I haven’t got that much time left, but I’d gladly give ten years of my life to see that homicidal maniac Gaddafi strung up from a palm tree alongside his warthog sons, especially Hannibal Gaddafi, an expert in imprisoning and torturing helpless servants and beating up women in posh Western hotels. What a ghastly world we live in.
Gaddafi has been bullying us for 42 years, his henchmen murdering an English policewoman, killing 1,200 Libyan prisoners in cold blood back in 1996, shooting down an unarmed civilian airliner, then cheering when the convicted terror-bomber is released by a spineless British government more interested in oil and gas than in justice.
About four years ago I met the ghastly Saif Gaddafi in New York and mistook him for a drug dealer — he looked and dressed like one. This is the same Saif who escorted the great Libyan hero Megrahi back to Tripoli when the mass-murderer was freed on compassionate grounds.
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