Full face, half baked,about turn, mask off

Iwish some people would make up their bally minds. First, they make the devil of a fuss about the good old ‘Paradise’ helmets we used to wear in the olden days. These were all chinless and might as well have been strapless for all the good the ruddy strap did in the event of a pile up. And, of course, they were available in any colour – as long as it was black!

Then, they advertised widely the advisability of investing in a full-face helmet. Very nearly illegal, it was, or perhaps imprudent (I forget which; old marketing messages get garbled over time) to own or use a chinless/strapless model.

And now, just when they have us all convinced that we must ride out to war – sorry, work or wherever – looking like a cross between Judge Dredd and Sir Lancelot, they all but ban full-face helmets. No, wait, the ban has been lifted! What the blazes? Is there someone, somewhere who influences policy decisions for motorcycle riders based on market conditions, fads/ fashions, and some stock (or it security?) situation? Seems like it. So just because you’re paranoid about the manipulative machinations of the powers that be, dears, don’t assume that they aren’t out to get you, will you?

Which reminds me: Everybody is out to get us. Or so it jolly well appears to be the case. One has only to rifle through one’s press clippings, or what passes for newspaper cuttings in this information superhighway age, to see that it’s true, it’s true, the blogs have made it clear, the bleeding diaspora is out to get us. They, and just about everyone else who attended – or didn’t – that recent summit in our sunny, suddenly full-faced, capital.

Canada was out to get us. India got us, but shot themselves in the posterior in the process. Africa or parts thereof won’t say and doesn’t know it can’t get us. Australia gets us, but pretends not to by gifting us a brace of boats. Her Majesty gets us very well, thank you kindly, but stages a semi-diplomatic coup by despatching the Heir Apparent; who doesn’t get us at all, but is dashed polite about it in a vague, princely sort of way. Their majesties’ obedient servant, old Dave the younger, wouldn’t get it if it was handed to him in a large diplomatic bag marked ‘it’ – but struts about all over the place, stiffing and blinding till we are all blue in the face. Damned awkward, dears? And rather halfbaked, to boot...

One wonders which half-decent, civilised (i.e. Commonwealth member), chinless/strapless armchair critic (politically savvy, but powerless civically) hasn’t got the equation straight?

First, the East (read India and China) become world-class civilisations and invent pasta and rice... in that order. Marco Polo comes out East, and brings the hungry West in tow. Chris Columbus tries to come out East, goes West instead, and exports genocide and gonorrhoea (same difference, for the young turks who go native in the new world).

Then, the West becomes – or thinks it becomes – a world-class civilisation by mastering gunpowder, a whiff of grapeshot, and Guantanamo-style interrogation techniques.

After 9/11, it declares a jihad (AKA, “the war on terror”). Western nations that imitate it are seduced by offers of wealth, health, and the cure for flatulence; and flattered into sycophancy. Eastern nations who consider imitation the sincerest form of flattery and apishly follow Iraqi- and Afghan- military tactics themselves are flattened into submission. Or threatened with independent, international, inquisitive (sorry, invasive; er, I mean intensive) investigations. Or else.

Talk about about-turns. (Or, if you’re into Voltaire, volte-faces: That’s fancy French for a bare-faced change of mind.) Revolting, if you won’t mind my French. Actually, the French are about the only colonial power of yore who don’t seem to have shoved their oar in, as far as the track records of their former colonies go. And while our erstwhile masters were huffing and puffing about like the big bad wolf among the piggery, the French sent a delegation of beauty queens to keep the natives entranced. (Anyone noticed le belle dames sans merci, monsieurs?)

None of this has been said as charmingly as it has been said by Chris Nonis (not to be confused with Chris Columbus). In a clipped Brit accent that probably made David Cameron wince and grind his wisdom teeth, our Man in Old Blighty has indicated in no uncertain terms what’s civilised, and what’s not. We are a vibrant democracy, old boy! We are an ancient civilisation, old chum! We are perfectly capable of interfering in our own affairs, dear old stone thrower! So shove off, get stuffed, and mind your business, would you, there’s a dear, and we won’t mention the war! The Iraq war, that is. And the genocide against old India. Or that awful spot of bother down Londonderry way back in ’72. No, dears, we hadn’t quite forgotten – even if you had. Of course, I’m putting words into ambassadorial ambuscades; but phew, the masks – and the gloves – are well and truly off, aren’t they, dears?

If only I could figure out now: Who’s the full-faced knight-in-slightly-tarnished armour who won the war but lost a diplomatic battle, and who’s the chinless/strapless wonder? Who’s being half-baked about war crimes and downright disingenuousness about human rights? Who’s done an about-turn on right to protect, responsibility to protect, and rottenness to protest at one’s own hypocrisies? And whose masks have come off in the course of and aftermath of the summit? If I knew that I’d be higher than Chris Columbus on new world coke or higher than Chris ‘Norris’ on those bravura performances!