HEY! Ajay, Atul and Rajesh (‘Tony’ to his friends), what are we on the South Coast? Chopped peri-peri liver?
We are crying out to be ‘captured’ down here.
Forget Saxonwold, forget Dubai… come to the Hibiscus Coast, build a huge palace and throw some of that lovely lolly our way. There’s no need to tell us where the dosh comes from, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
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We’ll even give you free membership at the Port Shepstone Country Club and you can land your jet any time you like at Margate airport. OK, you might have to use a smaller plane until we convince Number One – your friend and our president – to persuade his choms to lengthen our runway.
We will probably be able to supply blue light brigades for most of the time when our guys aren’t using the vehicles for shopping or dropping off schoolkids. However, Margate is known for motorcycle fests and bikers will always oblige as escorts if there is a well stocked shebeen in it for them. Vicky Wentzel is your contact.
You see, the South Coast is tired of being the Cinderella of the country. Apart from a few okes from upcountry with Venter trailers, nobody of means like you generous, big hearted billionaires seems to want to invest in this part of the world.
We probably don’t have any coal or gold deposits, but we have recently discovered that our farmlands are ideal for nuts. (No offence intended.)
We also promise the Herald staff won’t camp out on your door-staircase or hack your emails. None of us knows how to do that anyway.
All we lowly journalists ask is for you to take a page out of the book of the late Marino Chiavelli. Known as ‘apartheid’s oil man’, the Italian billionaire built a mansion in Illovo in the late 70s. It is now an up-market function facility.
Back in the day, Summer Place was known for its lavish parties involving all Miss South Africa entrants, who loved to drape themselves over the eccentric playboy. A giant horse fountain spewed champagne. He was particularly kind to journalists from the Sunday Times (take note). One party Sunday, a few of us ran out of beer. We took a chance and passed a business card through the front gate to a security guard with a request to our rich ‘buddy’. A few minutes later, the guard returned with… two cases of ice cold Castle Lager.
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