Joburg likes to describe itself as a “world class African city”.

This is a lie dreamed up by pencil-necked copywriters with only a tenuous grip on the facts. We know this because of the dreadful services laid on by the city and the messy bureaucracy we inevitably have to deal with come bill-paying time.

The streets also tell us a lot about the city. My regular morning run takes me through the northern suburbs, tree-lined and striking except for the streets themselves. Exposed manholes are di rigeuer all along the sidewalks, not to speak of the rubbish that piles up almost everywhere.  Oxford Road is a wretched case in point.

This says three things: (1) the city fathers couldn’t be bothered to endorse their cheesy slogan (2) residents themselves could care less about the state of the streets and (3) pedestrians have a hellish slog.

My run often takes me around Zoo Lake, for which early Sunday mornings are the worst. The scene is almost post-apocalyptic with booze bottles and rubbish strewn all about the lawns. This mess is created by people who rock up with their kids, picnic for hours and throw their garbage around as if it was normal. You wonder what their houses look like.

Pavements are a dog’s breakfast. All around Joburg they are broken and uneven, an obstacle course pedestrians (and the occasional jogger) must negotiate every day.

But Joburgers are nothing if not dogged. We’ll shrug our shoulders and carry on.

We always do.