If Hilary Had Won, What Next For The Donald?

If Hilary Rodham Clinton (Below), had been elected the 45^th President of the 'free world' - The United States of America and the first POTUS at that, one of her pending issues would have been - 'Just what on earth do I do with The Donald' – as in Donald Trump, her bitter Republican rival for the presidency.

Of course she could have ignored him, but The Donald (Below), was likely to keep on sniping away at her heels throughout her four-year-tenure. Perhaps she could have taken drastic action and handed him over to the feared Los Zetas, a cartel who control Mexico’s notorious suburb - Juarez Valley, where many of the would-be-immigrants into America and who would have been clambering over his immigration wall reside and let them tear him apart.

But pause a minute. There are many women out there who are still seething and foaming at the mouth over the comments he made about them during the election campaign and who would love to sink their teeth into him. For that, she perhaps need look no further than Mpigi, here in Uganda, where Mpigi Woman has been on the rampage.

I do stand to be corrected, but if I recall from my so not-paying-attention geography classes, Mpigi, is a town in Mawokota County, Mpigi District. It’s also an important transit town on the highway to Masaka and has a staunch Buganda populous where one of Buganda’s most renowned traditional gods – Kibuuka Ommbaale resides as well as it being the ancestral home of the ndiga (sheep) clan.

Nothing tangible thats worth gloating about really comes out of Mpigi - save for ndiga, nsenene and oba what else, but recently, someting did - enough to get the town a mention in the newspapers – not because the ndiga had ran amok, but because of spousal battery. And this is where we jump in. It’s not that Mpigi Man is battering Mpigi Woman, but Mpigi Woman is battering Mpigi Man. Hmm. So ‘concerned’ are the police that Victor Kule, (Below) the regional police commander for Katonga region, has been tasked with making sure that Battered Man gets police help.

Just like men who batter women, women who batter men don’t have signs hanging off their necks that read: ‘I batter my man.’ And they are not necessarily the muscly butch type women with grey strands of hair between their bosom and who hang out in sweaty UNHCR tarpaulin covered makeshift Kawempe gyms behind Roko and doing squat thrusts with Moses Golola.

The first battered man I came across in Uganda was at Ggaba Police station a few years ago. He was built – not 100% pure muscled beef, but had enough beef on him to handle himself in a melee. It was the third time he was reporting to police that he had been battered by Wifey.

However, to Fat Female Cop, Battered Man was merely wasting time police time for she said something along the lines of: “But look at you, you are a man and you really can’t take care of yourself!?” She went further and this time joined by Male Cop, they belittled him in front of everybody who was there to report a case, those under arrest and those merely passing by. OC on the other hand, just didn’t want to know.

And when Wifey walked in, she was the most petite women I’d seen in a while but had the most vicious temper and an abuse vocabulary that was so acidic, it literally made the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Moving on, I have never met the television personality MC Kats (Below) nor have I met his finance or is it now his ex-fiancé, Fille Mutoni (Far Bottom). Apart from her thigh power, Fille looks like the girl next door. I don’t know where she comes from, but if its Mpigi, then her battering Kats recently was a battering waiting to happen.

So, what exactly happened? Err, Fille thumped the living daylights out of Kats in public and no one was sympathetic to him but, we did take delight in mocking and ridiculing him. He was the butt of jokes from Koboko to Kisoro and we men (and women too) smirked and sneered: “What sort of man is Kats to allow a kawala to goof him?” 

If he (Kats) on the other hand had battered Fille, he would have been plucked from the streets and whisked on the back of a police pickup to CPS faster than it takes Uganda’s foot dragging and slowest waitress to pop open a bottle of Tusker Malt. That aside, an army of women  - led by the vocal, unpredictable and erstwhile Dr Stella Nyanzi, would have camped outside the station demanding he, along with The Donald, who Hiliary Clinton banished to Mpigi, get hung from the nearest Marabou Stork infested mango tree outside the High Court till their necks snap for heinous crimes against women.

Pictures: Weekly Observer, AFP, Red Pepper

1,000 Ways To Die

Back in the 80s when Milton Obote still ruled the coup, Mum had a maroon 1977 model Fiat 127 like the one below and it was the car I learnt to drive in. Except, I wasn’t allowed to drive in Kampala, but in kyalo – Ibulanku to be precise. But I didn’t want to drive down Ibulanku’s dusty roads. I mean what was the point? A 16-year-old teen can’t show off driving down kyalo roads. Would School Friends see me? No. At school there was no way I could brag that I could drive because as a teen, everything required proof. They actually had to see you roll up to a party at Friends house driving. If you had a girlfriend, holding hands or sitting next to her was not proof enough. They had to see you with your tongue rammed down her throat, if not, your crotch pressing hard against her.

Everybody my age had driving proof – except me. Richard and Bernard Kajura had proof. So did Ian and Jonathan Musoke. And they were not driving down the streets of their kyalo’s, but in Kampala. I had to be like them. But there was a problem.

Mr. and Mrs. Bukumunhe – my parents that is, didn’t see it that way. That they give me TB – a ka teen their car, fill it with fuel that was scarce in those days so I could go gallivant around Kampala impressing School Friend? The thought of asking them for a car gave me shudders. It was enough to make me slap myself. It was illegal. It was criminal. It was an obscene thought.

On a summer holiday from boarding school and with Parent at work, I explored the house and swinging open the garage doors, what do I find but, a Range Rover like the one below except, that it was white. And more importantly, the keys were in the ignition. That find to a 16-year-old, is akin to Bank of Uganda asking Civil Servant to store $10m of donor money under his bed than in the bank vault.

Of course I was going to steal the Range Rover. No, let me rephrase. Of course I stole the Range Rover! However, there was a ‘but’. It’s one thing driving a Fiat 127 and another thing driving a Range Rover. I didn’t drive the Range Rover – rather, it drove me. It was so powerful that the snarling revs of its engine literally snapped Teen Girl’s bra straps as she walked past the ride in Kansanga. I know because I heard the ‘ping’ as the straps snapped.

I made it from Muyenga to Ian and Jonathan’s house in Makyinde where jaws dropped as I drove through the gate. Visiting Teen Girls suddenly wanted to know me. I was IT. Back school - The Grange School in Kenya, I would take centre stage. I would be the talk – “TB can drive and his parents allow him to drive a Range Rover!”

Satisfied with the plaudits, I had to get the Range home before Parent got back from work and that’s when everything went south. I fired up Range then gave her some revs to snap Visiting Teen Girl’s bra strap but when I engaged gear, Range didn’t sedately drive away. Range had become nasty. It wanted to show off what its engine could do like a Formula One car lurching off the grid at the start of a race. In the space of five seconds, it had lurched, smashed into the boundary wall and reduced it to rubble. Then it careered off a flowerbed and straight through another wall where it came to a standstill along with a cracked windscreen.

One thing about being Teen, is that when disaster strikes especially when you have stolen Parents ride, is tantamount to having no friends. You are on your own – a loner at that. Visiting Teen Girl’s who moments ago were so into me, ran for the gates and scurried themselves home. Jonathan and Ian wanted to bolt but couldn’t, because the accident occurred at their house.

I don’t know how Parent found me, but when they got out of the car along with Mr. Musoke and come over to me, the atmosphere was frightfully chilling - like waiting to watch how I was going to die in season one of the television series - 1,000 Ways To Die. Mum was dressed in mourning black from head-to-toe for she knew I was dead, while Dad, it was for being on bunkenke and trying to guess from which direction the first of many hot slaps and kicks would come from.

Was it worth stealing the Range? Jeez, YES! The slaps, kibooko and abuse aside, when I got back to school, rather than having a tattered reputation, I was a star, I was a hero for word had spread.

And suffice to say, I am in trouble for when Parent buys the paper and reads this, I doubt both of them will be amused for my making money through glorifying my childhood wayward ways.


Pictures: Fiat, Land Rover, Internet

Lusting After The Obese Woman

I am not fat shaming, but beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and out there, men and women connect on different levels. Some men like tall women. Some like short women. Others like them light skinned or dark skinned. Some prefer them smart. Others settle for airheads. Some men go in for big busted women or women with hairy legs. Every man – and woman, has a type. One of my tights – Paulo, he likes them ample and kind of bummy. That’s his preference. But while he likes Bummy Woman, he has a cut-off point as in, she’s bummy but, reasonable bummy.

It’s a myth that only Black Man has a thing for Bummy Woman, while White Man, prefers Anorexic Woman. However, there’s a breed of White Man who wants more than Bummy Woman. He wants a woman who is full masaavu – a mix of Kimbo, Blue Band, fat off a 21-piece KFC bucket, Mukwano cooking oil and the layers of fat from the largest sow at an Ntinda pork joint all rolled into one. Basically, he wants her obese.

I’m flicking though the television channels and it jumps at me. A one-hour documentary, Fat Girls and Feeders which according to the synopsis is: ‘A disturbing look at the bizarre sub-culture in which men who find larger women attractive coerce their ample partners to gain more weight – for sexual or more sinister reasons.’

Like me, Mark is lean and has a 32-inch waist. He likes Fat Woman. I don’t and he was determined to find himself Fat Woman and make her the fattest woman in the world so he could satisfy his sexual lust. And he did.

When he met her, Fat Woman was as big as the television presenter, Straka (Below) but, she was trying to lose weight. She watched what she ate, she swam and went to the gym. When Mark came along, he piled her with food. Breakfast was two large buckets of KFC. Lunch, a dozen pizzas that could feed all the cops camped outside Besigye’s crib in Kasangati. In between meals were numerous McDonalds snacks and jumbo bottles of Coke.

And this is where it got perverted. He took pictures of her progress and drooled over her lard. He’d smile to himself when she struggled to walk or was out of breath. He controlled her. He wanted her obese and totally dependent on him.

                                    

Like Mark, Luke was a ‘feeder’ - someone who manipulates and controls his partners diet by feeding her fat gaining foods. Luke wanted Fat Woman house bound – a prisoner almost and to achieve that, he had to make her bed ridden obese. For two years, Fat Woman never left her bed because she couldn’t lift herself out of it. And with obesity came health issues, that the only way Paramedic could get her from the bedroom to the hospital, was to call the fire brigade who, broke down a wall and had to use a crane to hoist her out of her lair.

In the hospital, under the folds of flesh, she was filthy, rotting with maggots eating away. But get this. When Doctor put her on a diet and she began to lose weight, dude cried, went absolutely livid and ditched her.

In Mark’s case, his Fat Woman isn’t yet the fattest woman in the world but she is getting there – though her having a heart attack look set to ruin his plans. She too is bed ridden and barely has the energy to lift her head off the pillow or her arms or legs. Meanwhile, pervy Luke marvels at seeing his Fat Woman naked but, her nakedness almost made me throw up. Her obese dead skin covered body was obscene - vile. Grotesque in fact. 

But like it’s said, each man to their own.


Pictures: TLC, Bukedde

That Bitchy Sista Stare

When hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, women with conventional names, names like – Flavia, Lillian, Martha, Penlope, Esther, Carol, Vicky, Eva or Lucy are not only a spent force but, yesterday’s woman especially when it comes to unleashing a tirade assurances or giving that evil if eyes could kill look that Michelle Obama (Below) and Rihanna (Bottom) seemingly pull off with relative ease.

Take conventional Martha. One Friday as we clambered the stairs to Wagadougu on Bukoto Street – back in the day when it was really kicking with Peter Otim and Co at the helm - when she got to the landing, Campus Boy did the unthinkable. He didn’t even try to camouflage his move. He went in full commando style and brushed his 1st year groin onto her. Martha wasn’t exactly startled and when she looked back at him expecting an apology, he instead swung her a: “What, you never been brushed before” look. With that, Martha’s evening was so cooked. I dropped her home and didn’t hear from her for close to three weeks.

I was with Carol when Viperoom was still the place to go for Oldies Night with the late DJ Banji at the decks when Dude, felt that the best way of making contact with her, was not to say 'hello' or buy her a drink as I would have done but, to give her butt a slap. Way before the slap sunk and nestled deep into the stretch marks of her butt, Carol had spun around faster than Jackie Chan ever did in the Rush Hour movies and for a while, I thought she was going to unleash a - my eyes can drop you dead stare along with the motha of all assurances. Instead, she burst into tears, ran up the spiral staircase for the nearest special hire and was gone by the time I got to the entrance.

While it’s so not the done thing – groping or belittling women, when the likes of Flavia, Lillian, Martha, Jackie, Penlope, Esther, Carol, Vicky, Eva or Lucy sailed into the world, the sailed in with no bark, venom or bite. If Waiter brought the wrong food order, they wouldn’t make noise but accept. If Salon Man ruined the weave, they would rather a bad weave than throw salon tantrums. If Taxi Conductor didn’t give back their change, they wouldn’t beef in case he ejected them miles from home and if Special Hire Man reneged on the agreed fare, the moment he spits the words “I am taking you to police”, they cry out for daddy.  

In politics, we had Cecilia (Ogwal), Maria (Matembe) (Below), Winnie (Byanyima) who many years ago had the most acidic mouths in the land. Cecilia had a voice that roared angrily like the engine of a Mercedes Benz G-65 AMG. Today, it’s a rather pitiful roar – if indeed it can still be called roar and painful to hear just like it is watching people who drive Toyota hybrid electrical cars. Maria can barely make the hairs on the back of my neck stand, while listening to Winnie, is akin to listening Watoto Children’s Choir singing bedtime hymns for the pope.  

   

However, today’s woman is different. She has rampaged into the world with venom, audacity, attitude, contempt, beef and period cramps that would so spin the heads of Flavia, Lillian Martha, Jackie, Penlope, Esther, Carol, Vicky, Eva and Lucy and any woman with a bland name. 

And get this, she also has a badd ass motha fucker name like Shaniqua, Monique, Gaynelle, Jendayi, Kasinda, Lakeesha, Laqueta, Michelle, Rihanna, Laquinta, Latanya, Monisha, Nichelle, Takiyah, and Zalika. 

This woman is not to be messed with. She has an ice cold mortuary stare like the one above. She’s the human equivalent of a black widow spider and who describes herself as: a biach with an attitude, a whore with beef or nigga fuck bitch and who uses bitch words like talk to the hand, my bad and whatever. 

Gaynelle is the type to swing Cop a multitude of tumbavu’s if he dared stop her at Jinja Road traffic lights. Shaniqua and Laqueta are women that Salon Man dreads to see walking into his salon because throughout the two hours of weaving on the weave, he will be on bunkenke and awaiting a hot slap if he dared put a stitch wrong while Special Hire Driver, he won’t even take Jendayi, Monique and Nichelle because they would sneer, mock and assure him all the way to their destination. 

Meanwhile, Lakeesha, and Zalika would in a flash, take delight in telling their WhatsApp chat group how you were no Johnny Bravo in bed but a one-minute man. And Takiyah? She’s the sort to calmly walk into the men’s toilets in Silk Liquid simply because she couldn't be bothered to walk further down to the ladies and then scatter profanity along the lines of: "What you lookin' at nigga, you not seen a pussy in the gents before" if any of the men complained.  

So Flavia, (Below) Penlope, Esther, Carol, Vicky, Eva and Lucy, and any woman with a bland name, please forgive. Campus Boy, Dude, Waiter and all are sorry for pinching your bottoms, trying to fondle you and bringing you the wrong food order for truth be told, you are much easier to deal with than Shaniqua, Monique, Thalia, Gaynelle, Jendayi, Kasinda, Lakeesha, Laqueta, Laquinta, Latanya, Monisha, Nichelle, Takiyah and Zalika.

Photos: Weekly Observer, Internet

When The Cats Away, The MPs Will Play

I know little about parliament and its workings. I do know there is a speaker - Rebecca (Below) and her deputy – Jacob. I also know there’s a chamber where MP debates stuff and the steps at the front where they give soundbites to us in the media which, we convey to you - the public through (and time here for a spot of shameless Vision Group advertising) - Sunday Vision, New Vision, Bukedde, Urban TV, Radio West, X-FM and the rest.

At New Vision, when foreign travel looms, there are procedures we follow – right from CEO, Robert Kabushenga to Editor-in-Chief, Barbra Kaijja. I suspect when Robert goes abroad, he informs Chairman of the Board, Company Secretary and Editor-in-Chief. Barbra too, when she travels, she would have told Robert and various heads of departments. 

At my level, Kalungi Kabuye and I were in the same department. If Kalungi went to SA to cover Face of Africa, I would know about it. Even if it was abrupt, I still would have heard about in the corridors or Head Of Department would have told me to cover for him or Accountant would have in passing said: “Eh TB, this year its KK going to SA?”

At State House, when M7 travels, its plainly obvious that he tells his deputy – Edward, that he’s off. And he goes a step further - telling Kale Kayihura, Katumba Wamala and that man who wears the most awful coloured uniform as you can see below and who is in charge of all rogue elements in the land – Johnson Byabashaija, because the trio are always at the airport to see him off

.

But in parliament its different because MP does not follow rules. Last month, Rebecca went off to Boston, USA to attend the UNAA convention. Nothing wrong with that. I presume before she went, her office put out a memo on the notice boards informing all MPs she would be out of office. If not, IT Chap configured her e-mail to send one of those auto ‘out of office’ replies that read something along the lines of: “Peeps its Becky. I will be out of office for two weeks attending a convention in Boston. In my absence, Jacob has the chair.”

So to Boston she flies and in the hotel corridors, of all people from her office, guess who she bumps into aside from shorts clad Kato Lubwama and Meddi Nsereko (Below) looking a tad shy of being slapped with a fashion police deportation order? Like Will Smith said at the start of Summertime – “drum rolls please” - it was her deputy, Jacob Oulanyah who was supposed to be back in Kampala manning the ‘chair’!

Strike a pause. Is that not akin to M7 breezing into the UN General Assembly with Oryem Okello and finding they got nowhere to sit because Ssekandi and Frank Tumwebaze didn’t tell him that they too were representing? Or like Man of The House sneaking to see Maid in the dead of the night and finding Shamba Boy already nestled on her boobie? 

Said Rebecca: “I was surprised to meet Jacob (Below) in Boston with a parallel delegation.” But didn’t Jacob read the memo? Didn’t Rebecca call him and tell him to hold fort while she’s away? Did he not hear her absence being talked about in the canteen or while standing at the urinal?

Jacob not reading Rebecca’s memo or Rebecca not reading Jacob’s memo means Taxpayer paid $8,640 instead of $4,320 to send two speakers to Boston to sit in the same room, listen to the same speeches and watch the same power point presentations. And upon their return, they found that while the cats were away, the MPs had played - with MP demanding sh50m in selfie burial allowances.

Incidentally, happy Independence Day. 

I'M No Land Or Latrine Squatter

The men and women who do government PR work are very astute, smart and clever people. When policies that are likely to be controversial or cause a public outcry are set to be announced, they pray that something big happens - something that can deflect attention away from the policy. While morbid, the ultimate time for PR Man to roll off a controversial policy, is the death of a Pope. Nothing beats that. Right now, PR Man couldn't have been more happier with the Brad Pitt/Angelina divorce as all the tabloids are firmly focused on that saga.

However in Australia, PR Man didn't have the time to wait for the Pope to die or for Angelina to turf out Brad and call the FBI in on him, so he went in for the next best possible distraction - when the world was focused on the XXXI Summer Olympics in Rio, to roll off a controversial policy that would affect the toilet habits of Immigrant – especially those who work in the tax office.

 

And PR Man went a step further. He bit his lip until Usain Bolt was bolting away to his third consecutive gold medal when he knew it was absolutely safe and issued a press release that, the tax office had installed squat toilets for its increasingly diverse workforce “because more than one in five staff now come from a non-English speaking background.” They were forced to install them because Immigrant, has a habit of climbing on the seat of a sit down toilet and squatting to do business. And in Australian, its just not the done thing.

I am no squatter – on land or on the toilet. I don’t like it and it’s something I will never be comfortable with. As kids, I would rue the days when we were packed off to kyalo because Grandmothers house didn’t have an indoor flush toilet. A week before the trip, I would camp on the toilet at home in Muyenga getting rid of waste. Even when I didn’t have waste to get rid of, I would still spend time on the toilet forcing life.

In kyalo and despite Grandmother rolling out tons of food like she had been tasked to feed a capacity filled Namboole Stadium, I hardly ate – or drank to avoid having to visit the pit latrine. At times I would be in so much pain, but I would hold ‘it’ all in and wait till we got back to Muyenga.

My beef with having to squat is that I have never been good at being able to balance myself on the front of my feet as shown below. Squatting requires acrobatic stealth which I don't have. I need something to hold onto, something to steady myself with. But often, the walls are out of reach.

One thing about squat flush toilets like the ones installed in Australia, is that they are so deafeningly loud when you flush. There is a force, a gusto and anger at which the water comes gushing out of the cistern compared to the sedateness of a sit down toilet.

The squat toilets that have been installed in the tax office (Below), have been fabricated from one piece of 18 gauge, type 304 stainless steel with exposed surfaces polished to satin finish. But even better, the squat measurers 3/4” in length and width and that is more than enough space to get everything into the pan – don’t you think?

     

The last time I had to squat, was years ago in Kyankwanzi. I tried to follow the same principals I had when I used to go to kyalo, but this time, I was unable to hold everything in till I got back home. I had to go.

But this is what I don’t get. Pit Latrine Architect decided that unlike the flush squat which measurers 3/4”, the deposit hole to the pit latrine (Below) will be the size of a brick – a partly 230mm/110mm and that folks, is almost as hard as trying to get a shoe lace into the eye of a sewing needle.

The foray to Kyankwanzi's pit latrines (Below) was a disaster. The GPS on my butt must have been faulty for my ‘deposit’ was not made into the 30mm/110m hole but to the side of it. To solve the problem, I used my UPDF issued gumboots to scrape the ‘deposit’ into the hole then walked down to river Mayanja where I let the very fast current – almost as fast as that of a squat flush toilet wash over them. 

Pictures: New Vision, Daily Monitor

Listen Nambooze & Lokodo - Beer, Pork & Porn Are The Cajoled Triplets

On my travels to the Middle East, I never got to meet Muhammad Saeed al-Sahhaf (Below) – better known to us all as Comical Ali or Baghdad Bob. Comical Ali, was the outrageous Iraqi Information Minister during the 2003 Iraq War and earned the nicknames for his wild claims and colourful statements while, Iraq was being invaded and overrun by American and British forces.

His top ten quotes at the height of the war and when it was all too evident that all had been lost are.

1. “There are no American infidels in Baghdad. Never!”

2. “My feelings - as usual - we will slaughter them all.”

3. “Our initial assessment is that they will all die.”

4. “God will roast their stomachs in hell at the hands of Iraqis.”

5. “They're coming to surrender or be burned in their tanks.”

6. “No I am not scared, and neither should you be!”

7. “We slaughtered them yesterday and we will continue to slaughter them.”

8. “Indeed, they are shocked because of what they have seen.”

9. “They were received with bombs, shoes and bullets.”

10. “We are not afraid of the Americans. Allah has condemned them. They are stupid.”

Should we swing him a 'hmm'? Yes I think so. Hmm.

As a politician, Comical Ali did whatever it took to try and spin the PR machine in favour of the Iraqi’s and to convince the populous that Saddam Hussein and the government were winning the war. If it meant telling lies – which he did, then so be it.

That is what politicians – Minister and MP does. They tell lies. If they are not telling lies, then they sell false dreams and hopes of piped water, dual carriageway roads to kyalo, hospitals and schools. When they can’t tell lies, they then propose a bill or want to buy something that is one step short of committing themselves onto the fast track to Butabika Hospital and being shackled to a bed.

 

Some months ago, Minster (Below) decided that if he were given sh2.6bn, the best way he could use the money was to go to Germany and buy a porn machine that would be able to detect naughty men and women looking at porn magazines and videos. He convinced himself that the plan would work and that Finance Minister would swing him the dime. So at a Media Centre press conference, he unveiled his plans to the nation. Should we also swing him a ‘hmm’? I think so. Hmm.

But wait a minute. Is this not the same Porn Cop who years ago told us how he was going to rid Uganda of prostitution and the same Porn Cop who told us he is going to clamp down on women who wear short skirts? For a long as I can remember, all that Porn Cop has achieved since he was appointed, is to huff and puff fwaa style and again huff and puff fwaa style till he ran out of breath and announced the porn machine idea had died.

Then there is MP. I have never met MP and the little I know about her, I glean from the papers and television. MP as far as I can gather, is like an irritant – that mosquito that somehow manages to get into the mosquito net - not to bite you, but to take delight in buzzing about you your ears. And when you switch on the light to look for it, it’s never to be seen.

A few weeks back, MP decided that that her contribution as an MP is to table a bill that would curtail and limit our drinking of alcohol to between 5:00pm and midnight. A ‘hmm’ for her as well? I think so. Hmm.

When we go to eat our kilos of pork on a raucous Saturday or Sunday afternoon, what does MP expect us to wash the ribs down with? Wava Water? Britannia Splash juice? And that come midnight the bars should shut just when the real party is starting because the adults like her have gone to bed? What about Mama Nanffuka? Her kafunda is her livelihood and the reason why she has managed to put her kids through school is because she caters for Discerning Customer who wants to drink start drinking when he wants to start drinking and stop drinking when he wants to stop drinking.

I don’t know what the rest of you are doing about it or if you have been throwing stones at her ride, but I have arranged two rooms at Butabika – one for her, and the other for the Porn Cop. All I need are some of my Twitter followers who, I am sure like their pork and beer as much as I do like OptaJude, Bernard Loum, Edo, BMK Gift Snr, Esther Kalenzi, Sourced and Jemima Na-gundi to help me get them into the strait jackets.

One thing that Porn Cop and MP don't know but ought to get into their heads is that, porn, alcohol and pork are like cajoled triplets - just like the offertory basket and church or Kizza Besigye and riot police are like cajoled twins. It’s the way of life the world over except of course, in Saudi, Iran and ISIS controlled areas. They can’t be separated.

So MP, if you want to start catching at 5:00pm and be in bed by midnight, that is your prerogative but while your perched on the Mukwano soap box uttering nonsensical utterances, Horseman, Doc, Julio, Lukwago and I are on our fourth beers at CHOGM in Bunga and its only 1:00pm. 

As for you Porn Cop, listen up - Hawker has just called and told us that he is on his way. He has some CDs of sexy 'brown brown' Namakula showing off her massive size 34DDs at 3k each. And fret not, for we know where your office is and Semambo, our boda chap, will discreetly drop you a CD or two on Monday. 

By the way MP, where we catch from, as long as Customer is still drinking, they will never close. 

Pictures: New Vision, Daily Monitor, AFP