Issued, Never Used

1984 arrived, and with it, my Matric year. Back then, in apartheid South Africa, if you were a white male, you had two options when you finished school: you could either go straight into the army for two years, or—if your parents could afford it and you could scrape together the marks—you could go to university for two years, and then go into the army. Either way, the army got you in the end.

There was a border war raging on just about every edge of the country—Zimbabwe, Angola, Mozambique. Bruce was already in the army by then. We'd grown apart a bit during our high school years—he’d been away at boarding school at Hilton, and then went straight into the Air Force. He didn’t see much action, but his brother John did. Proper border stuff. John never talked about it. Still hasn’t. But you could tell. You just could.

The one thing I didn’t want to do—me, the timid one, the dreamy one with a pellet gun and a bookshelf—was go to the bloody army. But I also hadn’t exactly thrown myself into school with much academic flair. There was a brief moment in Standard 8 or 9 when I pulled it together, managed to go from the C stream up to the B stream. But that didn’t last. I was far more interested in shooting, fishing, and reading books that had absolutely nothing to do with the syllabus. So, I drifted gently back down to the C stream again.

I wasn’t thick, just not focused. I was university material, but not the kind of material that becomes an architect or a doctor. More... compost-grade.

Niels, at this point, was doing brilliantly. His business, Wood Creations, was flying. He had money, he had vision, and—perhaps most dangerously—he had ideas. One of those ideas was that he might buy a farm. A game farm, or a wine farm, or some kind of farm. And he figured, reasonably enough, that if I studied agriculture, I could eventually be his farm manager. And off we’d go into the sunset: him in the farmhouse, me out fixing irrigation.

There were only two universities in the country that offered agriculture as a degree. One was Stellenbosch, which was Afrikaans-medium. Afrikaans and I had never really seen eye to eye. The other was the University of Natal in Pietermaritzburg, which was much more English-friendly. So, we applied there. I think we threw in an application to Stellenbosch as a backup, but I already knew how that would go.

I made a bit more of an effort in my final year. Just enough. I don’t remember my exact marks, but it was something like: B for English, B for Geography, C for Science, C for Maths, F for Afrikaans (obviously), and a general sense of “this’ll do.” I got a university entrance pass, and I was accepted at Pietermaritzburg for February 1985.

Finishing school in South Africa meant finishing in November. Full summer. Total freedom. I remember burning my school books in the garden—a highly symbolic and deeply immature act of defiance against a system that, if I’m honest, I’d have been far better off embracing. But it felt good at the time.

At that point, Niels decided the garden at Ilovo needed a sprinkler system. The proper kind—Rainbird, automatic pop-ups, the works. He’d fund it and design it, and I would install it. I absolutely loved it. Working alongside Niels, following his plans, feeling competent. I got the whole thing up and running by the end of December 1984, and as far as I know, it’s still working. I was proud of that.

One of the big events of your final year at St. John’s is the matric dance. Ours was no exception, though it came with a bit of extra drama. In the years before us, the school had always allowed moderate drinking at the event. But in our year, that changed.

A new headmaster had just arrived—McFarlane, replacing Breitenbach. He was generally well liked. One of his first moves was to get rid of Saturday school, which earned him instant popularity. But he also made the call to ban alcohol at the matric dance. That didn’t go down quite as well.

Not that it made much difference to me, because the bigger issue was finding someone to take. You’ve got to understand—our group of friends had virtually no access to girls. Getting around in Johannesburg at the time meant asking your parents for a lift. Public transport basically didn’t exist. There were occasional parties, but they weren’t exactly teeming with eligible dance partners.

So there was this massive pressure. Everyone scrambling to find someone to take, while acting like they didn’t care. I remember being genuinely worried. Who the hell was I going to ask?

Richard Mayer was head of Hill House. Nice enough guy, but not part of our circle. A-stream academic type. He had a sister, Vicky—pretty, strawberry blonde—and after what felt like weeks of mental build-up, I asked her if she’d go with me. To my amazement, she said yes.

Honestly, I don’t remember much about the actual dance. It wasn’t a great success—certainly not for me. I don’t think I even managed to kiss Vicky. I don’t think I ever saw her again. I’d bought her a copy of Thriller by Michael Jackson, which I may have given her before the dance. It felt like the right thing to do at the time.

Looking back, the whole environment was weird. All-boys schools are strange, artificial places when it comes to anything romantic. Most of us had huge crushes on certain teachers. Miss White, in particular—she was the icon. Everyone fancied her. Gary Fox once claimed he’d had a thing with her. I doubt it, but with Gary... well, you never know. He’ll come up again later.

Around that time, something else was going on in the background. My father’s son from his first marriage—Torben—had been married, had kids, then divorced, and eventually came out as gay. Torben was 23 or 24 years older than me, so we weren’t close, but I remember the impact it had on my dad.

He was horrified. Absolutely beside himself. And I think it made him deeply anxious that I wasn’t showing any signs of a girlfriend. I’d hear my mum on the phone with him: “No, he doesn’t have a girlfriend yet. No, it’s just difficult to meet girls here. There’s nothing wrong with him.” Like she was reassuring him that I hadn’t been infected.

There were later allegations—and actual cases—of sexual abuse by senior staff at St. John’s. I never saw anything myself. No one ever tried anything with me. Maybe I just wasn’t attractive enough to attract unwanted attention. Whatever the reason, I was spared.

So my romantic life at that point was basically internal. I spent a lot of time in fantasy, usually involving Jenny Tresos—my brother’s girlfriend. The realities were limited, the imagination... less so.

Then came the trip.

My parents decided it was time I had a bit of independence. Sally—my cousin, and someone I’ve written about before—was in Verbier, Switzerland, working as a chalet manager. She said, “If you get yourself over here, I’ll find you somewhere to stay.” My parents agreed. A three-week trip to Verbier, solo. January 1985.

Now, this is important: in 1985, AIDS hadn’t really hit the mainstream in South Africa yet. My mum hadn’t heard of it. But she had heard of herpes. And so, the night before I left, this prim, reserved, deeply British woman—the same one who would go rigid with embarrassment if anything vaguely racy came on TV—handed me a box of condoms. “Just in case.”

It was probably the most excruciating moment of my life up to that point. We had never, ever talked about sex. Not even remotely. For her to give me those condoms was like the Queen handing you a bottle of lube and a wink.

To be clear: I was seventeen. I wouldn’t lose my virginity for another five years. Spoiler alert—it didn’t happen in Verbier.

But what a trip. Sally put me in with a group of young British guys—proper lairy ski bums. How I didn’t die from alcohol poisoning or a skiing accident, I still don’t know. We had drinking competitions and then invented something called “poo bales,” which was basically flinging yourself down a ski slope on a black garbage bag while pissed out of your mind. No helmets. Just hubris.

I was still deeply shy. Still nursing a massive, unspoken crush on Sally. Still carrying the feeling of being second-best after Bruce. But I got through it. And when I got back to South Africa, I told my mates all about the wild sexual adventures I’d had. Which, of course, was complete fiction. Apart from one chaste kiss, nothing happened. Except the solo variety.

As for the condoms—they never made it home. They ended up in a bin at Geneva airport on the way back. Still sealed. Like the moment had passed and taken my pride with it.

So that was my launch into adulthood: a C-average school career, a sprinkler system, a ski trip, a mortifying dance, and a box of condoms that never left the packaging. Not the most dramatic coming-of-age story—but funny in retrospect. Which, I suppose, is a win.