In a development so utterly predictable it could have been penned by a monkey with a typewriter, South Africa’s police inquiry is now apparently gripping the nation. Cue the pearls, the clutching of them, and the inevitable offer of assistance from the UK’s very own Graft Watchdog, a body so effective it once spent six months investigating a missing stapler from the Ministry of Silly Walks.
Let us be clear: this is not a story about corruption. Oh no, that would be far too simple. This is a story about a police inquiry gripping a nation, which is rather like saying a hangnail is gripping a finger. A nation of 60 million souls, wrestling with load shedding, poverty, and a president who looks like he’s permanently lost his car keys, is now supposed to be on the edge of its seat over an investigation into… what, exactly? The details are as murky as a pint of warm stout, but the headlines scream with the fury of a thousand offended colonels.
Enter stage left: the UK’s graft watchdog, a quaint little outfit with all the teeth of a gummy bear. They have offered to assist. How generous. How utterly, breathtakingly patronising. One can almost hear the collective eye-roll from Cape Town to Soweto. The last time the UK offered assistance, they gave us the concept of queueing and a biscuit called a Jaffa Cake that is legally not a cake. I rest my case.
But let us unpack this pantomime. The police inquiry is, we are told, about 'serious allegations'. Because they always are. Allegations that will be investigated with the rigor of a daytime soap opera, complete with dramatic pauses, surprise witnesses, and a final twist where everyone goes to prison except the real culprit, who is, naturally, a minor character from season two.
Meanwhile, the UK’s own house is not exactly in order. Their graft watchdog has the investigative prowess of a blind badger. They have spent years probing the likes of dodgy PPE contracts and partygate, with the result that a few aides got a stern telling-off and Boris Johnson bought a new wallpaper. But here they are, striding onto the African savannah with a clipboard and a sense of moral superiority. It is enough to make a gin drinker weep into their glass.
What is truly gripping about this inquiry is the sheer chutzpah of the entire affair. South Africa, a country that produced the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which was a masterclass in collective therapy, now needs help from a nation whose idea of reconciliation is a stiff upper lip and a cup of tea. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a scone.
Let us not forget the real gripping issue: the quality of airport gin in both nations. South Africa’s duty-free offers a fine selection of local craft gins, while UK airports still peddle a suspiciously cheap brand that tastes of regret and aviation fuel. If the graft watchdog wants to assist, they should start by improving the drinking experience at Heathrow. That would grip me.
But no. They will produce a report. It will be 500 pages long, filled with words like 'systemic' and 'governance', and it will conclude that more inquiries are needed. The cycle will continue. The nation will remain ungripped, except by the usual suspects: unemployment, inequality, and the eternal question of why the traffic lights are never synchronized.
So here is my breaking report: nothing has broken. The inquiry grips only those paid to be gripped by it. The UK’s offer is a masterstroke of diplomatic condescension. And I, Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, will be over here, pouring a large one, waiting for the real news to break: that someone, somewhere, has finally invented a gin that tastes like justice. Until then, cheers.
