Of course, Shakespeare – commonly referred to as the Bard – meant – even if you call a rose a Khaki-bush, or Mexican Marigold, it will still smell pleasant.

A journalist always just remains a journalist, regardless of what you call him.
Even if you curse him, even though you might call him a vulture.

Over the years there have been some names that hurt.

Long ago, I entered the detective branch in Witbank where grey-haired Major Jordaan paged through the crime journal and then named all the criminal events one by one.

That morning he probably was not in a receptive mood for a newspaperman. He said to a colleague loudly enough to be heard in the passage: “Let me first assist the little so-and-so…”

However, he never did help, but Piet Etsebeth, who probably felt sorry for me, did: “Thanks, Piet!”

The worst-ever cursing by a man whose son had died, following a motorcycle accident – the same huge motorcycle he had proudly bought for his son, was the cause of his son’s death.

Afterwards, he was never the same man and compiled a murder list.

The day he learned that the newspaper wanted to write a story, he uttered: “You êêê…!!!” Since then, this word that is described as liquid seeping from an infected wound, became the most abusive, offensive curse-word existing for me. His lawyer phoned me later, telling me to “…Run! You are heading that list!”

Was also the “Seed Potato” of the year, but that’s all it really was – a title that was awarded by the organisers of the potato festival in Bethal.

Was also Old Boobs! “Boobs of the Year.” Certificate framed and awarded by the managing director, John Frewin, after a story about the topless hairdresser-lady who used to cut hair.

Mother always warned: “You must never say someone is crazy”.

However, there was a newspaperman who was known as “Crazy Smith”. He was Hannes Smith, editor of the Windhoek Observer, and well-known for placing pictures of nude women on page three of his newspaper. He was notorious and famous for his investigative journalism.

Newshound, bloodhound – actually a compliment for any journalist worthy of his salt and grabs a story like a well-trained police dog.
However – taking into consideration what the Bard said, what happens to a dog when it is named after you?
A newshound?

I went to follow a story in Mhluzi and asked the local artist, Johnson Seopela, for directions.

However, Johnson first wanted to show me his dog.
And the dog was named – “Tobie!”

Probably not every day when a newshound visits the Seopelas, because his wife excitedly called from the back door: “Tobie, Tobie, Tobie…” The kids were boisterous, the dog was boisterous – he licked, jumped and barked, almost as though he was excited to meet his namesake. Proudly stood there, what an honour?

A dog named after me?

Thought about Shakespeare and Johnny Tramp.

After having walked the straight and narrow for a few months, Johnny sat in the office as a homeless character. So, when you asked: “And now Johnny?” He got that faraway look in his eyes and replied: “I remain just a tramp.”

You can call a newspaperman anything, but he just remains a newspaperman.

And you can call a dog Tobie, but he still remains a dog…