Tom Sharpe died last week and it moved me to go back and reread him. And boy does he hold up well. This book, written in 1970, is a brilliant, scathing, savagely funny look at South Africa under Apartheid. If P. G. Wodehouse and Evelyn Waugh had made a baby author, he might have turned out to be somebody like Tom Sharpe - making astute political criticism in a voice that is utterly irreverent, perverse and hilarious.
The plot is absurdly wonderful - an elderly British gentlewoman calls the local police to report that she has shot her Zulu cook in a crime of passion. The responding officers are Kommandant Van Heerden, a dim, hypochondriacal Anglophile, Lieutenant Verkramp, a rabid anti-Communist, and Konstabel Els, a trigger happy sadist, rapist and all around active agent of entropy. The woman, Miss Hazelstone, is the heiress of a family distinguished for being honored in spite of their wretched performance of duty, and she herself is, well, a transvestite with a latex fetish. Mayhem ensues.
There are so many laugh out loud moments, that you almost, but not quite, forget the nightmare that was Apartheid.
"There didn't seem to be any significant difference between life in the mental hospital and life in South Africa as a whole. Black madmen did all the work while white lunatics lounged around and imagined that they were God."