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ON the cover it says that John Gordon Davis, author of Hold My Hand I’m Dying, found this book “an enjoyable, convincing story wrapped in dramatic, well-researched history”.
Obviously I’m not smoking the same stuff, because all Robin Binckes delivered to me in an enjoyable, convincing and — presumably — well-researched manner, was a lot of teenage fantasy sex, and in a style that will only convince the younger fans of James Bond movies. For example, Binckes’s femme fatale does what no woman has ever done in the history of seduction — she ran her tongue over her lower lip. Go on, try it in any way you can ... does it make you feel alluring, or just moronic?
And as for weaving historical nuggets into a storyline, I’d recommend T. V. Bulpin or Max du Preez any day. Mr Binckes allows just too many incongruities to slip through to remain believable. My favourite is when the hero, Rauch, cracks his whip before cutting a man’s testicles with it in the small, dingy room of his whore.
Now, I know about whips a bit, for until his death, my uncle Stoffel’s hobby was to fix ox wagons at his working museum in Lydenburg, called De Wagensrust.
He had a smithy and a leatherworks that plaited the various whips used by wagon drivers. People came from far to learn how to crack the long whip — myself included.
Hence my LOL when Binckes had Rauchie cracking his whip behind him … in a small room … with his back to the wall. Not possible Mr Binckes, even with the shortest of sweepies.
Still, I did LOL, so if you just want a roll-and-a-licking good tale for the hols, this is as good as any.
And you can stop doing that with your tongue now …