The last week or so has seen the vortex of politics and violence momentarily slow for viewing, with the four quarters of hypocrisy facing each other in perfect symmetry. On one opposite Piety faces is old office as peace envoy to the Middle East, an appointment straight out of The Onion, Viz or Public Eye. Further unnecessary evidence of the supreme egotism of a man so caught up in self to beg belief. As the humour wears off, the sheer inanity of religious belief really starts to show the unbelievable level of ignorance at play.
As Piety and the wife bail out in a bizarre piece of camp theatre, they leave the pitch as player manager after scoring a couple of penalties, both from Italian style dives and a Tuscan appeal to the Scandinavian ref. Walking into the sunset with the family as the chaos is just about to begin, It’s poetry that Huxley could only have dreamed of.
Which leads nicely to the two other opposing quarters of the circle. On one side Iraq, a mess of biblical proportions as a distant memory on the all smiles African campaign trail, ‘A scar on the memory’ seeming like a wet village fete compared to the holocaust waiting in the east. On the other side, the Great British Public looking on wide eyed as dumfounded fools, shocked that the well meaning war on terror has finally bitten its Royal arse.
Honestly, what did we really expect? We’ve had all this before with the IRA, remember them? Equally as pathetic and underhand and it seems too that we’ve learnt nothing from it. And as flabby journalists whip us into a frenzy of indignation, we still can’t figure out that the just war has finally come home, like it always would.
So you that supported the invasion, where were you when thousands of well meaning people marched for peace? No doubt watching the real men on the Ten O’clock news as some sort of personal fantasy of achievement.
No point waving the tabloid around now, it’s too late. You made your bed, you lie in it.