A quick poll

I was speaking to the Zanu-PF’s Women’s League, oh yes, when the matter of elections came up. It seems only yesterday that I had to put on my baseball cap in the name of democracy, as well as a reward for my female admirers, but it is time to think about going to the polls again, if only to give some of my more athletic followers a bit of exercise.

So, feel free to vote in this poll whichever way you like. No pressure.

UPDATE: Just a few more days to go. Keep those votes coming in. The suspense is killing me. Figuratively.

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Going, going, Gono

There has been a lot of idle speculation recently that there has been some sort of impropriety between my wife and my good friend Dr Gideon Gono, who is best known for his staggering success in managing the Zimbabwean dollar since I appointed him in 2003.

Let me state for the record that Grace, my much younger wife, would never have an affair with a married man. That time she bore two of my children while my first wife was dying of cancer does not count, of course. My charms are famously irresistible, so she is entirely blameless.

As for poor Dr Gono, it is not as if he has a reputation for going behind his wife’s back, apart from that time he supposedly jumped into bed with a former Miss Zimbabwe. What a scamp! Or rather, what a scamp he would be if such allegations were true.

What I can say for sure is that no one is going to die in mysterious circumstances over this. That would never happen. If there was someone called Peter Pamire who died in a car accident after supposedly sleeping with my wife, I haven’t heard of him.

So, enough of this tittle tattle. If my wife has become the village bike of Harare, then I’m not Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath.

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Lemur panto

I have recently been enjoying a British freeview channel named Dave. For a start, the name is so witty. In no way was its dreamt up by cocksure marketing men who go to work dressed in pin-stripe jackets with jeans and trainers. Oh, no. I like it so much that I wish to have one in my country. It will be called Robert.

But I was outraged to see, on a re-run of Have I Got News for You, footage of a gay colonial imperialist called Paul Merton laughing at my name. (My predecessor, Canaan Banana, also had this problem, but then he was later jailed for sodomy, so he had it coming.) He said that Mugabe spelt backwards is E-ba-gum. This is funny? Funny how?

Well, Mr Merton, two can play at that game. On Robert, I shall have shows laughing at you. Yes. Your name is an anagram of “lemur panto”. Ha! We shall broadcast hours of lemur pantomime to shame you.

We shall also have:

Manure Plot, a spy thriller involving an international conspiracy to seize control of production of the world’s animal waste;

Mule Patron, a sitcom about an animal rights activist’s mishaps as she attempts to run a sanctuary for load-bearing animals;

Loam Punter, a documentary blowing the lid on underground soil gambling;

Rum Polenta, in which celebrity chefs create a variety mouth-watering dishes employing boiled cornmeal and Caribbean spirits;

Tampon Rule, an educational chat show for ladies;

Menu Patrol, a variation on America’s Dumbest Criminals in which my secret police bust celebrity chefs who fail to use of polenta and rum in their dishes; and

Amulet Porn, a late-night show for talisman fetishists (although this may merit its own channel).

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The power of love

Well, thank goodness that’s over for another five years. I sometimes wonder why we bother to have general elections at all. As recent events have shown, I cannot be beaten, whereas Morgan Tsvangirai quite obviously can be (unless he’s in the Dutch Embassy, the slippery eel).

But elections, like the act of love, are matters in which champions must continually prove themselves. My top tip for both is that if things don’t go well the first time, you can make a more concerted effort after a hiatus of your own choosing.

Anyhow, I was delighted to have received the highest of plaudits from the Iranian foreign ministry recently – on the election result rather than my lovemaking, I should add. I have no doubt that Mohammad Ali Hosseini would be impressed by the latter as well, but of course he would have to hang himself, as homosexuality is illegal in Iran as it is here. I am, of course, not gay, unlike many so-called Western leaders, who definitely are.


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Not for spurning

Billy Zane writes:

Dear Rob (Mr President is fine – RM)

You may have read in the newspapers that something is rotten in the Kentish orchard that is my engagement to Kelly Brook. Without confirming or denying whether I’ve been ditched by the former presenter of so-called Celebrity so-called Love Island, I would nonetheless be grateful for your guidance on how to cope with rejection.

Toothily yours,

Billy Zane

His Excellency President Robert Mugabe KCB replies:

Dear Billy,

Of course, I have never been rejected by anyone, but instinct alone tells me that the most sensible course of action is to pay no attention to those who wish you ill and carry on as before. If rumours persist that a loved one desires to spurn you, a zero-tolerance approach is called for. Assert yourself emotionally and – what the hell – physically with the object of your affection and anyone who dares to support her. You may also invite her to examine the situation from your point of view, and with luck she will see that you were right all along. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a country to run.

Yours etc

His Excellency President Robert Mugabe KCB

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How am I?

Small talk is no small thing. I won’t go into great detail, but I will say this:

Never go out with a girl who asks how you are twice in succession, viz

His Excellency President Robert Mugabe KCB: Well, hello there.

Girl: Hi. How are you?

His Excellency President Robert Mugabe KCB: Like a million Zimbabwean dollars (£3), baby. How about you?

Girl: Oh, fine. How are you?

Alarm bells ought to be going off in your head at this point. Or, if you run a police state, in your local constabulary. I mean, was she even listening? In the bad old days I would administer a beating, but I am a new man now. I have taken out my anger by instituting radical economic measures in the form of price controls. Ah, sweet release.

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As everyone knows, I am a staunch Catholic (except for the time that I had two children with my young secretary while my wife was dying of cancer – ah, happy days). So it was a particular delight to open my post this morning to find, amongst the red bills from the IMF, a papal bull.

Dear Robert,

I cannot help but notice that I’m not getting any girls. Is it something to do with the way I dress?

Sincerely yours,

Benedict X etc etc

Well, Benedict, you need to make yourself more accessible. Why, only last week some chap was vaulting barriers just to touch you and you didn’t even notice. I use this as a hypothetical example, of course. He was probably gay, and the very suspicion of such evil warranted the massive amount of violence that your bodyguards duly meted out.

Also, have you thought about growing a narrow moustache? Your advisors may say that this plays into the hands of people who wish to make jokes about you and Hitler, but you can ignore them. It never did me any harm.

And yes, that hat is a bit camp. I find that simply wearing a baseball cap during an election campaign is all I need to do to guarantee not only a thumping victory over my rivals, but also more action than a broomstick in a convent.

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Robert’s tips on dumping

Women think that men find saying “I love you” difficult. We do not. It is easy to say if it is true. Quite apart from the joy of saying it, there are rewards, both instantly and in the medium term. Like currency adjustment or land reform, it only becomes a burden in the long run.

Saying “I don’t love you” is the difficult one. How do you do it, I am often asked. Love is like an International Monetary Fund loan, I say. The IMF hates rejection and will moan to the world about what a heel you are, but you’ll be glad to be shot of it in the long term. It (or she) will no longer solicit avowals from you, and you will be freed from the guilt of making empty promises in the future.

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What is all this Diana fuss about?

People often comment that I have much in common with the Prince of Wales. We are both into agricultural reform, for one.

But few people know that we also shared a lover. Oh, yes. Muggins Mugabe here was seduced by Diana, Princess of Wales back in 1993 when she came to visit my country. Modesty forbids me from divulging the details of our affair, but let me say this: she was rubbish. If that’s good oral, then I’m not a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath.

What Will Carling, James Hewitt or the Wigan rugby league team saw in her I’ll never know.

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Lustrous Finnish

Matti Vanhanen, the Finnish prime minister, writes:

Dear Bob – may I call you Bob? (No. Mr President or Your Excellency would be more appropriate – RM)

There is nothing I like more, after making love, than the taste of an oven-baked potato. Does this make me abnormal?

Yours sincerely,


Well Matti, it sounds to me that you have a type of paraphilia, or sexual fetish, meaning that you attain sexual arousal through contact with a non-sexual object. This is an abomination, and you will burn in Hellfire.

I hope this helps.

Robert Mugabe


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