Let us go then, you and I, to the lair of the beast, entering the torrid dungeon of a newsroom late at night. All the world sleeps, yet here beneath flickering spiderwebs of neon tubing, a grisly crew sidles in to park its huge expense account flab on rickety chairs below stridulating consoles in which their illiterate compulsions will be churned over like the cud of a diseased cow. These pallid entities, chain smokers and inebriates, are the opinion-formers, the leader writers who have been exhausting themselves in executing the whim of their masters.
Dirty fingers waft like bewitched toads over slithery keyboards.
Thus does the version according to Essop Pahad, Frank Chikane, Tony Heard, et al, escalate like a land war in Asia. Herewith his report. I cannot vouch for its veracity, but his unique vision vividly captures this ghastly ceremony with its feculent cast of frauds, toadies and bloated greedyguts. Well, sweetiepie, the dresses were absolutely gorgeous. Tony Yengeni wore a kind of jockstrap made out of the bristles of a wild boar.