But only if she doesn't introduce herself or her new boyfriend, or visit. Ever.

Grim Rita shouted across the fence at the precise moment that the Celtic coffee was sucking me over the Falls Road and into the impact zone.

She wanted to bring her new boyfriend over for an evening of fun and games. Rita has been my neighbour for nearly a year. How is it possible that she has me confused with a fun-loving extrovert who likes nothing more than meeting new people? Perhaps she thinks I really am Irish.

Some people say that strangers are friends you haven't met yet. What absolute rubbish. They are called strangers because they suffer from personality disorders, and nobody wants to know them because they talk to themselves and don't bath for days on end.

I have friends. I never call them and they never call me. It's the perfect friendship. I don't need more friends. What I need are heavy-calibre weapons, a European Union passport, two attack dogs and a silver Bugatti Veyron with a 20-foot wheelbase and bulletproof windows.

The doorbell rang and before I could hit the lights, Brenda opened the door and in swept Grim Rita with a slope-headed brute in tow. "Bloody weather how about this Zuma imagine the nerve all the robots are out look at the price of petrol it's okay for some what do you think of Zapiro's cartoon did you hear about the murders who do they think they are this country is going to the dogs say hello to Barry do you have any gin?"

Barry? This woman storms in babbling like an escaped mental patient and still has the audacity to bring someone called Barry into my house? I have yet to meet a Barry who remotely constitutes a decent human being.

"How do you do?" said Barry, sticking out a hand the size of a Christmas ham. "How do I do what?" I said, ignoring the ham.

"Let's have a drink," said Brenda, kicking me in full view of the guests.

"It's a new game," I said to Barry, kicking him swiftly in the shins. "Now it's your turn." Barry froze.

Rita took me aside and asked me not to kick Barry again because when he was in Koevoet, an Ovambo-speaking donkey kicked him in the balls in a mahangu field in Ombalantu and he got so cross that he killed everyone in the village.

Brenda poured gin and tonics for everyone except me, because gin makes me want to do crazy things like go out and preach the gospel to the natives and then steal their land the moment they close their eyes to pray.

Instead, I poured myself a Jägermeister. I like it because it makes me think of Poland.

"Let's play a game," shrieked Rita, clapping her hands excitedly. I hate games second only to having fun for the sake of it. I would sooner squeeze superglue into my eyeballs than sit down with people I hardly know and play a game.

"I have an idea," I shouted, spilling my 70-proof elk's blood all down Barry's leg. The half-cooked meat loaf jumped up and demanded to know the meaning of this.

"Das ist des Jägers Ehrenschild," I said, striking a noble pose and flinging my arm out in the traditional German greeting.

It caught Rita unexpectedly on the jaw and sent her sprawling into the fireplace.

In an instant, Barry was back in northern Namibia. He hit the deck and leopard-crawled towards Rita, shouting for the medics and reaching for his cellphone to call in the choppers for a casualty evacuation.

Sensing that a blood bath was imminent, I poured myself a fresh Jägermeister and made amends. "Sorry Boerie," I said. "Let's play a game."

Brenda apologised for my behaviour and poured another round of liquid colonialism. "So what should we play," she said through teeth clenched so tightly that the words sounded like steam escaping from a burst boiler pipe in the rat-infested basement of a rundown building inhabited by dying heroin addicts and dirty crack whores.

I suggested Charades and offered to go first. Fetching the scales from the kitchen, I blindfolded Brenda and made her lie down. Then I smashed the scales and told Barry and Rita to pin Brenda to the floor while I stood over her and undid my trousers. "Who am I?" I said, fumbling with my zip. "You're a f*kken pervert *1!" shouted Barry, helping Brenda to her feet.

This is what happens when you play parlour games with people who have no interest in current affairs.

"How about Monopoly?" I said once the recriminations had died down.

"Fabulous," said Rita. "Why don't we just spit on each other and hijack each other's cars?" Noticing my furrowed brow, Brenda explained that in certain economic circles it is considered bad taste to play games aimed at bankrupting your friends through ruthless property deals. And even more so when one of your guests has just had his house repossessed. Barry sobbed softly and said nothing.

I was about to suggest Cluedo when I remembered that Rita was from Zimbabwe. "I accuse the war veteran in the billiard room with the knobkerrie." No, that wouldn't work.

Brenda has another game in which you have to answer five questions in 30 seconds or you lose. Too much for Barry, I feared. It would remind him of real life. "Where are your cellphones? What is your pin number? Where is the key to the safe? Why are you praying? Where are your car keys? You have 30 seconds to answer or you lose your life."

We should all start training for the next Paralympics.

With acknowledgements to Ben Trovato and Sunday Times.