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The Late Strip Club King Lolly Jackson: His Life and Times

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South Africa – from www.iol.co.za – Honest Lolly’s Motors peddled mostly second-hand Valiants. Wrecks, really. But used-car sales king Lolly Jackson knew how to deal with the biggest giveaway: the loudly humming diffs.

He’d mince banana peels straight into the device that looked like a pumpkin, and the killer hum would instantly die down to a purr.

Another trick that moved a battalion of bad cars was to spray silver paint straight up the exhaust pipe. The paint mixed with carbon created a grey effect – and that could mean only one thing: the car was burning properly. The swindle was such an easy dupe.

Yet probably the most brutal con, pulled off with aplomb by the slick Jackson, was to remove the rear-view mirrors from cars when they went on a test drive. Cars that stand for too long have a smoking problem, as the oil seeps through valve stem seals. So, to avoid customers seeing the plumes when they started it up, there was no rear-view mirror. That was only stuck on once the deal had been sealed.

Jackson finally abandoned his sales empire when there were just too many complaints, and too many threats of “reconstructive surgery” with baseball bats.

Instead he founded a new empire, one that brought him infamy, money and death.

By the time he was murdered, Jackson owned four properties in a plush Ekurhuleni suburb, including a 1 600m2 palace that he had rebuilt three times and eventually put up for auction at a top price of R9 million. Regarded as South Africa’s own Playboy mansion, the five-storey, seven-bedroom, five-lounge house had been the scene of ferocious parties that centred on Jacuzzi action and plenty of flesh roaming around 100 palm trees.

At one time, the strippers he had flown in from eastern Europe were kept at the mansion instead of at hotels, but later, Jackson would house his girls in different properties, insisting they got “too jealous” of each other.

Eventually, he set up a Russian house, a Romanian house and a Bulgarian house.

But he kept his eye-watering fleet of the world’s swishest cars in garages at his own homes, and he was also one of only three super-rich South Africans who could afford the R14m Swedish-built Koenigsegg CCX – the world’s fastest supercar that weighs about the same as a Mini Cooper.

Jackson’s mansions and cars, flamboyant and outrageously luxurious, would not define the natural habitat of a man whose high school education came to an end in Grade 8 when he was thrown out for punching his principal. It would not be the first time Jackson was expelled. That happened in primary school in the 1960s when the parents of a young Jackson were handed his exit papers for sketching a lewd picture of his teacher.

They were tough people, the Zacharys.

Greek shopkeepers, they had fled the Belgian Congo for South Africa when Jackson was a boy to escape the aftermath of the coup staged by Mobutu Sese Seko when Patrice Lumumba had been removed as prime minister. When they arrived and settled on the East Rand, they changed their surname.

Their son would also find his name changed – thanks to his mother. He was born Manoli (or Emmanuel) Zachary, but his mother would privately call him “Lolly”. One weekend when a teenage Jackson arrived home on a six-week pass from national service with a friend in tow, she spotted him turning the corner some distance away and shouted: “Lolly’s home. Lolly’s home.” His friend didn’t said a word at the time, but the secret was out.

Jackson once recalled how his hard-working father had instructed him that if he worked in “tits or wheels, he’d be in for s***”.

He didn’t pay attention to either warning. He met Monica, a tiny blonde stripper with “a handful of boobs” and gigantic sexual stamina, at the Rattlesnake Diner in Rivonia.

Soon the pair were moving from strip joint to strip joint to do Jackson’s research, and he was depressed by drunk blue-collar workers salivating over amateurish cowgirl acts using plastic Colt .45s as sex props.

He fantasised about owning a string of clubs where men would pay a hefty cover price but get inside what they had always wanted – gorgeous young women, good food, clean toilets, no drugs and one hell of a great night out.

The first Teazers opened in Primrose, in Jackson’s childhood suburb of Germiston, in the early 1990s. By the time he was gunned down, Jackson owned seven Teazers, with the premier club in Rivonia.

Jackson never missed an opportunity. When Marilize van Emmenis – the stripper who brought down former rugby star Joost van der Westhuizen with cocaine and cavorting – was at the height of her infamy, he hired her.

Perhaps many who hyped the pleasures of spangled nights at Teazers were partly drawn to Jackson, who one leading PR executive described last week as “a cultural icon”. Those tempted to look past the leering excess admired his Teazers billboards that created so much tension.

Jackson spent a lot of time at the Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) and dismissed them as “a bunch of idiots”. The most controversial of all his ideas was a naked woman lying on her back with smoke coming from her mouth, and the words, “No need for gender testing”. The ASA took rich offence and banned it.

Jackson refused to admit that his reference was athlete Caster Semenya and said that if he had been referring to Semenya in the ad, “the model would have been black, she would have been wearing a pair of athletics shoes”.

But he humbled himself slightly by donating R20 000 to Semenya, and then found himself the victim of a polite accountant who took razor blades to Jackson’s billboards at night. Jackson put a R50 000 bounty on his head

Of course the entertainment was wild, but Jackson also had the reputation of a violent, frightening man.

He was saved from prison several times through intricate plea bargains, some of them based on his claim that he gave generously to charity, his favourite apparently being the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund. In March, however, the fund released a letter in which it denied ever having received a donation from Jackson.

Jackson also had a collection of shadowy friends and associates, including his neighbour, Czech Republic fugitive Radovan Krejcir, who was questioned by police this week as they tried to track down Jackson’s killer. Krejcir was sentenced to six-and-a-half years in absentia in his home country for tax fraud and was also linked to conspiracy to murder, counterfeiting, extortion and abduction.

In February, six cops attached to the Joburg Organised Crime Unit used a fraudulent warrant of arrest to hold him for two days as an awaiting-trial prisoner along with suspects charged with serious violent crimes. That incident was linked to his ongoing war with businessman Michael Kalymnios and Kalymnios’s Ukrainian lover, former stripper Yuliyana Moshorovs’ka who had once worked for Jackson.

Jackson set out to defeat his enemies, including several former business partners, with terrifying, foul-mouthed death threats.

The strip king was once charged with firing rubber bullets at a staff member in a closed room, while some who worked for him had expressed their deep fear of a boss who kept them under his whip.

In an interview two years ago, Jackson described his management style: “It means to be able to give back when it comes your way.”

And then came the chiller: “Remember, what goes around comes around.”

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