Letters from our Readers (Rated 21+)

IRC readers have responded in writing to a number of our newsletters from recent weeks and we’re publishing a few of the more entertaining ones today. If you’re easily offended, rather skip today’s letter and come back tomorrow for the IRC Q&A.


Dear IRC,

I was interested to read that you will be visiting us here in Hoedspruit in June and I want to tell you that you may well be in top celebrity company. Just this week we saw heavy delivery vehicles carrying beautiful-looking, coloured aeroplanes on the major road that runs past our town. The rumours came thick and fast that these planes were going to be used in a movie and we found out from the Baobab Bush Lodge that it was indeed so. The next Tom Cruise movie, Mission Impossible 8, will be shot partly here on the outskirts of our town, a few of the game lodges are involved but they’re not revealing anything yet.

It’s true, believe me, all over Twitter even on the Tom Cruise fan site. One shopkeeper here said that a very short, wrinkled man in dark shades and expensive clothes came into her curios store last week looking for a Hoedspruit ‘sweater’. He could barely see over the shop’s counter, was rather rude and condescending, spoke with a strong American accent and was accompanied by a man three times his size wearing a hearing device. But there were no sweaters or jerseys or even T-shirts of a size that small in stock, so they left after buying some fudge and honey. She now says it was Tom and his body guard, but I think she made it up.

Tom was definitely seen in southern Kwazulu-Natal flying over the Oribi Gorge in his helicopter at the weekend, that has been confirmed on social media. They’re shooting scenes down there too and I hope they’ve brought their own tanks of water ‘cause despite plenty of rain in this tropical area, the barbarians who manage the water supply have completely destroyed the infrastructure. People are bathing and going to the loo in the sea near Port Edward on the Wild Coast.

Anyway so I look forward to seeing you guys in town, absolutely no such problems in our neck of the woods. Look me up when you are here and I can show you around. It’s very pretty, lots of artists and African curios and the game drives in the vicinity are top class.

Warm regards

Johan “Bossie” Bosman
Hoedspruit, Mpumalanga

The Cruise planes have arrived for ‘Mission 8’.



I read about your forthcoming trip to Johannesburg and elsewhere and that you’re also taking in a night at ‘The Grand’. Well, I was there a few years ago and I can recommend it for men and women, you will love it.

When South Africa was in the news after the 2019 World Cup, my wife and I decided to take a two-week holiday to see what the country was about and thankfully it was before the China virus broke out. The first thing that surprised me was that the airport was clean and modern (no lions and leopard when you step off the plane, as I was told). We stayed in glitzy Sandton, also had a night in a lodge at the Cradle of Mankind and we never felt in danger, the service at the hotel and at the malls was good and the people were kind and friendly. They just talk an awful lot when you engage them about their country, mostly enthusiastic aside from their misgivings about their government.

So Sarah (my wife) and I are what you’d call ‘broadminded’ and hey, it’s not what you think. We don’t put our keys in the hat at parties. In fact, I’m always in the kitchen at parties, like that 1980s singer Jona Lewie. But we do enjoy some adult entertainment as a couple. We were in the US in Los Angeles a few years ago (The Seventh Veil Club) but in the strip clubs over there, the cops arrest ladies when they take their tops off! The whole experience was a let-down and the ladies were false, I’d call them ‘plastic’. Plus, I paid like $350 for a lap dance for Sarah, they went into a cubicle and she said it was disappointing, like a routine performance with no feeling. She likes eye-contact and maybe a peck on the cheek at the end.

In Australia, we had a similar experience at a place in Pitt Street, Sydney. The girls took most of their kit off, but they were rough around the edges, perhaps from Australia’s outback. One had big, strong hands like a sheep farmer and her skin was hard, not soft and smooth. And all of them spoke in that awful, whining Aussie accent. “Come hee-ya, matey, no worries to-day. I’ll seet on your lap, hee-ya to-day.” No, shit, never again. This was no fun! I thought most of the time I was going to get a slap in the face from one of them.

A Grand Time! Esher Man enjoyed Rivonia.

So we found The Grand in Johannesburg, a place as massive and plush as you’ve ever seen, not a dime spared on décor and facilities and with undoubtedly the best buffet menu I’ve ever laid my eyes on, or in fact sunk my teeth into. I ate steak and prawns and oysters and curry and rice and a delicious mac ‘n cheese concoction served with bacon. It’s all you can eat, as many times as you want. Delightful and superb.

Most impressive thing came next. Being a Fat Sod, I messed bits of “Bobotie” (a dish consisting of yellow rice, egg and raisins) on my shirt, and under the neon lights there were spots all over. (Other fat pigs will know what I’m talking about, there is not a single unstained shirt in my cupboard!). So I went to the dressing room, a marble-tiled place as big as my house, fitted with beautiful basins and taps. There were two attendants and one, seeing my discomfort, opened a drawer at the far end of this amazing cloak room and produced a smart, 5X cotton shirt. “Try this one sir, on the house!” I was stunned. He even gave me a splash of Aramis on exiting, and when I popped him a R200-note (£20) he almost started crying!

There were single men at The Grand, couples, and some single ladies. The action on the dance floor was never the focus of attention, it happens (yes, they remove all), but around the stage in this big place people were just having fun, drinking whiskey and champers and celebrating life. We never felt threatened or about to be ripped off.

Because of my stomach I never have a lap dance myself, (the dancers can’t get onto my lap because I don’t have one!), but again, I booked one for Sarah, who loves some female attention. The dance was expensive at R1,500 (about £75) for a ten-minute treat, but she was all over wifey in a booth behind a curtain, and I was allowed to watch!

IRC readers I recommend a visit to The Grand highly. The gargantuan buffet (in a separate, private hall with a dining room away from prying eyes so you can pig out) alone, makes it worthwhile.

All the best,

Roddy M.
Esher, UK.

LOVE CONQUERS ALL: It’s gospel, according to Justin. (Image:  
Niall O’Loughlin)



I pissed myself at Jonathan Quayle Higgins’ dream fantasy of taking out proper gutless assholes like Sleepy Joe Biden and Justin Trudeau via firing squad and I wanted to submit the story below, which many Canadians believe is true:

Recently Justin Trudeau walked into the Royal Bank (styled curls, lip gloss, Armani suit and all). As he approached the cashier he said, “Good morning, Ma’am, could you please cash this cheque for me?”

Cashier: “It would be my pleasure sir. Could you please show me your ID?”

Trudeau: “Truthfully, I did not bring my ID with me as I didn’t think there was any need to. I am Justin Trudeau, the leader of the Liberal Party of Canada!!!!”

Cashier: “Yes sir, I know who you are, but with all the regulations and monitoring of the banks because of impostors and forgers and requirements of the CIDC legislation, etc., I must insist on seeing ID.”

Trudeau: “Just ask anyone here at the bank who I am and they will tell you. Everybody knows who I am.”

Cashier: “I am sorry, Mr. Trudeau, but these are the bank rules and I must follow them.”

Trudeau:” Mon dieu. I am urging you, please, to cash this cheque.”

Cashier: “Look Mr. Trudeau , here is an example of what we can do. One day, Tiger Woods came into the bank without ID. To prove he was Tiger Woods he pulled out his putter and made a beautiful shot across the bank into a cup. With that shot we knew him to be Tiger Woods and cashed his cheque.

Another time, Andre Agassi came in without ID. He pulled out his tennis raquet and made a fabulous shot whereas the tennis ball landed in my cup. With that shot we cashed his cheque.

So, Mr. Trudeau, what can you do to prove that it is you, and only you?”

Trudeau stood there thinking, and thinking, and finally said, “Honestly, my mind is a total blank, nothing there. I have absolutely no idea what to do, I don’t have a clue.”

Cashier: “Will that be large or small bills, Mr. Trudeau?”

Greetings to all.

Laval, Canada.  -IRC.

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