Allow me to introduce the South African funny man: Koos van der Merwe. No, not the musician of the same name, nor the politician. Usually dressed in a khaki safari suit with shorts and a comb in his stockings, Koos is the original rude, uneducated idiot who comes up with deep truths. Sometimes.

Yes, he was arrested, back in the Apartheid days, when he shouted from the steps of Parliament: “All politicians are crazy!” The charge: revealing State secrets.
 
So there he was, with the boys in the bar at the Royal Hotel, sipping a brandy and Coke. No girly drinks like Scotch and soda for him. And his good friend, Donsie, sipping a Lion Lager, sidled up with a “let’s be provocative” look on his face.
 
“Hey, Koos, you are a hunter, right?” Koos nodded, remembering the buffalo he shot the previous week. Of course his American client paid for the bull, and his shot frightened the partridges under the distant sweet thorn trees, but it was Koos’ shot that dropped the beast. And while the client was celebrating his wonderful trophy, his girlfriend…
 
Donsie insisted. “So, Koos, what do you do if, when you are hunting, a lion attacks you?”
 
Koos mentally caressed his old Lee Enfield that had been re-barreled to .308, and smiled. “Why, Donsie, I’ll shoot him. I know where to place the bullet to drop him in his tracks. I remember…”
 
But before the brandy could transport him to the cattle raiding pride of lions near the Letaba river, Donsie tapped him on the arm. “Ok, I know that. But what if you don’t have your rifle with you?”
 
He frowned. Donsie was on his third Lion Lager. Koos ordered another brandy and Coke, forgetting the warning that brandy has no brakes. He thought back to his grandfather’s childhood stories. “Well, Donsie, you remember that game ranger, Wolhuter was his name? Well, I’ll pull my skinning knife and kill him, man.” And he sipped his drink in triumph.
 
Donsie burped. “I remember the story. Yes, fine, but what happens if you had left your knife in the camp?”
 
A little irritated now, Koos responded: “I’ll climb a tree, see. There was a time, back when I was poaching in the Timbavati…”
 
“Yes, that’s fine, but what if there’s no tree?”
 
Koos nearly choked in his brandy. A feeling like a Brexiteer in Brussels came over him. He stared at the bubbles in his drink, drew a little circle on the damp countertop.
 
Then he sat back and shook his head. “No, Donsie, there HAS to be a tree.”