FLUSHED WID DE SUCCESS o' de fust novel an' de Chrissermuss broadcast, I now branchin' out into de big word o' motor corresponding such as de famous Robert Glenton an' sim'lar. Dis on account o' me takin' delivery o' de 130-mph Citroen-Maserati wot you all no doubt bin readin' about in de Brit papers, also where it sayin' de Gumment forkin' out £6,700 fo' de Presidential transport, an' wot about all de Ugandan people walkin' about wid no food to eat?
Well, to git de political rubbish out o' de way wid one bound, it damn good fo' de popperlation to see dat de sacrifices ain't in vain, dis de fust time a Maserati appearin' in Uganda, never got dat under de disgustin' Obote, Kampala lookin' like de Park Avenue an' de downtown Rome dese days, people takin' notice o' de sudden rise in de standard o' living nex' thing is gittin' de gole fittin's fo de barfroom, got 'em on order, pretty soon ain't gonna be no difference between Uganda an' de glitt'rin' Mayfair.
Part Two, Rear-Ammiral Professor Idi Amin VC testin' de noo Maserati:
Which of us, now de days drawin' in an' David Frost tracin' de patterns on de window-panes, also de robins wid de red tits hollerin' on de branches, which of us doan fancy hoppin' into de big flash wagon an' beltin' about de landscape at a hunnerd miles an hour, all de workin'-class bums etcetera jumpin' out de way as we comin' roun' de corner on de trendy Pirelli radiums? I jus' takin' over de noo Maserati, an' ain't got nothin' but de praise, it goin' like a cheetah wid a pin in de bum, also makin' a damn good noise now I got de holes punched in de exhaust pipe, de loyal subberjecks reckon James Stewart goin' down Kampala High Street fo' a bit o' shoppin'. Also, it got de big bumpers, de cyclists goin' up in de air like they ridden over a lan'-mine, it workin' wonders fo' de self-esteem when de streets clearin' like magic soon as you switchin' on de ignition. Also, de handlin' damn good, such as las' week when I takin' de wrong turnin' an' drivin' through de Kampala Woolworth's, doin' a sharp right at de tobacco counter, an' comin' back up through de middle o' gents toiletries, an' no damage to speak of, exceptin' a arm stuck in de windscreen wipers an' a lot o' blood gittin' spread all over de handpainted coachwork.
Now, how about de comfort an' de han'-tooled leather stuff? Well, it got de one drawback here, on account o' when you all tarted up fo' de posh ceremonies such as de pubberlick hangin's an' you got on de double-breasted Moss Bros wid de medals an' de .45 Webberley, you sweatin' in all dat clobber like a sockful o' cream cheese at de drippin' stage, wid de result dat de backside stickin' to de leather an' when you gittin' out at de destination an' everyone standin' aroun' in de respeckful silence, it sound like someone rippin' up a ole sheet. Worse, occasionally I notin' people givin' one another de smirky eye as if to say, Hum, de Pres bin hittin' de bake beans agin! Pussonally, I reckon de cloff uphollerstry a damn sight more dignified.
Still, you can't have everythin'. Dat's wot I tellin' de loyal subberjecks all de time, an' it jus' goin' to show.