In an interview some years ago, Sir Max Hastings said to me, “there’s more balls talked about cartridges than anything else.” This was not a view shared by one of the most intense and intimidating guests I’ve ever had the misfortune to host. He was pure Afrikaner stock, a behemoth of a man, with a growl of a voice, like someone carving a figurine from a washing machine with a chainsaw.
During the introductions he suddenly stepped so far into my personal space that we briefly shared DNA. I all but ducked, fists raised to my temples. He simply croaked: “Bathroom, Bru?”
During the 10-minute journey to the first drive, his onslaught began. “Now, listen,” he said, sitting down next to me in the gunbus and crushing a box of…
