As the song almost says, what a difference a year makes: 2017 is not over yet, but it’s been a lousy one so far. Losing two very close friends was a real bummer, for starters. Then the Brexit negotiations and the Trump presidency revealed that I had declared victory too soon. This time last year I was singing about what a great year it had been, what a great mood I was in, and so on. The British people had decided that they no longer wished to be led by and take orders from a peanut vendor from Luxembourg called Jean-Claude Asshole. Yippee!
One year on, the asshole, in cahoots with British left-wing rabble, seems to have confused the issue enough that the hapless Theresa is upping the ante for Britain to become independent again. Not so yippee! The Donald isn’t making my life any easier either. Not on account of his tweets — the jihadis do it non-stop, so why shouldn’t he? The reason I’m starting to doubt his sanity is that he’s climbed in bed with the Saudis, which is like investing all one’s moolah with Madoff on 9 December 2008. No one benefits from a deal with the Saudis. They even cheat the hookers who work hard for a living. I have great respect for John Bradley and our sainted editor who wrote about that sandy hellhole four weeks ago. The only trouble is that they are giving the benefit of the doubt to this mini-Napoleon Mohammed bin Salman. My experience with the Saudis is that they never pay their debts, cheat on contracts and agreements, and tell lies that make Baron Munchausen sound like Enoch Powell.
The mini-Napoleon had a fool like Thomas L. Friedman of the New York Times in for a chat, fed him some lamb, and Friedman began gushing like a Texas oil well.
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