, carrying 100kg of weight). He doubled back through a garage, did a nifty u-turn and then went over a bicycle bridge where the car couldn’t follow, and arrived at my house in great spirits. That guy is probably still looking for the little yellow scooter. Which is one of the reasons I don’t really ride it that often… (I must just add here that the Moonman is in fact the safest driver I have ever met)

Moonman and Chicken

I could go on. And on. I try to endure these pranks with grace and dignity. If you spot me walking somewhere in Stellenbosch, arm in arm with (or two paces behind) a drunk or retarded man, or someone who is clucking like a chicken, or looks like a Voortrekker, a fireman or a deep sea fisherman, spare a thought. Hoot and wave as you drive by, please.

“You’re a brave wench, Skoodle,” he says to me. “The bravest wench I know.”


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. meladjusted
    Dec 18, 2011 @ 07:56:28

    I might have to start the tradition over here of acting like a loon at the Spar – now just to get me a false beard and get the Husband to wear a dress that I can cling to 😀 – Laughed my socks off – again! Thanks!


  2. ericanexpress
    Dec 18, 2011 @ 11:54:17

    Whahahaha!! PLEASE please please, if you ever do, take pictures!!! 🙂


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