Memorable moments: The British Pub Test

My friend Gavin comes from the UK, and during his younger days, he and his mates used to partake in some wild and rather disturbing pub games. One of their absolute favorites was an incredibly bizarre tradition known simply as "cock or ball."

After several pints of beer had been consumed, the game would begin. One of the lads would carefully pull a tiny, isolated piece of skin through the zipper of their trousers—sourced from either the shaft or the testicles. The remaining players then had to examine the exposed sample and make their official deduction.

Apparently, differentiating between the two under dim pub lighting is a lot harder than you might think. Whoever guessed incorrectly was penalized and had to down their drink. For Gavin and his crew, this high-stakes anatomical guessing game caused a great deal of mirth and became a staple of their nights out.

While it certainly makes for a memorable story, I am incredibly glad Gavin has long since moved on from his wilder days. It is definitely not a game I would relish participating in. When I go out for a pint, I prefer to keep my private life completely private, leaving my anatomy safely tucked away exactly where it belongs.

Memorable moments: The existential check-in

James was a wonderful hiking friend who joined us on several of our trail outings before he eventually moved back to New Zealand. He is a profoundly thoughtful chap with a deep interest in existential issues, so I always felt a strong intellectual resonance with him. He also happened to have a highly unusual hobby: several times a week, he would sit inside his broom cupboard, take a heroic dose of magic mushrooms, and attempt to tap directly into the fabric of the universe.

One night, fresh off a session in the cupboard, James came to meet Gavin, me, and a few mates at the local pub.

When he walked in, he greeted us normally but looked a little preoccupied. As the rest of the table fell into our usual loud banter and storytelling, James sat quietly, not saying much of anything, just observing the scene with a distant look in his eye.

Then, during a brief lull in the conversation, he suddenly leaned across the table toward Gavin and me. Lowering his voice to a hushed breath, he asked with total seriousness, "Guys... am I actually here?"

It became instantly clear what was happening. The dose had been so intense that he was struck by the disturbing thought that he was still sitting alone in the dark among the mops and buckets, entirely hallucinating the pub, the pints, and his friends.

Gavin and I quickly reassured him that he was, in fact, physically sitting in the pub with us. A look of great relief washed over his face, and he slowly settled back into his chair. I have never taken mushrooms myself, and listening to a grown man ask his mates for structural confirmation of his own physical existence convinced me right then and there that I probably never would.

Malabar Headland

I was hoping to see the Peregrine Falcon that lives here but I saw Nankeen Kestrel instead. The scenery around the Malabar Headland is spectacular.

Waverton to Milson's Point walk

I never grow tired of this walk. So lucky to have it on my doorstep. 

Memorable moments: The 5th floor summons

During my time at Old Mutual, I worked with a colleague named David. He was a friendly guy with a great sense of humor—sometimes bordering on the risqué—and he was incredibly laid back. Absolutely nothing flustered him. Except for one time, under an extraordinary set of circumstances.

David was trawling through the internet at work when he came across a highly questionable picture. It was titled "The Russian Spice Girls" and featured a graphic of four extremely large women in a state of near undress. For some reason, this completely caught his funny bone. Knowing a friend who shared his specific sense of humor, he promptly sent the image over using the office fax machine, thinking nothing more of it.

About three hours later, a directive came down from on high telling David to report immediately to the General Management office on the fifth floor. In our office, you generally only went to the fifth floor to get promoted or fired.

David walked up and was promptly hauled over the coals. It turned out he had entered a single digit incorrectly on the fax machine. Instead of going to his friend, the transmission had landed directly in the office of South Africa's premier, most militant activist feminist and anti-pornographer.

She had absolutely seen red. Spotting David's name printed in the tiny automated header at the top of the page, she immediately bypassed regular channels and called the Chairman's Office of Old Mutual to lodge a vociferous, furious complaint.

The sheer statistical improbability of that specific wrong number was mind-boggling. David managed to keep his job, but he was severely and memorably chastised. The rest of us walked away with an important lesson: it is best not to fax anything risqué from the office, but if you absolutely must, you had better check the number fastidiously.

Memorable moments: The Pigeon Displacer of Udaipur

I have always been deeply fascinated by the sheer variety of ways people make a living in this world. There is an endless landscape of human professions, but the most unusual and captivating job I have ever come across belonged to an elderly gentleman in Udaipur, India.

Ally and I had traveled out to the Lake Palace for lunch—a breathtakingly beautiful, historic hotel that sits like a white marble ship isolated on an island in the middle of Lake Pichola. The restaurant is located in a magnificent inner courtyard, surrounded by the intricate arches and walls of the exquisite palace.

As Ally and I sat back and began tucking into a delicious meal, a lone pigeon flew into the courtyard and alighted on one of the pristine white palace walls.

Immediately, an elderly Indian gentleman stepped into action. He walked briskly toward the bird, holding a long piece of rope. With practiced ease, he began swirling the rope over his head like a lasso, creating an unmistakable presence that promptly shooed the pigeon away.

Exactly forty seconds later, another bold pigeon landed on a wall on the completely opposite side of the courtyard. Without missing a beat, the gentleman marched over, spun his rope into the air again, and sent that bird packing too.

And so it went. For the entire three hours we spent relaxing at the palace, this man engaged in a non-stop, tactical battle against the local bird population.

I’m not entirely sure what his official job title was—"Pigeon Displacer" seems appropriate—but he treated his duties with the utmost gravity. He never once lost his concentration or allowed his gaze to wander from the palace perimeter. And his vigilance paid off remarkably: there was not a single trace of bird droppings on any of the architecture. Every wall gleamed perfectly pristine in the bright Indian sunshine. He was a complete legend, proving that no matter what your job is, there is an art to doing it flawlessly.

Pure nostalgia: Bruce Fordyce and the Comrades Marathon

Another sportsperson I was mesmerised by as a child was Bruce Fordyce. Every year it was a family ritual to watch the Comrades Marathon on TV, and every year, without fail, it seemed to be dominated by a slight, small-framed but giant legend of a man. Fordyce won the race a record nine times, eight of them consecutively from 1981 to 1988, before adding a ninth victory in 1990—a feat no other runner in the race's history has matched. The Comrades itself is a brutal test of human endurance: roughly 90 kilometres between Durban and Pietermaritzburg, alternating each year between the punishing "up run" and the fast, unforgiving "down run," a course that has broken far stronger-looking men than the wiry Fordyce. What made watching him so captivating was the contrast between his unassuming build and the sheer dominance he exerted, often pulling away from the field in the second half of the race while his rivals fell away behind him. Another vivid memory was the cut-off, when an official would stand with his back to the finish line and fire a gun to mark the brutal end of the race for anyone who hadn't made it in time. Sometimes heart-wrenching, with exhausted runners crawling on hands and knees just to beat the gun, it was totally captivating viewing.

Pure nostalgia: Two great tennis rivalries that mesmerised me as a child

Though I only properly picked up a racket later in life, tennis has grown to become one of my absolute favorite passions. That love is rooted in vivid memories of my youth, mesmerised by the sport's golden era of rivalries. I was captivated by the contrast of Björn Borg and John McEnroe—especially their titanic 1980 Wimbledon final, a grueling 55-game epic capped by a legendary 34-point tiebreak. Borg's ice-cold baseline discipline against McEnroe's twitchy, improvisational genius at the net was a clash of entire philosophies, and that tiebreak alone remains one of the greatest passages of play the sport has ever produced.

Equally thrilling were the massive clashes between Martina Navratilova and Chris Evert. Eighty matches over fifteen years, with the same essential contrast that made Borg-McEnroe so gripping: Evert's relentless precision against Navratilova's athletic aggression, each forcing the other to keep reinventing her game. These two rivalries defined the sporting landscape of my childhood, and watching them push each other to unimaginable heights planted the seed for a lifelong love of the game—one that eventually led me to pick up a racket of my own.

Memorable moments: Forgoing the marks

My dad had a story from his student days that he loved telling, one that completely captured my imagination as a kid.

Back when he was at dentistry school, the going was incredibly tough. Anatomy was notoriously the hardest course on the syllabus, and a massive part of surviving it involved grueling lab work and detailed dissections. The end-of-year anatomy exam was the ultimate hurdle, a high-stakes ordeal that combined a massive theory section with a live practical dissection.

Armed with both his pen and his scalpel, Dad walked into the exam hall. Because of the sheer volume of information required to pass, he, like almost everyone else in his class, had been forced to play the odds during his late-night study sessions. He had strategically anticipated what topics would come up and had simply been forced to skip a few sections to save time.

He was crushed when he flipped over the paper and read Question Three: Draw a detailed cross-section of the penis. It was one of the exact topics he had completely left out of his studies.

Whenever Dad reached this part of the story, his eyes would light up with a brilliant twinkle.

"I wasn't the only person in that exam hall," he would say, "who looked down at their scalpel, looked down at their lap, and thought, 'Mmmm, is it worth it?'"

Then, the twinkle in his eyes would grow even brighter, and he’d deliver the punchline he clearly cherished: "Isn't it a good thing I decided to forgo the marks, or you might never have been born!"

Memorable moments: The fastest slow hiker in the world

Of all the hikers in the world, I am fairly certain I possess the highest variable speed. Depending on the exact minute you look at me, I am both the fastest and the slowest hiker on the planet.

After I got divorced, I joined a number of local Hiking Meetup groups. It was a wonderful way to meet new people and get out into nature. Because hiking and photography are two of my greatest passions, I naturally wanted to combine them on these trips.

This created a very specific, exhausting rhythm.

Typically, I would loiter at the very back of the group, scanning the trail for a beautiful flower or a striking landscape. When I spotted something, I would stop entirely, spending five minutes setting up and capturing the perfect shot. Meanwhile, the rest of the group would keep walking, disappearing down the trail.

Realizing I was about to get left behind in the wilderness, I would then tuck my camera away and sprint like mad to catch up. I would fly down the path at breakneck speed until I finally reached the back of the pack. But the moment I caught my breath and spotted another interesting perspective, the cycle would repeat. I would drop anchor, take my photos, and then burst into another full-blown sprint.

I was caught in a constant loop of extreme loitering and high-speed chasing.

Fortunately, these days I hike with a regular bunch of mates who are far more tolerant of my photographic detours. The pace is much more balanced now, which is a massive relief—because as it turns out, sprinting a marathon in five-minute intervals gets incredibly tiring after a while.

Memorable moments: The carry-on carvers

In 2004, Ally and I went to Western Australia for a short holiday, knowing that we would be emigrating to the country sometime in the near future. We had a brilliant time exploring—cycling around Rottnest Island, wandering through Perth, sampling wine in the Margaret River, and walking among the massive trees in Shannon National Park.

During our travels, Ally decided to do a bit of shopping. She had been wanting a proper, high-quality set of kitchen knives for ages, and we happened to stumble across the absolute perfect find: a beautiful wooden board containing an array of incredibly sharp knives of varying sizes, ranging from a small fruit cutter all the way up to a giant carving knife.

After ten days of exploring, we reluctantly packed up our things, sad that the holiday was coming to an end, and drove to the airport. We successfully navigated the check-in desk, answered the standard security questions about packing our own bags, and watched our main luggage disappear down the conveyor belt.

Then, with our hand luggage in tow, we walked up to the security checkpoint.

As Ally’s bag rolled through the X-ray scanner, the entire terminal seemed to erupt. Alarms started flashing, sirens went off, and two massive airport security guards came running, descending on her bag with intense urgency. They snapped open the zipper, reached inside, and pulled it out.

There, gleaming viciously under the harsh airport fluorescent lighting, was Ally's brand-new wooden knife board, complete with its array of razor-sharp blades.

In the rush of leaving, Ally had packed her bags on absolute autopilot, completely forgetting that a collection of heavy-duty culinary weaponry probably shouldn't go in the overhead bin. The embarrassment was immediate and intense; we could feel the eyes of every single passenger in the terminal burning into the back of our necks.

Needless to say, the guards were not about to let us board a commercial flight with a giant carving knife. The set was promptly confiscated on the spot, and just like that, Ally’s years-long search for the perfect kitchen knives had to start all over again.

Wonderful photos of Jo

How I love this incredible human being. How lucky am I to have her as my sister!  I won the lottery the day sisters were allocated to brothers.