Memorable moments: The millionaire mockery

Brothers Russell and Roger are among my closest friends, and our friendship has always been fueled by a mutual love for the well-executed prank. In 1999, when Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? first exploded onto South African television, the stakes for our brand of mischief reached an all-time high.

Both brothers possess prodigious general knowledge, having honed their trivia skills through years of grueling pub quizzes. Russell was the first to take the plunge. He applied for the show and, a month later, received the coveted "screening call." The producers filtered contestants with a numerical logic question—something like, "How many standard bricks would it take to pave a tennis court?" You had to deduce the answer on the spot; the closest estimates won a seat in the studio.

Russell made the cut. We all tuned in to watch him dominate the "Fastest Finger First" round and take the hot seat. He was brilliant, breezing through the levels until a tricky question about the Winter Olympics finally stumped him. He retired with a cool R32,000—not a bad haul for a single night’s work.

Naturally, Roger was itching to follow in his brother’s footsteps. The competitive fire was lit, which provided Russell and me with the perfect opening.

I have a bit of a knack for voices, so I called Roger’s house and adopted my most professional, "Stacey-from-the-production-office" tone.

"Hello, Roger. This is the production team for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? We are currently screening for our next round of contestants. As you know, we require you to logically deduce a numerical answer. The closest contestant to the correct figure will be invited to the studio."

Roger was instantly beside himself with excitement. He was hooked.

"The question for you, Roger, is this: Exactly how many pages are there in total in the complete 32-volume set of the Encyclopedia Britannica?"

"Oh... oh dear," Roger stammered. "Let me see... can I confer with my friend here for a moment?"

"You have sixty seconds," I replied frostily.

What followed was pure comedic gold. We could hear them frantically whispering in the background, trying to calculate the average thickness of a volume, the density of the paper, and the likely page count per inch. It was a masterpiece of desperate, high-speed mathematics.

Finally, Roger came back to the phone, sounding breathless but confident. He delivered a number he had practically sweated over—something incredibly specific, like 32,640.

I stayed perfectly in character. I let the silence hang for a long, dramatic beat.

"Thank you, Roger," I said, my voice dripping with official gravity. "Now, for the tie-breaker: How many individual feathers are on a standard, adult South African Ostrich?"

That was the breaking point. There was a beat of stunned silence before Roger started to protest. "Wait... what? Is that even logically deducible? How on earth could I—"

At that moment, Russell and I both lost it. The "production office" collapsed into a fit of hysterical giggles as I dropped the accent. Roger was fuming for a solid minute, his brain still stuck in "Encyclopedia" mode while we roared with laughter at the other end.

He didn't get the R32,000, and he certainly didn't get to the hot seat, but he did eventually see the funny side. It turns out that while he knew everything about the world’s most famous encyclopedia, he’d completely forgotten the first rule of our friendship: Never trust a phone call from Russell and Graeme.

Memorable moments: The bitter truth

On our way back to Cape Town after a weekend at the Breede River, Russell and I pulled over at a picturesque olive farm. As we strolled toward the farm shop, Russell stopped by a heavily laden tree, reached out, and plucked a plump, dark olive.

He popped it into his mouth and began to chew with a look of pure, Mediterranean relish. "Ooh," he hummed, nodding with approval, "the olives here are absolutely delicious. You have to try one."

I didn't hesitate. I reached for the nearest branch, picked a beautiful-looking specimen, and bit down hard.

The taste was instantaneous and catastrophic. It wasn't just "bitter"—it was a violent, astringent assault on my taste buds that felt like chewing on a piece of toxic chalk soaked in battery acid. I didn't just spit it out; I launched it. The half-masticated olive flew a good five metres across the grove in a projectile arc of pure regret.

Russell immediately erupted in giggles. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, and revealed his own olive—completely untouched and tucked safely under his tongue.

"Ha ha! Got you!" he crowed, finally letting the prop fall to the grass.

I stood there with a mouth that felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper, watching him double over with laughter. I’ve since learned that olives must be cured in brine or lye for months before they are remotely edible; unfortunately, I learned it the Russell way.

Memorable moments: The red face and the grin

For reasons that seemed logical at the time, Russell and I stood in the kitchen and decided to settle a debt of honor: a chili-eating competition. The rules were simple—one lethal-looking bird's eye chili each, consumed simultaneously on the count of three.

"One... two... three!" Russell barked, his face a mask of competitive intensity.

I didn't hesitate. I bit down hard, releasing a capsaicin explosion that felt like swallowing a lit blowtorch. Within seconds, the heat was formidable. My vision blurred, my throat constricted, and I felt my face turn a shade of crimson that probably matched the chili itself.

Gagging and desperate, I didn't even have to leave the room. I lunged for the fridge, ripped it open, and grabbed a liter of milk. I chugged it with the frantic energy of a man whose life depended on dairy, milk splashing down my chin as I tried to douse the five-alarm fire in my gullet.

Finally, as the internal blaze subsided into a smoldering ruin, I wiped the milk from my mouth and turned to see how my opponent had fared.

Russell was leaning casually against the counter, looking remarkably cool, calm, and—crucially—completely un-charred. I looked down at his hand. His chili remained perfectly intact, without so much as a tooth mark on it.

He looked at my tear-streaked, milk-mustachioed face and flashed a wide, shameless grin.

"You win!" he chirped.

They say a true friend shares your pain. Russell, apparently, prefers to just supervise it from a safe distance with a front-row seat.

Memorable moments: The blackboard’s secret

In high school, we were plagued by a phantom prankster whose commitment to the bit was truly terrifying. We never did find out who it was, but their magnum opus remains etched in my memory (and my nostrils) to this day.

It started as a faint, metallic tang in our maths classroom. By Tuesday, it was a distraction. By Thursday, it was a biological hazard. The odor became so thick and aggressive that the entire class was forced to evacuate, relocating to the school lawn to solve equations in the fresh air.

Eventually, the school authorities traced the epicenter of the stench to the front of the room. They began detaching the massive, heavy blackboard from the wall, and as the wood pulled away from the stone, the culprit was revealed.

A large, green, thoroughly putrefied piece of fish—which had been ripening in the dark for days—slid slowly down the wall. It landed with a sickening squelch directly into the open satchel of a very unfortunate student standing below.

The culprit was never caught, leaving the mystery unsolved for decades.

I suppose we’ll never know who the phantom was, but I’d like to think that somewhere out there, a retired prankster is still smiling, knowing he’s the only person in history to make a roomful of teenagers actually want to go outside and do trigonometry.

Memorable moments: The remote betrayal

During my university years, my Cape Town housemate Oliver and I shared Willow Road with Andre. To us, Andre was ancient—at least thirty-five—and he spent his post-divorce life cycling through girlfriends with the speed of a professional sprinter. He was determined to be the one doing the dumping, often juggling three oblivious women at once.

Naturally, Oliver (a serial prankster) and I decided it was time to humble him.

Oliver told Andre he’d acquired a "juicy" adult video that had to be seen to be believed. Andre, ever the connoisseur, was immediately intrigued. Oliver started the film, handed Andre the remote, and gave a stern warning: "Don't fast-forward, or you'll miss the best part."

Oliver then "slipped away" to the bathroom, and I retreated to the kitchen to "make coffee."

Right on cue, Oliver’s sister and her friend used a spare key to barge into the lounge. Panic-stricken, Andre hammered the "Stop" button. Nothing happened. He hammered it again. Still nothing. We had, of course, removed the batteries.

In a desperate, last-ditch effort to save his reputation, Andre launched himself over the coffee table like a heat-seeking missile. That is exactly how the girls found him: sprawled on his stomach, frantically stabbing at the TV’s manual buttons, while a symphony of very loud, very explicit "adult antics" played out directly above his head.

Andre may have been a master at juggling girlfriends, but he was no match for a TV that refused to take orders.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road welcome

When Oliver moved into my home at Willow Road in Cape Town, I was on high alert. He was a friend’s brother and a notorious prankster, so I knew I had to establish dominance early. I helped him settle in, offered a warm welcome, and retreated to my room with a simple: "Shout if you need anything."

Half an hour later, there was a frantic knock on my door. Oliver looked genuinely shaken. "Oh my God," he stammered, "there is a huge spider in the bathroom!"

I followed him in, bracing myself. I’ve lived in Cape Town a long time, but I have never seen a spider like this. It was massive—easily the size of a small rat—clinging to the wall like it owned the mortgage.

My internal instinct was to scream and move to a different continent, but I managed to keep my face completely deadpan. I looked at the beast, then back at Oliver with a shrug.

"Oh, Oliver," I said casually, "that’s actually a really small one for this house. We tend to leave the little ones be. But look, if you see its daddy, let me know and I’ll help you move it."

The look of pure, unadulterated horror on his face was the greatest housewarming gift I could have asked for.