I've discovered Johnny Cash. Recently there was a documentary on telly about JC - the life and struggle of Johnny Cash, the original Man in Black. Johnny Cash wore black to represent the misery and pain he carried on behalf of man. He had been, and still is one of the greatest music hardmen. I sat on the sofa with a lump in my throat, sought solice in my beer, at the end the documentary played out with Johnny singing Hurt, I nearly had to leave the room. It was emotional. While Elvis was taking trips from his dressing room to the Las Vegas stage in a golf buggy, stuffed full of deep-fried peanutbutter, bacon and banana sandwiches and pain killers, Johnny Cashy was playing to prisoners in San Quintin and Folsom prison, where he may once have been resident. 'A kickin' and a gougin' in the mud and the blood and the beer'

I can still remember the first time I heard the name, Johhny Cash. My mothers hairdresser, Lizzie Andrews, had her salon on Church Street in Pretoria. Although she was married, she was pretty butch, with bright pink hair, fag in mouth and a voice that had been put through the grinder. My mother wouldn't have her hair done there, it was a salon for men. As kids, Lizzie would trim our fringes and let us hang around the salon. This, incidentally, is where I first experienced the third party participation of bossoms in the hair cutting process. It has remained with me ever since. All my hairdessers from that point on have been buxom. Sometimes nothing else will do, the hairdresser's tits up against your cheeks definitely has its place in this world. Like home. Thank the Lord noone in our family as ever gone bald, it's just not in our genes.

Anyway, Lizzie Andrews always had good taste when it came to being bad. The Rolling Stones, Billy Joel, Deep Purple and Johnny Cash were always being played over the stereo in the Salon. Lizzie had a lot of books and magazines lying around, like bad jokes for adults. 101 Divorce jokes, Giles and adult books, almost in the style of color between the lines with rude puzzles were piled up in intruiging corners. There was one puzzle I can clearly remember and what you had to do was guess the person's name from the pictures. There was a picure of a condom and some money, I couldn't figure it out until I asked my lesbian aunt Lizzie what it was - 'Johnny Cash' came the reply.

I asked my mother what she thought of Johnny Cash. She told me of when she was in Colorado, her host at the time was a right-wing knucklehead at Colorado university. She often regales the story of when and where culture shock hit her. Culture shock is a real thing, it can hit anyone, at any time, anywhere. She found herself reeling in shock, and in a state of nervous panic in an outhouse in the Rockies, the guest of a gun-toting cowboy who hated niggers and mullahs and everything that wasn't pink. Apparently mother tells me, he was always listening to Johnny Cash. I doubt she would have anything good to say about JC, bad associations have tainted that one for her.

I was chatting to Ulrika the other night, and she asked me what I was doing at the time. 'Listening to Johnny Cash' I said. This was met by accusations of being old and washed out, 'Please' she begged, don't do it. It was explained to me that this was for rednecks and grumpy old men. I put myself in the latter category years ago, when I was about 28. She told me of how, as youngster, her father would make them listen to Johnny Cash, and that as they endured it and managed to escape (he was clearly trying to give his kids the best education a father can), they left him, whiskey in hand, listening to Johnny croon him into melancholy.

Why? She asked, do I want to listen to Johnny Cash. I only have one answer to that question.

We would all have been sissies without Johnny Cash.