Cheers to Viking berserkers

We, the people, have learned how to accept the things that make no sense. We have become the living embodiment of a twisted version of Reinhold Niebuhr’s shopworn Serenity Prayer.

There are things that, pre-pestilence, would have made us sit up and take notice. We might have even tried to question or rationalise whatever monstrous aberration we’d seen or heard. Now we simply sigh, shake our heads and wait for the next incomprehensible absurdity to present itself. We no longer feel the need to understand things the way we did before. For the sake of what little remains of our sanity, it’s best we don’t try.

The other day, trawling that ever-diminishing portion of the internet that’s not devoted to genitalia, I came across a headline that slipped my grasp, even as it stirred the diluted dregs of my withering interest.

“One in 12 Australians drinking alcohol every day during the coronavirus outbreak, survey finds,” said The Guardian sniffily. I didn’t get it. Was this a misprint or early onset aphasia? Australians are notoriously athletic in the drinking department. Perhaps the sub-editor was drunk and the headline was meant to read nine out of 12 Australians. That would make more sense. Or did it mean Australians had been drinking less during the pandemic? It seemed unlikely. Why would they do that?

We South Africans stepped up our intake to such heroic levels at the first hint of trouble that we scared the government into withdrawing our alcohol privileges altogether. If ever there was a time for people to drink like Viking berserkers, this is it. And even more so if you happen to live in a police state like Australia.

I poured the last of my bootlegged gin (this being written on Monday night … feels like Christmas Eve) into a cracked tumbler, took a deep breath and clicked on the link.

A new Alcohol and Drug Foundation survey found that “one in 10 people reported consuming more than 10 standard drinks per week, increasing the risk of alcohol-related injury and diseases …”.

If my maths is correct, and there’s no reason to think it isn’t since I got an F for it in matric, this means a tenth of Australia’s population is drinking more than 1.4 drinks a day. I don’t even know what .4 of a drink would look like. I suppose every time I have a drink, it does pass the .4 mark on its way to zero. But I’ve never thought of stopping at 1.4 drinks a day. That’s my hourly rate, but only if the bar is very busy.

“Professor Terry Bowles, a habit formation expert from the University of Melbourne, said many people have picked up new habits since the pandemic began.”

Now that’s my idea of a decent job. Testing substances to see how quickly they turn into fierce habits. What a brilliant excuse for coming home smelling strongly of crystal meth. Relax honey, it’s just research. Bowles says that after months of lockdown restrictions, Australia has passed the threshold of time required to establish new habits. That’s 66 days, according to the prof.

By banning alcohol, cigarettes, surfing, pies etc, our government was clearly hoping we’d establish new habits of eating healthily, keeping fit and making fewer demands for the entire ANC leadership to be jailed for life. Obviously it hasn’t worked.

“Nearly one in five people said they wished they’d drunk less during the lockdown,” said the report. There are Sunday mornings when I, too, have wished I’d drunk less. That might not be entirely connected to the pandemic.

Alcohol and Drug Foundation chief executive Dr Erin Lalor encouraged people to reach out for support. Hazardous advice for anyone who drinks. I won’t speak of the tumbles I have taken after reaching out for what, in the moment, looked very much like support.

This last Saturday night, our invertebrate-in-chief was told to tell us that alcohol could be sold from Tuesday. You think the Israelites were thrilled when Moses parted the sea, allowing them to escape from a bunch of angry Egyptians demanding their money back? That was nothing compared to how South Africans felt when they heard about the reopening of bottle stores.

Anyway. Enough of that. Let us move on to matters judicial. There are unusually promising signs that a handful of untarnished angelic upstarts in government are tentatively hoisting the flag of righteous retribution. Yes, indeed. The obviously guilty are already grasping at increasingly outlandish denials while being gently herded towards the quicksands of culpability.

Bill Clinton set the bar for implausible deniability at its highest when, trying to wriggle off the Monica Lewinsky hook, he said, “It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is. If ‘is’ means is and never has been, that is not – that is one thing.” There’ll be a similar version in the High Court in Pretoria one day. “Your honour, it depends on what the meaning of the word ‘bag’ is.”

Senzo Mchunu, overlord of the public service, might well be one of the cleaner beans. The other day he handed the police and NPA a list of 1,544 civil servants suspected of doing business with the state. Bit cheeky, considering il capo dei capi Ace Magashule says it’s legal because everyone in government does it. It’s hard to say for sure, but let’s generously assume it takes the NPA a year to fully investigate one person. This means that by the time the last of the current dodgy crop has been prosecuted, we’ll be celebrating Christmas in the year 3564.

Jacob Zuma, cryogenically frozen in 2025, will be revived briefly to file another appeal. When Ramaphosa bought his way into the presidency, the NPA was a nest of vipers. Some of them, like animals sensing an imminent natural disaster, slithered away before they could be instructed to bite the still powerful hands that once fed them. Many are still there.

I remember looking at a photo of the new sheriff, Shamila Batohi, and thinking, “Here’s comes trouble.” I imagined the weevils infesting our gangster state trembling with fear. I held my breath in anticipation. She took office in February 2019. I have since exhaled. Batohi keeps saying her office lacks capacity and capability. So where are the competent state prosecutors? They can’t all be in Perth or on the 28s’ payroll.

Right now, Doctors Without Borders has a team in South Africa helping us with our dazed and confused response to this bastard virus. Never mind doctors. What we really need is a platoon of knife-scarred lawyers from Prosecutors Without Principles, which doesn’t currently exist. We’re looking for attack dogs from barbarous countries who relish the blood of the guilty on their hands. Lawyers who wear one black glove and never take their dark glasses off. Ah, well. One can dream.

We at least have the Zondo commission, even if it is starting to resemble a hippo. Slow-moving but dangerous if provoked. Let’s pray for provocation. So there it is. Have a happy Level 2. Learn how to hold your liquor and try not to deify Ramaphosa too much. The only thing he did was give back what we had all along until his government took it away from us.

For more news your way, download The Citizen’s app for iOS and Android.