Tired? Worried? Angry? Depressed? Well, it's only understandable. The Project for the New American Century is locking down around you like a car boot closing on your favourite hand, Afghanistan is a mess and nobody cares, Iraq is a mess and many Very Important People are delighted, the reborn star wars programme is about to kick back in and make pre-emption the rule in global death outbreaks, you have a persistent pain in the back of your knees and are unclear of your position vis-à-vis the complete erosion of your civil liberties. But there is a solution.
Imagine a puppy. Go on - a nice, dewy-eyed puppy with a soft mouth. It's looking up at you with affection, is house-trained, loves you faithfully and won't ever grow too big. But, yes, those brown eyes do indeed betray a Middle Eastern origin, Rover has been noticed hanging around suspiciously at street corners, and was photographed urinating on an army recruitment office, so he will be taken away and held without trial for an undisclosed period. Sorry.
So - something even more soothing, then... Imagine our dear leader kneeling sweetly at the foot of his little bed in preparation for his usual 40 minutes of sleep. Gently, he bows his head in prayer.
Gosh, 50, eh, Lord? Only another 100, or 120 years before I get to nip Upstairs and say "Wotcha Mate?" in person. That's the deal isn't it - for fighting your crusade? George and his pals say they'll all be taken up in the rapture when the West Bank goes nuclear in 2005, but crikey, Lord - that would mean the end of life on earth. Which would be unfortunate.
And since I'm here, Lord, please let the wicked sillies out there understand once and for all that the Nuremberg principles were written to control Nazis - not People Behaving Like Nazis. Same thing with the Geneva convention. It's perfectly clear, if you read the small print, that it only applies to countries you would have any chance of dragging into court.
Really, the public gets so confused about issues that are immensely straightforward. Thou shouldst hear Cherie when she gets started about it. And Euan - the number of evenings he's called me, after a couple of bottles of Buckfast, and yelled: "Sod the WMDs! Bloody plant some, you tosser! You know the Yanks will!" Impetuous lad. But hugely supportive, as I'm sure Thou already knowest.
So there'll be no gobbling poison in this bunker, um bedroom. Unless that shit Galloway's in here. Sorry Lord, but I know Thou wantest him done over as heartily as I do, and so it shall come to pass.
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