boom shacka boom boom

A sober Heelers is driving through the heartland of South Kildare.
He is sober because earlier today he had lunch with Brian Coleforth an old friend from school days who has gone up in the world.
Brian has a career.
At least compared to me he has.
For the past few days my old friend has been squiring a representative from one of the more despotic Arab governments around Dublin.
The best comment I can make on Brian's career is that when our Paddy Whack government want someone for a job like this, they call him.
It's success of a sort.
Bitter, moi?
Anyhoo.
Career eclipsed by old friend. But that's not why I'm morose and sullen.
No it's because...
As is my wont I had asked him more than I wanted to know about the minder's job he's been doing with old Ahmed of Arabia.
"Did you go to his house?" I wondered.
"Yeah he invited me to dinner," said Brian.
"Did you insist he let the women eat in the same room with you?" I enquired.
"No I didn't," replied my friend.
"Did you talk about Nine Eleven?" I persisted.
"He says the Jews did it," answered Brian matter of factly.
This comment alone explains my present discombobulations as I drive.
For the businesslike way Brian spoke it, brought home to me how little in common I have with my old friend.
And worse.
It also brought home how early we are in the war on terror.
But as I drive now my spirit lifts almost in spite of myself. The unfolding rural paradise of Ireland seems a long way from the world of warfare and geopolitical calmity which has been weighing upon me.
A seditious enthusiasm touches my heart.
Presently I find myself singing.
I am singing a parody of an old Michael Jackson song.
I am singing it with gusto.
The song runs:

"My baby likes to go insane and hijack commercial aeroplanes.
She thinks that's alright.
And sometimes she self detonates, in a cafe with her mates,
And blows up everything in sight.

Don't blame it on the sunshine.
Don't blame it on the moonlight.
Don't blame it on the good times.
Blame it on the Israelis...
Sunshine... Moonlight... Good times... Israelis.

My baby likes giving hell to countless screaming infidels.
She does it all night.
And sometimes to get in the paper, she knocks over big skyscrapers,
She reckons this is sort of nice.

Don't blame it on Al Qaedah.
Don't blame it on Hamas.
Don't blame it on the Hezbollah.
Lay it on the Israelis.
Mass murder... Jihad... good times... Israelis...
Beheadings... Chemical weapons... moonlight... Israelis."