Yeehaw! It’s demolition derby time (otherwise known as a drive home in Joburg during peak hour)

Driving in South Africa, noted my perpetually anxious Chicago visitor, reminded him of a unique pastime back home — the demolition derby — only here, with nicer cars and wider eyes behind the wheel.

For those not familiar with the ways of this US motorsport, which usually takes place in the deep South, five drivers compete in a race and the last one whose car is still operational is declared the winner.

At this point, a Confederate flag is draped over the smoking vehicle and shots of Wild Turkey bourbon are offered while a Lynyrd Skynyrd medley is played over the tannoy.

I’m riffing a little here for dramatic import. Journalism, I strongly believe, needs more accompanying soundtracks. During the useless State of the Nation promise-fest I played the Smashing Pumpkins’ The End Is the Beginning Is the End on repeat and I found the righteous anger I was looking for.

I fetched my guest from a shopping trip at a plush up-market mall, as YOU magazine might write about a family murder in Stellenbosch, where for the equivalent of $20 he bought the entire contents of a Woolworths food hall with change to spare I imagine.

The route home to Chez Maggs takes one down Jan Smuts Avenue in Johannesburg, where towards its bottom is a monument to poor city planning where a series of unsynchronised traffic lights (he snorts every time I use the word “robots”) have been placed too closely together, which even during light traffic flow causes bottlenecks.

On an earlier longer-distance country trip — and don’t get me started on the N2 and cowboy coal trucks — I’d given him the job of pointing out potholes, a task he took on with vigour and enthusiasm.