Anyway, the broadcasts on this very funny album included:

• A hit song with the chorus “Idi, Idi, Idi Amin, the greatest man that has ever bin. He's the president, the general, the king of the sea. Idi, Idi, Idi Amin”. (It’s so sad I remember that.)
• His plan to improve the Ugandan navy by declaring war on the US (a tad problematic because is Uganda landlocked). According to Idi, the US would need to break down their aircraft carrier, pack it into suitcases, travel overland in disguise and then reassemble it when they reached Lake Idi (formerly Victoria), where the Ugandan forces would defeat them (natch). Not only would Idi get him self a shiny new carrier but some damn fine luggage, as well.
• There was also a rather impressive explanation as to why a number of bishops, academics, opposition leaders and other dissident types were disappearing — Idi saved us from invasion from Pluto, you see, by sending all these highly qualified people back with the Plutonians to solve their overpopulation problems (as you do). With this selfless act, Earth was saved, although the aliens did depart with the threat that “if this doesn't work, we’re gonna come back here and step on your face”. Fair enough.
• And a weather check that always cracked me up which announced “I have just been up on the Air Ministry roof and it is pissing down with rain”.

But the best speech, by far, was Idi’s plan for tourists.

You see, Idi understood the economic need for tourists, while lamenting the need for actually having to suffer them in your country. His plan was for the tourists to fly in, leave their money in conveniently placed deposit bins around Entebbe International Airport, and then fly out again, leaving Uganda in peace.

After driving back from Tennant Creek on Friday, I have to say, the man had a point.

I have long been of the opinion that international airports the world over must have big rooms hidden out the back, where selected tourists are required to deposit their brains upon entering a foreign country. This would explain, by the way, dipsticks who think they can smuggle drugs through countries with the death penalty, football thugs and people like my sister and brother-in-law, who take “8 countries in 4 days” bus trips through Europe and think they’re well travelled.

I am sure, in their own countries, these tourists are sane, reasonable, functioning members of society. I mean, they’d almost have to be, wouldn’t they? International air travel ain’t cheap. If they can afford the vacation, one assumes they hold down pretty good jobs and are generally, regular, sensible, nice sort of folks in their natural habitat…

But then they get to a foreign country, hop in a hire car, are let loose on the unsuspecting locals and they turn into, well, morons.

So there I am, ripping down the highway, doing 145 kph (roughly 90 mph – gotta love a place with no speed limits) and I reach the Devil’s Marbles. This is an amazing place about 113 klms south of Tennant, full of massive boulders that really do look like a god tossed a bag of marbles across the countryside. The aboriginal people call the place Karwekarlwe and according to them, the rocks are giant rainbow serpent eggs. It’s a national park and there’s a nice scenic drive for the tourists to take, so us locals suffering from get-home-itis doing 90 mph can drive on by without stopping to take in the sights.

Now, you’d think the logical thing to do, if you’re waiting to turn back onto the highway after your scenic tour of the Marbles, would be to stop, and perhaps check if there were any locals with get-home-itis doing 90 mph, heading your way before making a leisurely turn onto the highway.

But no… these people have left their brains at the airport, remember…

On the upside, I can report, happily, I have awesome reflexes, the Prius brakes at high speed like a race car, the horn works a treat, and the inch thick rubber skid marks in front of the northern exit to the Devil’s Marbles ought to have my name on them. I can also assure you I have an impressive cussing vocabulary when I need it, and I got to use all of it today, at the top of my voice, not to mention a few choice finger gestures that transcend language, which I’m sure this cretin understood, assuming he saw me through the cloud of smoke billowing out of what was left of my tyres as I whizzed past him close enough to give his wretched hire car a heat rash.

As a result of this near-death experience, I spent the next 375 klms coming up with a plan that will solve my tourist problems. You see, 30 klms or so south of the Devils Marbles is Wycliffe Well, the home of UFO’s in Australia (if you believe the road signs).

I’m gonna build an international airport at Wycliffe Well, have the tourists drop their money in the boxes I have placed on the runway, next to large, high quality photographs of Ayers Rock, Kakadu, Kings Canyon, the Devils’ Marbles, and all the other fabulous sights people come to the NT to see, right at the foot of the ramp leading up to the UFOs that will take said tourists off to Pluto.

Not only will the roads be safer, but I’ll make them leave their suitcases behind and get me a damn fine set of luggage, too.