Starting your own church. Your ultimate guide!

I am starting my own church. Especially now that I have a pink suit and pink croc shoes.

I mean, surely, how hard can this be?

Check-list:

THE SHINY SUIT: White one. Or Silver. Or the pink kit I'm wearing above. I look pastoral. Double vent, so it bobs around when I swing about on stage. Silver waistcoat inside.

Some 13 minutes into the sermon, remove jacket and hand it to sycophant helper. You know, the brother who wears a red shirt with his collar outside his jacket to church and is always following the pastor around? Yes, that one. The old ‘mufundisi vabvisa bhachi manje’ tactic has been known to whip up the crowd. It says ‘look, the pastor has taken off his jacket; he's about to make a real go at it now’. Even though you’re talking shit.

THE POINTY SHOES: White in colour. Or beige. I’ve seen red. But even the weirdest nutjob pastors stay the fuck away from red shoes. Especially pointy, red shoes. White socks too.

THE CHURCH'S NAME: Now, whatever you do, remember, this part is important. Under no circumstances must the name of your church not have a ‘Ministries’ or an ‘International’ in it. I mean, where the fuck is your ambition? ‘Anglican Church’? How boring is that name? Really? Try Soul Crying to Heaven Ministries International, you bastards! Or Holy Overflow Deliverance Ministries Global International. Christ Intersection Global. Heaven Embassy. Or something.

THE POSTERS: Wear your suit. Stand next to a woman. She must be light skinned. All pastors’ wives are light skinned. Ehe. Fact! Not one poster have I ever seen with a pastor next to a dark skinned woman. Print gazillions of posters. Paste them, by night, on street lamps, trees. On the durawalls. Outside seedy bars like Vito Red Room in Mbare. On the toilets at Copacabana taxi rank. Everywhere.

This dude I saw on First Street in Harare is on the right track!

THE BAND: Can’t form a church without a band, now, can we? Get a few sisters. You know the ones, handiti? The ones that can’t sing for shit but because they are “sisters in the Lord”, no one says a word and people suffer in silence every Sunday and they call themselves the Holy Sweet Melodious Voices of Heaven group and are always asking for offering money to record? Yah, those ones. Get a few guys who can hold a guitar. They don’t really need to know how to actually play. And, the most important one, the key board! Amplifier, speakers, even if you meet in a classroom so tiny that the brother in the back is so close he can smell your sweat.

THE LINGO: Church people have their own language. Like, they don’t say, ‘ngatisimuke tinamate’. They say ‘mumwe nemumwe asimuke netsoka dzake (?) akotamise uso hwake achisvika pakunamata.’ ('let's stand on our feet ...') Tell people what they want to hear. Tell the poor they are poor because they aren’t praying hard enough. Or are not 'giving' enough. Tell them to believe for a Benz. Then make them buy one and tell them you'll drive it on their behalf.

THE OFFERING BASKETS: Do I need to spell out the importance of these things? Do I? No? Good.

Almost set. And now, another important part; Do you have a local language name? No. That won’t do. Remember, from now on, you shall be known by your first name. And it must be English. Always. Pastor John. Pastor Peter. Pastor Ron. Ever heard of Pastor Ticharwa? No. Ok, there’s Pastor Mboro, but that doesn’t count.

Now, go out there and perform miracles.

I will stop when I'm President - PM promises

Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai has promised to stop all this nonsense once he becomes President.

Some critics say his recent behaviour is not fit for a President.

But addressing journalists, The PM responded cleverly: “I will stop this nonsense once I become President. So this question of whether or not this is good behaviour for a President is a silly question because I'm not yet President. As soon as I am President, I will stop.”

His promise to stop should put an end to all the bad talk in the undemocratic newspapers, which have been saying Mr Tsvangirai will not be a good President if he keeps sowing where he refuses to harvest.

This is also The Pry Minister's first public admission. Initially, The PM’s office had denied the reports. His spokesman, Luke Tamborinyoka, said this week: “My brother, if you believe that The PM knows Locadia, you will believe that he also knew about the election runoff clause in the constitution.”

Tamborinyoka had also said that anyone who believed the reports would believe that Mandela was 12 years old and that Jonathan Moyo was white.

Quizzed by a  silly journalist whether The PM's admission means, inversely, that Mandela was now indeed 12 and that Jono was white, Tamborinyoka looked down at his toes, scratched his bum, picked his nose, and said: "At the time I said it, it seemed a very clever thing to say." He now realised it was pretty fucking dumb.

No, this is not what a 'diplomatic charm offensive' looks like'..This is the PM
with the unidentified woman whom The Herald has come to identify as 
the 'Unidentified White Woman'

Some commentators have been saying Mr Tsvangirai needs to cage his dragon pronto because it will devour his political credibility. This is not true, it turns out.

Random impregnation of women outside wedlock may actually be the first sign that he is in fact qualified to be President.

“Now he looks very presidential,” said a political commentator who refused to be named for fear of victimisation and stuff (ah, fuck it, the commentator is John Makumbe).

Soldiers and pees in the garden

So the woman, who was once married to an army general but now is clearly not, and who once threatened to cut off an opposition leader's manhood, and who once scared all those poor white people by revealing a 20-year thirst for ‘white blood', has had her swimming pool peed in? Yes. By soldiers.

"Right now, as we speak, I have soldiers in my garden, peeing in my swimming pool. He (former Hubby General) put them there and I have to make a court application to get them out," she told The Standard.

It's a world where various torture and punishment methods are available to the vengeful; electric shocks to the dangly bits. Waterboarding. Mariah Carey. etc.

But, no, we must pause. And we must take in the image of a soldier, AK47 in one arm, weapon in the other, leaning back, peeing into a Borrowdale Brook pool. Pause. Take it in.

Then we must all marvel at the callous cold geniusnessity of it all.

Heard about the country where soldiers piss in the pools of their generals' lunatic ex-wives? Yes. That's where I live. Wouldn't wanna be anywhere else.

The revolution will be virtualised!

See that guy in the photo? Yeah, the one with the red cap. That, right there, is your regular Zimbo! That's like me, right there. Riots? What riots? Me? Join in? Fuck it. Sorry. I'm having my Schweppes Lemon!!

Yesterday, soon as I heard, from the excitable types, that the Arab riots had come (you see, they have to be 'brought') to Zimbabwe, I did not abandon everything, rush off to wear appropriate clothing – maybe like a red T-shirt with some open palm on it or sumthn - and then rush, singing and screaming, into the CBD to join in the ‘Arab-style’ riots that the MDC keeps praying to their MDC gods for.

No. I didn’t.

I, like the regular Zimbo that I am, did what every regular Zimbo does when they hear something's brewing - drive home and turn on the TV.

And, no, the revolution was not being televised.

None of the "massive riots in Harare!!" the twitterati and other desktop revolutionaries had been orgasming over was on TV. Not on eNews or CNN or stuff. Only Kim Kardashian and her ass.

Ah, yes, I said to myself. This is just how I like my 'riots in Zimbabwe'. Only on the excitable internets. Only on the Twitters and Facebooks. At worst, only on the TV, and done by someone else. On my behalf. Never in my street. Never me.

So I switched the channel. And I chilled.

Nothing here. Move right along.

When you're ready to revolt, tell me what time it will be televised. And I will be there in a flash. Right there. On the sofa. Twitter in one hand. Schweppes Lemon in the other.

Once upon a time in 2008...

A 17th Floor hotel room, two men have been sitting at opposite ends of a long dinner table. For hours, they've sat in silence, staring each other down.
Finally, they speak...

Rob: So?
Morgan: Yah. So?
Rob: Well?
Morgan: Well what?
Rob: Go on
Morgiza: Go on what?
Rob: Are you fucking with me?
Morgiza: Me? Fucking with you?
Rob: What you want?
Morgiza: What do YOU want?
Rob: No, YOU tell me what YOU want?
Morgiza: Tea and biscuits, with the cream off.
Rob: Do I look like a tea boy to you?
Morgiza: Oh gawd, here we go with the tea-boy thing again. What’s with you and the..
Rob: There you go again, denying your history.
Morgiza: Dude, really..
Rob: Alright, alright, I’ll get it.
Morgiza: Well, you better.
Rob:  I better what?
Morgiza: You better get them, or I’ll tell Thabo you wouldn’t get up to get me tea and biscuits.
Rob: And then what will he do? Send in his puny little army?
Morgiza: Shut the borders, cut off the power, like I told him.
Rob: (slowly handing Morgiza a pot of piping hot Tanganda Tea and Marie biscuits). You know what Morgan, you need to calm down and really think. Shutting down the border would hurt SA too, and Zambia, and everyone else up North…
Morgan: I hate Marie biscuits. I want Lobels Lemon Creams, with the cream off. Is that so hard for you to understand?
Rob: OK, ok, Morgan, here, Lobels Lemon Creams. Hand me the knife and I’ll scrape off the cream for ya. Whoah, easy now with the knife. Slide it over.
Morgiza: There.
Rob: So?
Morgan: So what?
Rob: What else can I do for you?
Morgan: You could start by getting out of State House and taking your wife with you. I won on March 29 and you know I did.
Rob: Ah, but you didn’t get the 50 plus one, did ya?
Morgan: Yeah, well, thanks to Simba. Fuck Simba.
Rob: Yeah, Fuck Simba, the arsehole. Man, if I ever see that boy…
Morgan: Eureka!
Rob: Okay, you are jumping up and down. Why are you doing that?
Morgan: Let’s call a press conference. We have found common ground. We hate that Simba’s guts.
Rob: Oh, here we go with the press conferences. What’s with you and press conf..
Morgan: You should try them some time.
Rob: You know you don’t even look good on camera, right?
Morgan: Ok, ok, stop getting personal. Change subject. Zuma has four wives.
Rob: Yeah, Zuma, randy old goat.
Morgan: Yeah, tell me about it. Won’t have that guy at my house. I got daughters you know.
Rob: I know. My daughter Bona is prime age for those Zulu types. I’d keep my eye out for Zuma if I were you. You’ve been getting cosy lately, haven’t you?
Morgan: Yeah, I call the guy, he calls me, that sort of thing. I try to tell him how bad you are, the guy asks about my daughters, including the twins. I then ask if the ANC can do something to end your three decades of callous dictatorship, and all the guy wants to talk about is the twins.
Rob: Yeah, odd guy, huh? First guy to visit when I beat your ass in 2002, now he’s talking funny about me.
Morgan: But do you think he’s as powerful as they say? Can I really trust him with anything? I mean, I don’t want to throw all my chips on him. He might go to jail soon.
Rob: Best bet is talk to him, AND that Kgalema character. Shifty operator that one.
Morgiza: Ah, shady Kgalema. What’s that guy really about? I mean really.
Rob: Well, don’t ask Zuma, he has no idea.
Morgiza: Eureka!
Rob: Put that down, we agreed on two key issues. What do we do now, still have time?
Morgiza: Do you have SuperSport?
Rob: (all excited) Cricket? IPL rocks! 20-20 baby!
Morgiza: Nah, golf for me.
Rob: Rotten sport. Played by men with time to waste.
Morgiza: Played by men with balls.
Rob: (Gasps) Morgan! Language. Please.
Morgiza: Ok, let’s get to the real issues, Mr President.
Rob: Hah! You called me President.
Morgiza: No I didn’t, you illegitimate leader you.
Rob: Stop it.
Morgiza:.(poking finger at Rob) Illegitimate, illegitimate, illegitimate.
Rob: Ok, now you sound like me.
Morgiza: You very bad man.
Rob: You British.
Morgiza: You … you …very bad ruler.
Rob: You, um, very bad opposition leader.
Morgiza: Your mother.
Rob: (Gasps, clasps his mouth in horror) My mother? YOUR mother!
Morgiza: (puts his head in his hands in horror) MY mother? Dude, YOUR mother!
Rob: More tea?
Morgiza: Six sugars.
Rob: So how can I rule without control of Parliament?
Morgiza: Ah, serious Rob comes out at last.
Rob: I need you to tell your people to support me on some stuff. We need some cooperation. We are one.
Morgan: No.
Rob: What do you mean ‘no’? Shouldn’t you think about it first, meet your politburo or whatever you call your gang, and discuss it?
Morgan: Yeah, like you discuss anything with your own people. I don’t. I tell them MDC is shit without Morgan Tsvangirai. And they know it. Ask Welshman.
Rob: Yeah, like what’s Zanu without Robert Mugabe, surely.
Morgan: (nodding) You know it.
Rob: Like the desert without the sand.
Morgiza: Like the sea without the water.
Rob: Like the MDC without the Brishit.
Morgiza: Aw, here we go again with the British.
Rob: I said Brishit. Heard that? British-Brishit? Geddit? Clever huh? It was Jonathan Moyo. Gawd, clever one that one.
Morgiza: He’s ours. He’ll vote against you in Parliament. Think about it, you can’t rule without us.
Rob: Liar. Do you know how many seats the appointments of the chiefs, governors and the other six give me? Do you?
Morgiza: You are a bastard.
Rob: (puts on a sad face) It’s not true. My father just wasn’t there, but I knew him.
Morgiza: Mwanawasa thinks you are…
Rob: (springs back to life) Oh, no, no, no Morgan. Nobody cares what Mwanawasa thinks. He’s just a buffoon, hurt in the head. Slow. When we go to SADC meetings, people avoid him. Nobody understands what he says, and he can’t keep secrets. He drinks alone. He farts. I’m sure you heard him say it himself. Even Thabo won’t take his calls now. And Thabo does like speaking on the phone, and this email thing. Here’s my advice, try Kikwete, or somebody. Please. Levy is just a big fat joke.
Morgiza: You liar. CNN and BBC and eTV and Sky never said that, so it’s just not true.
Rob: Hah hah hah! CNN and BBC and Sky? Weapons of Mass Deception? Hah, you kill me with your unique brand of humour, Morgan, you really do.
Morgiza: Just because something isn’t on ZBC…
Rob: Just because something isn’t on CNN…
Morgiza: Remove AIPPA. Remove POSA. Remove all those laws which make making fun of you a crime. Remove the soldiers from the rural areas, remove the militia from the camps, remove Gono from the Res…
Rob: Remove the milk on your nose.
Morgiza: Where?
Rob: Here (wipes some milk off Morgan’s snout)
Morgiza: Breakthrough?
Rob: Definitely. Write it down, ‘03:27am, President wipes milk from nose of opposition leader’
Morgiza: No, it should say, ’03:27am, illegitimate leader wipes milk off rightful ruler’
Rob: Here we go again. Me trying to be mature, and you trying to be funny.
Morgiza: Ah, Mugabe, wiper of milk off people’s noses.
Rob: Ruler and conquerer.
Morgiza: Liberator and oppressor.
Rob: Leader and defender.
Morgiza: Crusher and destroyer.
Rob: You are being funny right now.
Morgiza: Suppressor and repressor.
Rob: Stop that.
Morgiza: Smasher and grabber.
Rob: Sop it right now.
Morgiza: Oppressor and depressor.
Rob: Let’s end this, it ain’t going nowhere.
Morgiza: I agree. ‘03.42am, agreement reached’

OK, so now that I have my own blog...

What the heck am I supposed to write about?