introduction

Fear & Loathing In South Africa
Author’s Note
After accepting the assignment of a lifetime, complete with the style of a writing hero, little did I think I would be sat in the middle of an impoverished hellhole like Luanda, Angola, in the middle of fucking Africa. I retreat into the phoetal position on my hotel bed, ignoring the wild gunfire outside on the streets on downtown Luanda – the supposed capital of this god damn country and think of future sub assignments connected to this project.
Sipping on a freshly acquired bottle of Wild Turkey – a somewhat iconic luxury in these parts, which also seems to double as local currency – for which we have already ‘purchased’ underhand items to help one through this month long ordeal, however whether I last that long remains to be seen. Cholera, Ebola, HIV, poisonous snakes, murder or some hideous kidnapping lies in wait in this gun tottering country. I would even dare to suggest that the word country and the responsibilities connected to it – the running and implementation of laws and a care of duty to its citizens – is way past Angola’s means and therefore should return to a state of communal rule, should any nation aspire to want to control the fucker.
How on earth FIFA – Football’s governing body - chose this African backwater to stage the African Cup of Nations 2010, the third world’s equivalent of the European Championships is beyond me, then again what Sepp Blatter and his minions decide and dictate to us the football peasants fails to surprise even the most hardened of football followers these days. And so to Angola. The hierarchy at Greetings from Outer Mongolia (GFOM) – America’s newest ‘lifestyle’ magazine, launched from New York City decreed that in order to make a name for itself, only the ropiest, edge of the seat, controversial stories would suffice to make the publication cutting edge. The owner, the Sheikh, wants sales and me being the only Englishman on the payroll, I was to preside over the countdown to the biggest sporting circus of the year – The football World Cup in South Africa.
‘I wants opinions, rows, and contreversary, everything that’s bad about the world...but done in styles!’ came the challenge from the Sheikh. I was to visit every competing nation involved in the tournament and present it in a kind of Hunter S. Thompson style – I presumed I would receive a substantial budget to accompany it?
‘Yes of course my friend’ answered the Sheikh – nice fella, dodgy fake smile.
It was a dream job any aspiring writer could want. Even if one did not care for eleven hairy blokes kicking a ball around on a waterlogged pitch, surely this kind of assignment, the travel alone would turn the eye of any socialite. I suppose the Sheikh plumbed for me, my previous shifting the power of balance in my favour to produce these ripe juicy goods for his magazine. I was after all a failed Army Officer, dishonourably discharged over alleged drugs offences – never proven may I add, but someone had to become a scapegoat, well at least the charges didn’t stick and I can walk away, head held high, in more ways than one.
The Sheikh can probably see through me, see my soul through my narrow pupils. The sneaky fucker can probably see my vice, my weaknesses in life. Girls, narcotics, booze, more girls and my lust to travel, craving for nothing more than a good time, but then aren’t we all? We do when push comes to shove, only live once and life is no dress rehearsal, when I meet my maker, I want to look him straight in the face and know I’ve had no regrets.
The new virginal magazine made numerous mistakes in its inception, always trying to run before it could walk – needless to say it’s admin affairs were a nightmare, however when the Sheikh offered me this contract, his next words were to suggest that plane tickets, visas and schedules were already in hand – bloody good job seeing as North Korea had qualified for summer 2010.
‘Bollocks – hang on, I’ve got to visit every fuckin country? What about the North Koreans? Surely that’s off limits, especially fuckin journalists’, I proclaimed.
‘It’s all in hand Sammy boy, all in hand’ I was told and not to worry about the logistics of it all. As long as I report back once a week and produced the goods come the bitter end (after all this was to be published in a separate glossy brochure insert in a bid to woo the hearts of the American public into loving Soccer, riding on the crest of a wave that David Beckham created on his arrival to LA Galaxy) then all was dandy. I would be accompanied by an assistant – Corey – a gullible Yank graduate gimp, who was a stickler for organisation and would be my perfect foe, even if I would need to break him, then sculpt and mould the bastard into the English way of thinking.
And where better to start thought the magazine than fucking Angola, home of the African Nations tournament, or whatever the shambles was called. There lay Algeria, Cameroon, Ghana, Nigeria and the Ivory Coast or Coast D’Ivorie as it says on the Panini football stickers, killing five birds with one flight, save visiting the a fifth of the African continent, even though the hierarchy want an in depth spiritual insight into what makes these countries tick and their ambitions – both sporting and habitual, therefore visiting each country in turn. I may add that I need to visit the likes of Cameroon and Ivory Coast, for more research requirements, just for the hell of it like.
It was a decent initial idea for a baby magazine to come up with me trekking Corey and mine’s arses all the way over to visit the Angolans, but like I say, their admin leaves a lot to be desired – hence when we rolled up on arrival at Quatro de Fevereiro International Airport, Luanda, we both were forced to endure Yellow Fever vaccinations. Motherfuckers! At least the visas worked, but now I’m feeling rough, as I can only predict the effects of those ‘live’ ingredients they give to combat the disease, swirl and distribute their way around my body, resulting in this phoetal position, I now find myself in, held to ransom by the crucifying stomach cramps, I can only eye up a clear exit route to the shitter, ready to converse anally through sphincter talk with toilet bowl, shitting out my nice BA airplane meal, along with this Yellow fever vermin on the way.
I reach for another glug of Wild Turkey – Uncle Hunter would have been so proud – down some Imodium, the only listed drug I have taken along on this dry ride, for fear of retribution along with my Yellow Fever jab, or at the very least a strip cavity search, when touching down on Angolan soil (normally good friends Temazepam, Tromoadol and at the very least Co Dryamol would accompany me on my travels to global hotspots).
I remind myself I must take the rough with the smooth throughout the course of this assignment, drink some more whiskey and make myself ready to meet Tarzan – our guide in Angola – you couldn’t make it up, believe me.