The Coolest Man Alive.

I remember the exact date my father schooled me on what was and what was not cool. Jesu Kristo! That man is ice-cold cool. No wonder the whole clan knows him as Uncle Cool. Anyway, back to The Day Cool Came Down to Earth. Thirteen-year olds think that they are The Shit. They are capable of mad skills on and off the court. They can put Lionel Messi and Christiano Ronaldo to shame with their skills on and, Mos Def, off the pitch. Collins Injera ain't got shit on them. They are God's Gift and, God knows, they act like it.

That was not me. I had skills, but they didn't involve dribbling or dunking. In fact they had nothing to do with balls of any kind. I was the snot-nosed kid with his nose greasily pressed to the glass waiting to be invited to the party. That invite never came, by the by. But I had a skill for acquiring, shall we say, favours from quarters far and wide and these favours were always - ALWAYS - very lucrative, in that juvenile way that thirteen-year olds measure lucre, not that it matters any more.

Anyway, on one of those rare days when the DS9 was in a less than motorable condition, thirteen-year old me had suffered a medical emergency that required parental chaperoning to the nearest subsidised health facility not yet undermined by Baba Moi's cost-sharing idiocy. So dear old dad, who was yet to turn grey or old, walked us from the security of our Buruklyn casa to the bus stop and from there on out it was surprise after surprise from the Coolest Man Alive.

Did I ever tell you that I got my eclectic tastes from him, though it seems the Gods of Sartorial Flair denied me a bit of his amazing fashion lustre. His is the most complete discography of Elvis, Bob Marley, Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton, Charlie Pride, Otis Redding, Ray Charles, Jimmy Cliff, and The Beatles that I know of. And it's all on vinyl. Jesus Christ! If you've yet to experience Elvis' Harem Holiday or Bob's One Love or Ray's rendition of The Beatles' Let It Be on vinyl, God must really, really hate you because there is nothing as sublime as the greatest musicians experienced in scratchy vinyl. Nothing.

Now, remember, this was when javs were strictly divided into manyangas and everything else. In Buruklyn it was a choice between what was the coolest of them all, Shadow, and that hideous No. 36 collective nicknamed kereti. I was thirteen, therefore, I was cool. He was not thirteen and therefore, he was not. To my already medically frayed nerves, I was shocked to find out he couldn't wait for Shadow to pull up (Bob Marley blaring from the utterly over-the-top sick collection of Pioneer and Kenwood sub-woofers and tweeters, the kanges doing their best rendition of a Shabba Ranks accent) before dragging my near catatonic self into the coolest Ma3 ever. If he'd suggested, there and then, that we eat muthokoi for the next millennium I would not have cared.

We did the doctor thing, hit the still-shiny Wimpy's at Corner House, caught a cameo of the Living Daylights at the Twentieth Century and then rode back in medical triumph in the only serious rival to Shadow, Sanford & Son, which was owned by my friend Habel Peter's dad. Despite the ridiculous fever that wouldn't die down for another three days, it was the best day of my life. It was the day I met the Coolest Man Alive. His sheng' was a bit shit, but he was the coolest. He still is. He might be a professor of the stultifying subject that's entomology, but to all those who know him, and love him, he remains the Coolest Man Alive.