Sinclair Beiles and I go to Turffontein Racecourse for the day; he wants to check out the local fillies, he tells me.
We’re waiting at the starting post but none of the horses seem in the mood for racing; it’s been raining the day before and the ground is muddy and water-logged in patches.
“Do you think they’ll call it off?” Sinclair asks. Then, suddenly waving his arms in the air, he yells: “I can’t find any decent heroin in this place!”
We start walking down the track and encounter a heap of arms – young children’s arms – freshly amputated.
“It’s like Kurtz’s memory of the village in Apocalypse Now,” says Sinclair, but I already have the theme music from Twin Peaks in my head.
We’re waiting at the starting post but none of the horses seem in the mood for racing; it’s been raining the day before and the ground is muddy and water-logged in patches.
“Do you think they’ll call it off?” Sinclair asks. Then, suddenly waving his arms in the air, he yells: “I can’t find any decent heroin in this place!”
We start walking down the track and encounter a heap of arms – young children’s arms – freshly amputated.
“It’s like Kurtz’s memory of the village in Apocalypse Now,” says Sinclair, but I already have the theme music from Twin Peaks in my head.
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