Tops and Tees

I am always suspicious of tattoos of Chinese characters. “It means divine happiness,” the bearer might say. But I suspect the logogram might really say, “Stupid Westerner.”

Similarly, I would never buy a tee shirt which bore a slogan if I didn’t know what it said. Recently in clinic, I saw a lady wearing a top which said, “Love is the Answer”, with a smaller subtext, “It is the key to the gate of happiness”. As she spoke to my interpreter about her medical problems, I wondered whether love was the answer for her. She was a single mother with two children and was finding it difficult to cope.

Sometimes the tee shirts have a slogan which doesn’t quite match the wearer.


A few weeks ago, I saw an older lady who looked strange because her face was a bit lopsided. She had a glass eye which was too big for the eye socket. She had also had a stroke some years ago, resulting in an arm which was flexed and useless. Her jacket had the word “Desire” picked out in diamante and sequins. She had no idea what the word meant.


I took this photograph of a lady’s orange polo shirt which featured a photograph of her son who had gained a doctorate at university. Forget the obligatory photographs of the begowned graduate, clutching a scroll and wearing a tasselled mortar board. This was the ultimate advertisement of academic achievement. She was very proud.

Occasionally, young men attend the clinic wearing a tee shirt advertising, “World’s Greatest Lover” or “Sexy Beast”. I reckon that they know what is written on their chest. And I have a good idea of why they are seeing me at the clinic. Some of the baseball caps on sale here are rather tasteless and unSwazi. I can’t recall ever hearing a Swazi use a swear word.

Another young lad visited the clinic last week wearing a crimson tee shirt bearing the multi-coloured slogan, “I ain’t worried bout nothin’.” I know what it is trying to say, but taken literally, the double negative means he is worried about something. Which is presumably why he is seeking medical advice.



PS A double negative indicates a positive, but there are no examples of a double positive meaning a negative…“Yerr-right!” (This quip comes from a FaceBook posting by Nigel Puttick, who shared a wrecked house in Coldharbour Lane, Brixton with me as a medical student in the winter of 1976-77.)

Soka Uncobe: Male Circumcision in Swaziland

Soka Uncobe is the slogan of the Male Circumcision (MC) programme which began in 2008 in Swaziland. A Task Force led by the Ministry of Health aimed to integrate male circumcision into the services of all hospitals and health centres. Its ambitious target was to circumcise of 80% of men in the 18-49 age group by 2013. Another programme came on stream in 2011, aiming to circumcise 50% of all male babies born in hospitals by 2014.

Mass campaigns are very costly. After the initial push, health facilities were encouraged to integrate MC into their routine work, saving lots of money. The organisers naively thought that this could be done without disrupting normal health services. This thinking is very reminiscent of the NHS, where additional work is dumped into primary care on the assumption that its capacity is limitless.

To boost the flagging programme, MC champions were appointed in the Parliament, schools and Chiefdoms. Twenty-six doctors and 83 nurses have learned the new WHO-approved surgical method. Only 2% of operations resulted in significant adverse events, such as excessive bleeding, infection and damage to the penis. In South Africa, I read a newspaper article which claimed that 22 males had had their penis amputated following complications of circumcision, but I have not heard of any cases in Swaziland.

The programme didn’t work. After an initial rush to cut (the low hanging fruit?), the numbers have been falling recently. Only 70,000 men have had the operation, just 28% of the target of 80%. Barely 5,000 infants have been circumcised. As a result, the targets have been adjusted to 80% of males aged 10-29, and 55% of the 30-34 age group, by 2018.

Older men have not been excluded, but will not be priority cases. The circumcision of newborn males will continue after this “catch up phase”. Another cadre of health workers (45 doctors and 78 nurses) has been trained to circumcise babies using the Mogen Clamp.

P1010335I went to a Centre of HIV and AIDS Prevention Studies (CHAPS) event last month which was promoting MC in the private sector. Circumcision is free for the patient, but the private doctor collects a bounty of 700 Rand (£40 or US$60) for each case. The equipment is provided free of charge and there may be some assistance for private clinics to expand (staff, equipment, rooms) to take on more circumcisions. This is presented as a good business proposition, a money-making venture which will also improve the facilities and reputation of the private clinic. Private GPs must undergo rigorous training at an approved centre and perform at least ten circumcisions. USAID is providing most of the financial support.

The whole point of male circumcision is to reduce transmission of HIV to men. Removing the foreskin to expose the tender skin of the glans penis makes it tougher. The soft skin becomes keratinised, so it is less likely to get damaged during sex. Broken skin gives viruses a portal of entry. By my way of thinking, less broken skin should also reduce transmission of HIV from infected men to non-infected women during sex, but this has not been shown to be the case. Whilst men are recovering from the operation, they are more susceptible to HIV infection through the surgical wound. The official advice is “six weeks off games”, but most men I have spoken to would find that an impossible restriction on their sex life.

Unfortunately, MC does not protect men who have sex with men from HIV infection, but the reasons for this are unclear. Most American males are circumcised but the incidence of HIV infection is higher than in UK, where few males are circumcised. MC may provide some protection against herpes, but not against the commonest sexually transmitted infection I see in Matsapha – gonorrhoea. I have heard that some wily men who have HIV want to get circumcised as they think new girlfriends will regard them as low risk, and not insist on them using condoms.

In 2000, the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine suggested that circumcision was associated with reduced risk of HIV infection. Three years later, the Cochrane Collaboration examined 35 studies and didn’t think the case was proven. To settle the matter, WHO/UNAIDS commissioned three randomised controlled trials in Africa. The trial at the Orange Farm district of Johannesburg in South Africa reported that circumcised men were 60% less likely to contract HIV. Trials in Kenya and Uganda showed similar findings, and were stopped on ethical grounds.

Even putting all the data from these three trials together (over 11,000 men were involved), the results are still not clear in my mind. The studies showed the risk of contracting HIV for circumcised men is at least half that of uncircumcised men over a year. But what about in ten years from now? One meta-analysis examined the trials and stated that to prevent one new infection of HIV, 72 males would need to be circumcised. WHO and UNAIDS mathematicians modelled the same data and came up with a different figure of between 5-15 circumcisions per HIV infection avoided. This is very cost effective compared with the price of anti-retroviral drug therapy. However, condom use is almost a hundred times more effective than male circumcision at preventing HIV infection. And of Circumcisioncourse, circumcised men would need to continue to have safer sex to maintain the protective benefit.

The local newspaper ran a story about circumcision interfering with an arrangement for warriors to collect urine (the imvunulo) when they are taking part in long ceremonies wearing traditional dress. I am not sure how this contraption works, but I doubt the foreskin is essential for its use. Circumcision used to be part of the rite of passage of becoming a warrior in Swaziland. I heard that the custom fell out of favour because the King needed as many warriors as he could muster and too many men were “on the sick”, recovering from the traditional procedure.

P1010690 On rare occasions, voluntary medical male circumcision (VMMC) turns out to be neither voluntary nor medical. In this newspaper article, a woman discovered her paramour taking a WhatsApp message from another woman. Was it his wife or another girlfriend? We will never know. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She bit off his foreskin during oral sex. Ouch. No chewing gum jokes, please.

The slogan used toP1010496
promote MC in Swaziland translates as “Cut and Conquer (HIV)”. Perhaps this has given the wrong message to many young men who feel that once they have been circumcised, HIV has been defeated and they no longer need to use condoms. Our health counsellors blame the Americans for thinking up a snappy slogan and not consulting lots of Swazi men to find out what they understood by Soka Uncobe. “Cut and Reduce Your Risk Of HIV, But You Still Have To Wear Condoms” isn’t such a slick catchphrase.

Much better is Zambia’s slogan: “Shield and Spear”.


Some people in South Africa are getting angry about statues; there is a campaign to remove all symbols of colonialism.

The statue of Cecil Rhodes at Cape Town University had to be removed from its plinth because of protests from the Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF). This group objects to any symbol of colonialism which they view as the cause for the country’s present economic problems.

In Port Elizabeth, the Horse Memorial, erected in 1905 after the Second Anglo-Boer War, was damaged by the same group. The kneeling soldier holding a bucket of water for the horse to drink has been pulled off the base. They left the thirsty, bronze horse still standing, commemorating all the gallant animals that perished during the conflict. This inscription is written on the plinth:

“The greatness of a Nation consists not so much upon the number of its people or the extent of its territory as in the extent and justice of its compassion.”

The Boer War Memorial statue in Uitenhage’s Market Square was “necklaced” – activists set fire to a car tyre draped over the soldier’s shoulders. They used a sledge hammer, but could not bring down the statue. This triggered a newspaper cartoon showing a replacement statue, depicting the brutal necklacing and beating of a man.

Security guards have been trying to protect the statue of Paul Kruger (the President of the South African Republic from 1880 to 1900) in Church Square, Pretoria, after EFF activists splashed it with lime green paint. He fought against colonialism and the British imperialists.

Even the statue of Mahatma Gandhi was defaced with white paint in Johannesburg. And he was arguably the most famous freedom fighter of the twentieth century.

Is nothing sacred?

Jacob Zuma was also portrayed in the controversial painting, "The Spear"
Jacob Zuma was also portrayed in the controversial painting, “The Spear”

Apparently not. In Cape Town, a small statue resembling President Jacob Zuma was erected on the hill, Lion’s Head, overlooking the city. It depicted a short, fat, naked man, with a large pink sex toy in its hand. Zuma has a reputation as a philanderer. When he was on trial for alleged rape, Zuma stated that he protected himself from HIV infection by having a shower after sex. The statue was cut in half and destroyed.

Gathering of the Clans

Her Excellency, Mrs Judith Macgregor CMG LVO, High Commissioner to the Republic of South Africa, and Mr Frank Pettit, Honorary Consul to Swaziland, held a reception last night for all Britons living in Swaziland at the Malkerns Country Club.

I was keen to go and broaden my social horizons. Social life in Manzini is not sparkling and I thought I might meet some interesting people. It is pleasant to chat with folks who will probably understand the subtleties of humour, cynicism, banter and references to “Blighty” (for example, Microsoft Word has underlined “Blighty” with a wavy red line, showing it has no idea what it means).

The reception was scheduled to start at 6pm. In Swaziland, this could mean as late as 7:30pm, but we Brits are sticklers for punctuality. I set off from Manzini at 5:30pm for a trip which should have taken 30 minutes. But it was raining, with poor visibility, and on the dual carriageway the out of town the rush hour traffic ground to a halt. There were three separate multi-vehicle pile ups, all in the fast lane. The speed limit on this stretch of road is 100 kph, but drivers rarely compensate for poor road conditions by slowing down. It is a holiday weekend (King Mswati III is 47 years old tomorrow and Monday is a Bank Holiday), so people were probably hurrying to get home.

I arrived at the Country Club an hour late. The speeches were over, the aluminium foil-lined trays of cucumber sandwiches (crusts still adherent), cocktail sausages, outsize vol-au-vents, cheese and cucumber strips and home-made paté with Ritz biscuits, had been plundered. But there was a tureen of delicious, hot, viscous vegetable soup, which I ladled out into a mug and sipped from a spoon.



After work, I had changed into a fresh, white, short-sleeved shirt worn with a post-modern animal print tie, so I was feeling chilly. After warming up in front of the blazing log fire, set in a huge stone fireplace, I looked around and recognised no one among the seventy Brits.

Small talk isn’t my forté, and, apart from blogging, I don’t gossip. But I set out to get to know some people. Most of the group were semi-retired farmers living in and around the village of Malkerns. The village is named after Malcolm Kerns Stuart, who ran a trading store here in the early 1900s. The country club is the spiritual home of the British community and until recently, all the members had to “club in” and contribute to the running of the establishment.

I was impressed with these friendly people who arrived in Southern Africa almost half a century ago to live and have made Swaziland their home. Most were jacks-of-all-trades – farmers, mechanics, accountants – who bought a bit of land and built their houses in the hinterland. They are here for the duration. They talked to me about their lives, their families, local notables whom I should meet and invited me to the club amateur dramatic night next month, or to pop in one Sunday when I was feeling in need of good company.

I suppose they could be called “immigrants” rather than “expats”. Most had no intention of going back to UK (unless it was something special, such as to see their grandchildren singing in a choir in Canterbury Cathedral). I warmed to them while they got steadily plastered drinking Windhoek draft beer. Unfortunately, I missed the 70 year old resident GP, who left just before I arrived, who works half days in a private clinic close to MSF’s Matsapha Comprehensive Health Care Clinic. He sounded like a friendly, old fashioned GP who would really put himself out for his loyal patients.

I didn’t speak much to the younger Brits, some of whom had young children. They had ordered pizza on the verandah. I didn’t like to intrude on family groups.

Looking resplendent in viridian green, Her Excellency, the High Commissioner, worked the room, canvassing opinions. I was too busy collecting stories of the “olden days” to go and speak to her, but she was accessible and seemed interested. Following the closure of the British Consulate in Swaziland (Foreign Office efficiency savings), there had been delays in renewing passports, which had to be sent to Pretoria. This had now been sorted out, with the turnaround time falling from three months to three weeks. It seems odd that the Honorary Consul had no register of resident British citizens in Swaziland.

By 8:15pm, there were only a score of Brits left in the club. The couple I was talking to left, so I decided to call for a driver to pick me up. The cell phone reception wasn’t good, so I walked over to the fireplace and held my phone up to get a better signal. I sent a text and got a reply from the driver, accompanied by a religious text from the phone company, MTN.

I wandered over to join a garrulous group sitting around a table in the corner. I introduced myself and they all laughed. Apparently, they had noticed my strange behaviour holding up a cell phone (trying to get a signal) which they interpreted as my photographing the stragglers at the reception. One lady was trying to hum the James Bond theme tune (I think).

“With your white shirt and tie, we thought you were with the High Commission, security or something, taking pictures, casing the joint,” said one of the group. “Are you with MI5?”

“Not MI5, but MSF,” I quipped.

They all laughed uproariously, but I didn’t think it was that funny. There was a call for another round of beers, and soon the driver had arrived to take me home.

They seem like a good crowd. I’m definitely going to the amateur dramatics (“Gas, Giggle & Grub”) next month. Probably not nitrous oxide.

The Drop: Warning, Adult Content

I can always tell when men come into my consultation room with an embarrassing problem. They often hold their medical records over their groin, they avoid eye contact and take a while before telling me what’s wrong. It’s almost as though they are trying pluck up courage.

My next patient fit the bill perfectly. He was definitely looking sheepish. He rolled up his trouser leg to show me some abrasions on his knee. “I fell off my bike a week ago,” he said. “I’ve injured myself on the crossbar.” I asked what part of his anatomy had been affected, he said he didn’t know the correct word in English. “Perineum,” I thought to myself. “Let me have a look,” I asked him.

He undressed and I examined him. I couldn’t find any bruises, but I did see a classic case of gonorrhoea. I couldn’t resist passing an unprofessional comment that he had not just been riding bicycles…

“No, dokotela, I don’t do that, honest, really! I am a religious man,” he said.

“You’ve got the drop,” I told him. This is the local slang term for gonorrhoea.

I raised my eyebrows questioningly and turned to my Swazi nurse colleague who was observing my consultations. He spoke a few choice words to the patient and he reluctantly confessed that he had a bevy of girlfriends.

“I’ll have to give one of them the sack,” he said, “Once I have worked out who I caught this from.”

“I think you should contact all your girlfriends and persuade them to come here for treatment,” I said. “You could have passed the infection on to other girls, too. Perhaps you should hire a Kombi to ferry them all to the clinic.”

He didn’t seem impressed by this helpful advice.

“Look, if all your girlfriends don’t get treated, the infection will continue to get passed around between you, like ping pong,” I told him.

I don’t think he understood my point. “Ping pong?” he asked. “Do you mean I am going to have to masturbate?”

“Well, that would be safer, but I was trying to explain how people can catch the infection again just a few days after they have been treated for it. Everyone should be treated at the same time,” I said.

I prescribed the medication and wrote out some contact slips for him to give to his partners. “Have you had an HIV test? Do you know your status?” I asked him.

“Yes, I do. It’s a long story,” he replied.

“How long can it be?” I asked in exasperation.

But that’s another story.

Splat the Rat

How often have you tried to splat the rat? Usually at school fundraising events, the “Splat the Rat” stall is a popular attraction. For those of you who have never heard of this, the operator drops a toy rat down a length of drainpipe and the punter tries to whack it with a stick as it emerges. I can’t remember ever being able to time it right and hit the rodent.

The lady, who cooks the evening meal for expatriates in the project, pointed out the evidence in our kitchen. “Look, tooth marks in this chip,” she said. “And here in this apple. We have a rat in the house!”

I made a mental note to have a chat to my two flatmates about the need to keep the kitchen tidy and to store food in the refrigerator. They had left for the office a few minutes earlier. I was waiting for the vehicle to take me to the clinic when I heard a scream from the kitchen. “Rat!”

The cook called the cleaner to come into the kitchen and they shut the doors. They were obviously experienced at rat catching. They pulled the refrigerator and cooker out away from the walls. One pushed a mop down one side of the cooker and the other waited with a broom handle raised, ready to hit the rat as it was flushed from cover.

I went outside and looked in through the window, just in time to see the cleaner splat the rat. She gave it a few more thwacks with the broom handle until it stopped twitching.

“Ooh, it’s a big one!” said the cook.

Traditional Swazi Food

Sishwala is thick porridge, served with relish of vegetables, pumpkin tops or meat

Incwancwa is sour porridge made out of fermented maize meal

Sitfubi is boiled fresh milk mixed with maize meal

Siphuphe setindlubu is porridge thickened with mashed, boiled peanuts

Emasi etinkhobe temmbila is ground up maize kernels mixed with sour milk, not to be confused with…

Emasi emabele which is made from ground sorghum

Sidvudvu is pumpkin porridge with maize meal

Umncweba is biltong, dried (uncooked) seasoned strips of beef

Umkhunsu is meat which has been cooked, then dried

Siphuphe semabhontjisi is mashed bean porridge

Tinkhobe is boiled corn on the cob

Umbidvo wetintsanga is cooked pumpkin leaves with peanuts

Tjwala is traditional sorghum beer

I had rump steak (grilled) and chips tonight, with lettuce and carrot salad for my evening meal. Who can blame me?

Easter Day

It reminded me of the Pope’s “Urbi et Orbi” Easter Message to the faithful at the Vatican. King Mswati III took a leaf out of his Book and preached the sermon to 10,000 Christians on Easter Sunday at the National Stadium in Somhlolo. Security locked the gates to the stadium, allowing no one in after he had started speaking. No one could get out, too, but his message was not boring.


The newspaper billboards claimed he had told Christians to “stay out of politics”. As 95% of Swazis are Christian, this might be seen as a message in support of his absolute monarchy, but it was probably aimed at pastors (“troublesome priests”?) who were trying to build a political power base.

The King spoke about how he had been staking a stroll after dinner when he saw a circular arrangement of clouds around the moon. The clouds formed a heart shape. He said that this represented Jesus keeping Swaziland safe. He cracked a few jokes and had the congregation laughing at his rendition of the gospel song, “It wasn’t easy” by Cece Winans. He missed a few notes, but that didn’t matter.

Many of the people attending the celebration were dressed in distinctive robes based on Old Testament descriptions of raiment. Church of Jericho followers sometimes dress in white, other times red, blue and green, with a pointy hat. They speak in tongues. One of the nurses in the clinic lives next door to some Jericho followers and she told me that indeed they did talk in a strange murmuring out in their back garden. The byline is a strange version of English, too.


The League of African Churches had some star preachers from overseas. The Apostle Sydney Mulenga from Zambia preached about fathering children. His wife, Priscilla, told the men at Easter Convention, “Those children you boast about, only Jesus and the woman know who their father is.” This did not get the desired response from the Swazis who were thrown into stitches of laughter, according to the press.

He had some comforting words to those men who might not be the father to the children in their household. “When people live together, they begin to look alike.”

Aspostle Mulenga also made a plea for people who had bought “holy water” from Nigeria to throw it away. Some pastors in Swaziland had large stocks of “holy water” and were angry at the Apostle for destroying their business. He went on to criticise another pastor who specialised in casting out demons in women, whom he instructed to rent a hotel room, take off all their clothes and…

Pastor Mahlalela preached against the un-Swazi practice of men shaving their heads. This should only be done when there is a family bereavement. “It is a pity that those in power are failing to consider the importance of men’s hair,” he said. The newspaper goes on to say that ironically, several members of his audience were bald, including some ministers.

The Minister of Sports, Culture and Youth Affairs, David “Cruiser” Ngcamphalala, said that although Jesus washes away your sins, but not your fingerprints. He also urged young people to preserve their virginity until marriage, as it was rare for non-virgins to find peace when they married. “I have two apples, one is bitten and one is fresh. Which would you choose?” asked a supporter in the audience. Most would prefer the fresh apple. Most? What were the others thinking?

The area around the stadium was packed with people. It reminded me of Durham Big Meeting (Miners’ Gala). Some thieves were operating, but if they were caught, it was mass justice. One thief managed to escape from the mob, but the police caught him. They handcuffed him and put him in a police van, to take him to be charged. En route, the thief kicked open the back door and flung himself out in a desperate attempt to escape. Unfortunately, he died on the road.

The next big spectacle is the King’s birthday next weekend. I have been urged to go, but I can’t think of what to buy him for a present.

I have collected the newspaper articles in this gallery:

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To be a good GP you have to be curious and interested in people. You have to like them, whatever their foibles and failings. And you have to be able to laugh with them.

An old grandma came for her blood pressure and diabetic review. After sorting this out, I asked her, “Is there something else I can help you with?”

“Yes,” she said, “I want some help with my bowels.”

I should have known. Like older people in UK, gogos are obsessed with their bowels. If constipation persists for more than a couple of days, out comes the home enema kit. I thought she was aiming for “inner cleanliness”, like the Andrews Liversalts advertisement. But I was wrong.

“Whenever I eat beetroot, my stomach growls,” she said. “It’s been happening since I was a girl.”

“Does it happen every time you eat beetroot?” I asked. “Does it matter how much you eat?”

“Not every time I eat it, but if I eat a lot, my stomach growls louder,” she replied.

“What about beetroot prepared in different ways?” I asked. “Boiled and eaten hot, made into a salad, pickled?”

“No difference, my stomach growls however I take beetroot.”

“Has any treatment helped?”


See what happens when you ask direct questions? All you get back is answers. But whenever I employ open questions, my patients either look blankly at me or change the subject.

“OK, madam, you want me to fix a problem that you’ve had for sixty years. I might be a good dokotela, but I am not that good.”

“How do you know I have had it for sixty years?” she asked me.

“Because you said it started when you were a girl and now you are over 70.”

“Oooohooooh” – this is meant to convey a rising tone in the middle of the expression, conveying the meaning, “now I understand.”

“Right, I think you should consider giving up eating beetroot, even if it is just for a week or two,” I suggested.

“Nev-vah, doctor! I love it too much.”


A sixty-three year old gentleman came to the clinic and complained to me that he felt tired all the time. After a few questions fishing for physical illnesses, such as TB and HIV, I told him that he looked tired and sad. Sometimes this remark provokes tears in Swazis who are generally adept at concealing emotions behind a poker face. But this man just replied that it was true.

“Is there something that is bothering you, something making you unhappy?” I asked.

“Yes, my wife died three years ago,” he said.

“Snap,” I thought, but I didn’t share this information with him. “Do you think about her a lot?” I asked.

“Yes, I do, especially when I am in bed. Really I need a young wife to keep me warm and cosy under the bedclothes. That would solve my problems. But I don’t have enough cows for the bride price.”

As my sympathy drained away, I said that we can’t help you with the dowry and asked him to come back if the tiredness persisted.


A man in his late forties sat in the patient’s chair, dressed in ragged clothes, smelling of stale alcohol, in need of a bath and a dentist. “Belly ache,” he said.

“Tell me more,” I replied.

“What is there to say? It’s belly ache,” he said.

“What kind of pain is it, where is it, does anything make it worse or better, does the pain move anywhere, what is the effect of food, how long have you had it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I am lacking power,” he replied.

This is a code for erectile dysfunction. I asked him to climb up on the couch and examined his abdomen. He had a soft, enlarged liver but no other stigmata of hepatic disease. The fluorescent light in my consulting room is so dim that sometimes it seems the room is darker with the light switched on. I looked at his rheumy eyes but there was no jaundice. I took him over to the window and looked again. Perhaps there was a tinge of yellow in his sclera.

I ordered some blood tests and this confirmed mildly raised liver enzyme levels, but no hepatitis markers. “How much alcohol do you drink?” I asked him.

“Enough,” he replied.

“What do you drink? Bugano season is over now.”

There was a long discussion with my translator who eventually said that he drank locally produced liquor. He could not afford any of the decent stuff, apparently.

“OK, you have to stop drinking alcohol. It is damaging your liver and preventing you from having sex with your wife, or is it your girlfriend?” I said.

“I have a wife and two secret lovers,” he said. “If I stop drinking alcohol, will I get my power back?”

Cheekily, I told him that if he quit drinking hooch for a month, he would be fit enough to take on a third secret lover. That brought a smile to his face, revealing a wide gap where his upper front teeth should have been. Perhaps that was a tad unprofessional, but the health education message certainly seemed to hit home.