Dude is on trial

Why, I don't know. But that hairstyle couldn't have helped.

The neck verse

“Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.” This is Psalm 51 of the Christian Bible, and for several centuries of English history, being able to read, or recite this verse was enough to save a convict from execution.

It came to be know as the "neck verse", as it quite literally could save a felon's neck. Ben Jonson, Shakespeare's contemporary and one of the greatest figures of English literature, had his life spared in just this way, when he was convicted of manslaughter in 1598, following a duel in which he killed his opponent.

The neck verse, or "benefit of clergy" gained currency in the 12th century during a period when there was a power struggle between royal and ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Following popular discontent over Henry II's attempts to overrule church power, it was agreed that if an accused could prove his credentials as a member of the clergy, he would be excused from secular judgement and would be tried by an ecclesiastical court, which was generally more lenient.

Since at that time, the 12th-13th centuries, the only people who were literate were churchmen, a literacy test was the best way of checking if someone (usually a man) was a member of the clergy and thus qualified to be excused. The accused was asked to read the verse above, Psalm 51.

However, over time, the policy came to be abused, as convicts would commit the neck verse to memory and then recite it when presented with a Bible to read. Judges were allowed to request the reading of another verse if they smelt a rat. Also, as more people outside the church learnt to read, claiming "benefit of the clergy" came to be of dubious integrity.

The policy was gradually watered down. In the late 1500s it was determined, under Elizabeth I, that a non-clergyman could only claim benefit of the clergy once. He was branded on a visible part of his body to make it clear that he'd had his chance. Women qualified only in 1624. In the 1700s the reading test was done away with, and the policy became a kind of free-pass for first time offenders.

According to the Transportation Act of 1718, those claiming the benefit were transported to Australia for seven years, and later to North America. Gradually, only minor offences came to qualify for benefit of the clergy, and the policy was done away with by an act of the British parliament in 1827.

Sources: Bartleby, wikipedia, TLS

Charlize Theron speaks Afrikaans and is sexy!

Charlize shows off her Afrikaans chops on Piers Morgan's CNN show. And sure, it's the cliched, "Okay I'm speaking the language, what do you want me to say," type of speaking, but it gives us awesome pride just to see confirmed that Oscar-winning Hollywood actress Charlize Theron is indeed a South African, as reported. And an Afrikaans one, to be quite specific.

And while we're on the topic of Charlize Theron being sexy, here's the scene that first brought Charlize to the attention of lady-watcher worldwide – her catfight with Teri Hatcher in semi-dodge action-thriller Seven Days In The Valley... I saw that thing first time it came out, and I gotta say, I spotted that talent early on.

Half-rhyme love letter

You can go solo or you can go blow-by-blow but there's no low blows on Blow-by-Blow with Bert Blewett. So get down to it, put your body through it. (Know you wanna do it). Punch through the perspectives, screw the invectives . . . 'zackly what I'm saying. Nah'msayn'?

Nothing can be taken with (you can't even take the issues). Ahtishoo! ahtishoo! Our world's goin' brown, but you can't find town. You need a car to get around, to get ahead, to get to Maun. To get the girl, with the curls that you dig, that you check around town (now 'n then) but then again where's town? It's hard to get to. Can you?

Mid-town, uptown, don't go downtown (ngumntu ngabantu believe what you want to), nditheth'inyaniso believe when I say so. Isidingo's okay I dig that one babe but I don't feel the need to do that every day. (I mean hey) I forget her name but she's cool. Got things to do this summer. Check out chicks on the Stairclimber . . . big gigs and bad hummers.

(That's what they call blowjobs in New Jersey. Hummers. I was a mama's hummer subject, you check. But the girls, or the guys -- so say some -- don't hum, you don't come. They so skanky.)
I get caught wanking by the maid coz I don't get laid coz I don't get paid coz I don't have it made, coz my daddy was a self-made man not anudda one a dem damn third- or fourth-gen men of means, nahmean?

Reminds me.
I'm Inspector Ras, I MC, kak rhymes since PE. You heard me, PE. So don't tune me, show me a full-time MC then I'll bend a knee, but this is all for free, so don't tune me -- my daddy was a refugee begging sweeties off invading armies (For fuck's sakes)!

Now the ou's doing fine in a kinda mercantile, Merc and child kinda way.

I get pissed in the day, let my best girl get away, I don't know what to say, she was cool now she's gone, got her mail but c'mon, she's gone 'n got it goin' on wit one, well, one of my guys. I realise when you break up she gonna make up with your mates (dem's da breaks). Lots at stake. But you make out what you got when it's gone.

Number one's always gone by then so then a man gets down to one of them "franchise" clubs in Midrand and blows grands to lay hands on some glands or some grams or goddamn.

My mom is from the TK, 'kay. Fuckin' A, broe. But white like me and you (you check my move?), 'coz if you were as black as all that you'd be reading GQ. Am I right?

Is the page full yet, mister Ed? Try to pull that headline deeper. Make that picture bigger my nigger, try to figure these words don't come easy. My lyrics are loony, I'm the East Cape's George Clooney, Miss PE wanted to do me. (Now I think she just likes me). I'm hooked on porno movies. Had seventeen at last count -- that a large amount? Now how's that word count?!

Nah worry Honey, punctuation is funny. Git wid dis "Comma Coma'' shit, Git. If you could just hear the beat'at go with this shit I could bet you'd get down with that, 'n it'd put a bit a what's missin' in it 'n all'at. Can you sense the American accent I'm sayin'nis wid? (Respek, Waddy. Buddy-buddy. Ay; it's okay. It's not abnormal to be Max Normal. Though I never met you, I stood on your shoe. The one time at Joburg. Sorry broe)

I'm the source not the subject of all kinds of skinner, a five-times Hansie Cronje, poes-of-the-year sweepstakes winner. Now the ou goes 'n becomes a martyr. (Huuu-uuh). Now there's T-shirts with him as Che Guevara. (Tomato)

You say tomayto, I say fuck you. (Still buy your jeans, though). And buckets of fried chicken skin off you too, broe, mister Colonel.

Used to perve Donna Wurzel, jacked off like Goebbels on my TK 'erbal, right-hand attack, solo wack aphrodisiac.

Please come back baby? I'll be . . . I'll be . . . I'll be . . . I'll buy 220 YDE bits for two clips each for us and we, baby. Just understand, any brand in the land could be planned to handle a lil' love hiccup so look up beyond all that and check it:

I dig you . . .
So I'm gonna buy you some nice new shoes too.
And a bracelet!