Category: Satiricus

Satiricus was not surprised when Lilawatee, his wife’s niece (five times removed, please) brought him the diary of Glennie, owner of the MuckrakerKN. As a journalistic scribbler, it was common knowledge that the Muckraker was part and parcel of the opposition. And if Lilawatee provided maid’s service to the opposition, Glennie had to be serviced. Dear Diary, Ah tell you, dear diary, me nah know wha me gon do. The rest of the opposition so damn, blasted lazy. Ah gat fuh do all de wuk fuh dem. Ah tell dem…

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Satiricus was a bit riled up. He was also quite confused. He’d been following the debate on the siting 1823 Monument quite closely. His forbears were originally from East Coast Demerara and he still had quite a few relatives there. Why shouldn’t the government listen to the representatives of the African organisations? But then again, while he wasn’t of African descent, he was also quite proud that “East Coast” people had stood up and fought against overwhelming odds. A question for the brain trust. “Budday, nah because yuh a East…

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Truth be told, Satiricus had enjoyed the holidays a wee bit too much. OK, that wasn’t quite the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Satiricus was still nursing a throbbing head brought on by his excesses with the fellas on Christmas Eve. “Christmas comes but once a year,” he rationalised sub-vocally. “But does it have to leave like a hurricane?” he mumbled to himself. So here he was with the Raam Jhaat’s diary, which his wife’s niece (five times removed) had temporarily filched for his perusal. Maybe…

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Satiricus was titillated by the announcement that the upscale new mall on the East Coast would be getting a ‘real’ British pub. But it was not the promise of warm lager that titillated him – or tickled his fancy for that matter. It was the promises that ‘lovely lasses would be dressed in traditional wenches outfits’ that did the trick. Satiricus had seen enough movies of medieval England al la “Robin Hood etc – to need the dictionary explanation of ‘wenches’ – a young (especially buxom) peasant girl; a wanton…

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Satiricus was elated. He knew it…he always knew it. The Muckraker Glennie was part and parcel of the official opposition. Satiricus always figured from the old backtracker’s actions, he was with the opposition. But now he had the smoking gun that Glennie was as opposition as Ram Jhaat Tan. His wife’s niece Lilawatee (five times removed, but the girl still called him “Poopah”) was in the official opposition’s maid service (Oh…the perks the opposition now had!) and she’d been sent to clean Glennie’s house. Satiricus had the (temporarily) filched diary…

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Satiricus was in a state of bliss. He was throwing back in his old Berbice Chair listening to the new Radio 89.5 FM. It reminded his of the old days when he was courting Mrs Satiricus. Ahh… those were the days!! Music was always literally in the air, back then. Every home would be blaring the sentimental favourites as you walked the streets and everyone would know the contexts of the songs from the movies they’d all looked at. His reverie was interrupted by his wife’s niece (five times removed,…

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Satiricus was always easy to get along with. Listening to the new mellow FM89.5 that had burst on the scene made him even more laid back. He particularly liked the oldies. He’d been enjoying the old Rafi so much, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He walked around with a goofy smile on his face. So you can understand his chagrin when the Muckraker screamed that his newfound source of joy was obtained unfairly. It was as if the old, law-abiding Satiricus was smoking ganja on the sly:…

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Satiricus was not a voyeur. But he must say he was enjoying these peeks into the diaries of the politicians who dominated the headlines every day. Some of those headlines he’d written himself. Lilawatee, his wife’s niece (five times removed) hadn’t disappointed him. As the opposition’s maid-on-call, she had total access and for Satiricus, this was better than breaking news. It was certainly a heck of a lot more exciting. Today he was glancing at the last page of Big NoGel’s diary. Dearest Diary, Is what I gon tell you…

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Satiricus was agog. His alma mater, King’s College, was overrun with fleas. His mind immediately ran to the blurb that began the classic work of guerrilla warfare, “War of the Fleas”: “The guerrilla fights the war of the flea, and his military enemy suffers the dog’s disadvantages: too much to defend; too small, ubiquitous, and agile an enemy to come to grips with.” It was now three weeks and KC (as everyone referred to his old school fondly) was still closed. What was going on??? “Sato me friend, why you…

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Satiricus was agog. He’d never seen anything like it before. He’d been sent to cover the goings on in Parliament by his editor. The regular hack had called in sick. Satiricus had more than a sneaking suspicion that the chap knew what was coming down and decided (wisely) – discretion was the better part of valour. But with all the screaming, yelling and finger pointing he’d been most shocked when, with an evil sneer on his face, Ram Jhaat Tan looked over his former colleagues’ benches and declared ‘we gon…

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