OVER the years Whitehorse has presented himself as a victim of nefarious activities at PC FM.
He claims his shares were pinched.
As the adage goes, it is the squeaky wheel that gets the grease.
And when the ntate who runs the show at PC FM started fuming at me during his one-dimensional weekly rants, I began to think that perhaps Whitehorse was hoofing furiously for a reason.
Why else would a man be frothing at the mouth with anger every week?
But last week Scrutator was shocked by the devious and hideous tactics that Whitehorse is now using to win the battle.
He wants the Lesotho Communications Authority to cancel the radio station’s licence so that he can “regain” control.
True the war has been dirty.
But nothing whatsoever justifies the use of nuclear-like weapons to wipe out the very company that you are fighting for.
So far Whitehorse has failed to win a race and now he wants the whole tournament to be abandoned.
His selfish reasoning is that if he can’t control the station then it must be silenced.
The people there have enjoyed puking vitriol towards me but I will defend the station’s right to exist with my life.
The media industry in Lesotho is big enough to accommodate even the most pedestrian of products.
Anyone who advocates that licences be suspended so that he can win any battle is an enemy of the media.
It’s been years since Scrutator came across such desperate manoeuvres.
Scrutator doesn’t care about their kindergarten fights.
She does not care who wronged who and when.
What thoroughly disgusts me are men who would rather throw away the bath water with the baby because they have lost a custody battle.
Whitehorse wants Scrutator’s colleagues at the station to lose their jobs.
He wants to sacrifice more than 15 jobs so that he can “regain control”.
In the meantime I want to see which technocrat will pander to Whitehorse’s whims and dare cancel that licence.
I will strip naked and walk the streets of Maseru in daylight.
Isn’t it amazing how the ruling party’s youth cadres have been scrambling to distance themselves from that mischievous epistle written to the leader?
Suddenly the young functionaries are behaving as if it’s blasphemous to ask that incompetent ministers be sacked.
They are hiding in gullies which will be scarce soon when the natural resources minister fills them up in his land reclamation projects.
They are running into dongas, hills and rivers — all in an effort to duck responsibility for that ill-fated missive.
They want everyone to believe that some weeks ago there was a ghost that wrote a very long letter to the leader.
They want us to believe that this ghost knew how to hit the keyboard, print and deliver a letter to a government minister.
That ghost is indeed innovative.
“I repeat, we were not involved in the writing of that letter,” refuted the youth leader at a rally in Butha-Buthe.
It was like he had been told to kiss an Egyptian cobra.
Why can’t they stand by their words like that loose canon across the border who answers to the name Julius Malema?
If they don’t have the spine they must just shut up and concentrate on learning to avoid wetting their political pants.
The comrades must learn to stand by their juvenile acts.
Still on politics, why is it that a certain opposition party is always complaining about being misquoted?
If they have not been misquoted, they have either been quoted out of context or their statements have been totally fabricated.
They shove their noses into their mouths in fury every time they see a report they perceive to be negative about their party.
But Scrutator now has a solution for them.
They must pull together their resources and start their own paper.
It does not cost much to run a Pravda.
In that mouthpiece they can say a hill is a mountain without worrying about someone doubting their sanity.
In there, they can deify their leaders without causing alarm and despondency.
Scrutator is wondering whether the scribes at the weekly called her heroes ‘n heroines still have tongues after their mind-blowing bootlicking binges.
Just two weeks ago they took their antics to another level that I am sure might have startled even the one whose boots had been licked to blinding glittery.
“One would try to imagine how far the country could be if it was not because of endless and selfless contributions of people like yourself. Your efforts deserve so much accolades and we are left with no doubt that you as one of the torch bearers, your light will never go unnoticed,” the novice paper gushed.
With so much bootlicking, it won’t be long before someone starts appealing for a tongue transplant — if there is anything like that.
Whoever lied to them that a tongue is a renewable part of the human body misled them.
Guys, there are many decent ways to grovel for adverts but licking with such passionate verve is certainly not one of them.
Sometime ago I spanked some dudes who were masquerading as journalists.
I spanked them so hard that they went on voicemail.
I thought they had given up until I stumbled into another of their works.
Now scribes at the paper have diversified into teaching English, ironically the very language that has been causing them serious headaches.
The problem is that the scribe who has been trying to teach the language is a neophyte at it.
The other week she was lecturing on pronouns but when it came to her own story she was doing an appalling job.
“For some strange different several reasons, we have become a ‘touch starved society,’” she said.
What is that?
That whole piece titled “Please touch” failed to touch Scrutator’s mind.
But it is not too late to learn the basics my beautiful sister.
All you need to do is to stop pretending that a mishmash of words constitutes a story.
Until then, you must desist from touching young minds with dirty hands.