You may have heard that this column, in its current form anyway, comes to an end at the end of the month. No, the editor doesn’t think I am rubbish, or jaded, or that I like Cyril Ramaphosa a tad too much even when he comes up with something so daft as playing at being a mini-Julius Malema. No, really, they love me here. I know. The editor told me so. Or was I hallucinating, the way the EFF does when it holds up Venezuela as an economic success? My plan is to try the US for a bit. I have been a bit dishonest with readers of this column since I started back in 2005. Those were the Mbeki years. Oh, those fat years. We fought over how to make the good times even better by breaking through 6% GDP growth. Big cars, big steaks and fabulous sunsets were the order of the day. I was supposed to write about restaurants. There was a catch, though: there were places I could write about and there were places I couldn’t. There were places I went to with my children that my lovely wife and I did n...

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