leadership of the free world passes to me... gee shucks fellas... well, oh okay

United States President Donald Trump finally executed his deliberately contrived falling out with President Volodymyr Zelensky of Ukraine during a televised meeting with President Zelensky at the White House today.

I had stated earlier this week that Trump was going to stage some such clash preparatory to betraying Ukraine to Russia's thug dictator Vladimir Putin.

The objective is to humiliate President Zelensky from office and to provide cover thereby for Trump's abandonment of Ukraine to Putin.

In attempting to demean President Zelensky, Trump is trying to do with verbal slander what Putin has spent three years trying to do with his armies.

Footage of the meeting while  no surprise still makes unpleasant viewing.

Trump and his Vice President, a purported Catholic who styles himself JD Vance, acted like a tag team trying to shout down the President of Ukraine with a mix of hectoring and inuendo.

"Have you even said thank you?" whined JD Vance. "I mean at this meeting. You haven't said one word of thanks today."

Presumably the thanks Vance was feigning outrage in pretending to seek, was for the previous American President Joe Biden's support for Ukraine.

Bless.

"You're playing with millions of peoples lives and risking World War Three," put in Donald Trump.

The sight of a mafia spiv internet troll (I mean Donald Trump) in tandem with a lout (I mean JD Vance) deriding President Zelensky, a man who has spent three years valourously, heroically and selflessly, leading his country in an existential battle against Russian invaders, presented a peculiarly repulsive spectacle.

By casting the leader of Ukraine as the villain of the piece, Trump was trafficking in a most appalling inversion of truth.

This was a staged provocation.

Straight from hell.

Bear in mind gentle readers, that when I say I sense evil with regard to Donald Trump, I am not talking about his hair style.

I am talking about supernatural satanic evil.

You should only pay attention to me if you've noticed that I labour under the burden of never having been wrong about such things before.

Trump had been a bit shaken during another meeting at the White House a few days ago with French President Emanuel Macron, when President Macron put a restraining hand on Trump and rejected his claim that America had given more financial support to Ukraine than Europe.

The physical hand of restraint upon Trump and the direct contradiction of Trump in full flow caused many of us to look on Macron with a new respect. Media critics of Trump were delighted.

Today Trump seemed anxious to show he could lay hands on Presidents too. He touched President Zelensky so deliberately and repeatedly that at one stage I thought he was going to tickle him.

But the work is done.

The public falling out has been precipitated before the eyes of the world, and Trump and his puppet master Putin will be hoping that the Ukrainians themselves will oust President Zelensky.

I was reminded of a single sentence in a book about the first Trump Administration written by Trump's former National Security Advisor General HR McMaster.

The salient sentence in the book is tucked away on page 309 as General McMaster muses to his wife: "After over a year in this job, I cannot understand Putin's hold on Trump."

Here is the news.

America is being led by an agent of Russia.

Trump is the Muscovian candidate.

That's the situation we're in.

I suggest we all go to church, repent and seek guidance.

I counsel people of principle and decency such as the Protestant Christian commentator Allie Beth Stukey and the Jewish broadcaster  Ben Shapiro: Stop accomodating Donald Trump.

As for the once great Mark Steyn.

You do whatever you want.

interesting times

I sit at table in the wee small hours of the night.

A howling wind sweeps across the fields, rattles the fittings on my old house and whistles in the flues.

It seems to presage something.

Donald Trump's second term of office as President of the United States has been underway for a month.

Some of  his policies seem good, some chaotic, some like comic opera, and some simply malign.

More specifically: His support for Israel is good. The appointment of Robert Kennedy as Secretary of Health and Human Services is good. Mr Kennedy is that rare creature, a genuinely principled critic of the power of large pharmaceutical companies. The new Health Secretary has in the past had the courage and insight to assert publically that mass vaccination programmes for the Covid 19 virus were unwarranted and caused still unmapped levels of death and injury in the general population. Mr Kennedy has also marshalled what I consider convincing evidence that the Mumps Measles Rubella vaccination programme for infants has induced a pandemic of autism across the world. President Trump's decisive attempt to re establish immigration law is good too as is his decision to release all government files relating to the assassination of Robert Kennedy's uncle, President John F Kennedy. President Trump's appointment of billionaire Elon Musk with broad powers to cut back on wasteful spending across the State sector, is what I mean by chaotic but may turn out to be good. Mr Musk made his fortune by persuading governments spooked by the fictional notion of climate change to move away from cars powered by the internal combustion engine which work and invest in his electric cars which don't work. I don't rate him. President Trump's threat to annex Canada, Greenland and Panama is what I mean by comic opera, as is his changing the name of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America and expelling Associated Press staffers from White House press conferences for refusing to use the new term.

And the malign...

In my view President Trump is this week staging a quarrel with the President of Ukraine Volodymyr Zelensky preparatory to betraying Ukraine itself to the resovietising dictator of Russia Vladimir Putin.

I counsel people of goodwill not to support Donald Trump.

I do not think he is mad.

The devil is in the detail.

And I sense evil.

this sporting life

 

"I have a rat in the house," I told my feminist cousin Pauline.

"A pet?" she enquired.

"An interloper," I explained.

"I have the number of a rat catcher," she said. "He's very good. Really excellent."

"I will take that number from you now," I said without demur.

After some brief stage business fishing up a piece of paper and a pen and going through the contacts list on her mobile phone, she wrote out a phone number and a name, handed the paper to me.

I read the phone number and chuckled, one of my evocative rueful ones.

Pauline knew immediately.

"It's the number isn't it?" she said.

The number finished with three 6's.

"Well," I told her, "I could thank you and pretend I'm going to ring that number but we both know it's not going to happen."

"I could ring it for you and set up the appointment," proffered the feminist cousin.

My gentle pre raphaelite features became a bit poignant.

"Pauline old pal," quoth I patiently, "the problem is not ringing the Ipsissimus. As every horror movie aficionado knows, the problem is having an Ipsissimus in the house. The real trouble starts if you invite them in. I think I'll stick with the rat."

no truth in the rumour

 

There is no truth in the rumour that the music combo styled Boyzone have renamed themselves Middle Aged Man Zone for their comeback performance. No hang on...

night of the big windbags

 The Irish weather service, styled Met Eireann, have spent the last few weeks doing their best to drum up a bit of panic about some storm or other.

"This will be the worst storm in Irish history with winds in excess of one hundred miles an hour," they screamed in one of their more restrained press releases.

At a certain point during the build up, my old pal Rowena remarked over Tiffin: "I wish RTE would just shut up about the rain."

RTE is Ireland's national television fraudcaster, a leftist cabal financed through compulsory taxation on the citizenry and accountable to no one except the people trafficking, drug dealing, child abusing IRA terrorist mafia which control it through the boardroom and the trade union movement.

"They're never going to shut up," I told her, "because they're trying to convince suggestible people like you that climate change is real. If you get a moment to think for yourself, the jig is up."

So to the storm.

It was a typical Irish storm with a splendid wind rifling the fields in mystic darkness and some lovely atmospheric special effects vis a vis crashes and thumps.

The next day, I emerged into my garden to review the post apocalyptic landscape and I suppose with somewhat rueful resignation, to begin the task of repopulating the earth.

There were a few broken branches on the lawn.

Sounds of traffic reached me from the street.

I detected a notable absence of dishevelled sexy bims at my gate pleading: "We're the only ones left, you must give me a child James for the good of humanity."

There had been a storm certainly but hardly the worst storm ever.

Not even the worst storm in the past year.

An outdoor table and chair standing undisturbed beneath the cherry tree, greeted me like an old friend.

They had not stirred an inch to the left or to the right during the worst of Mother Nature's onslaught.

"That's some hundred mile an hour wind," I murmured thoughtfully, "if it can't even budge a little table and chair."

Later at the supermarket, Mrs Merchison approached me in the checkout queue.

"Wasn't the storm terrible?" she exclaimed.

"Ah it wasn't that bad," I ventured.

She hurried away as though I'd hit her.

noblesse obleedinhell

 

Breezed into Aunty Teresa's full of the joys.

She looked up from the inauguration of  the new American President playing fitfully on the TV.

Normally I'd enjoy such footage, ie the preening leftie TV pseuds of bankrupt media groups doing their sick parrot routine over an election result they don't like but for some reason this year my heart isn't in it.

"Oh not this," I said.

"What's wrong with you? Your man got in," mused Aunty Teresa brightly.

I sighed, a deep soulful one from central casting.

Presently the words came.

"It matters not what I say or write about Mr Trump," I intoned warmly. "People still insist I'm his greatest supporter. They'll probably write it on my tomb stone. Heeler The Peeler... Trump Supporter... Hic Iacet."

Hic Iacet indeed bold readers which of course is Latin for: "Sorry. I've been drinking and spilt some on my jacket."

strange visitors

 

Come with me

To the darkest most beautiful night

That the world has ever seen

And ever might

We can sit in the straw

We'll get warm from it

And watch the stillness draw

A cloak of peace

Through a time of war

Lambs are calling the fields

That this night is forever

And forever yields

To this night

We are there

Hid in the warmth

From things that are old

And things that are rare

Look look my friend

Gold

Frankincense

And Myrrh