I find that people’s new year resolutions usually are a good indication of where their lives are going to spiral into disaster and decay. If someone says that they intend to lose weight as their resolution then it’s a sure bet that they’re going to turn into a gigantic fatty that inspires literal terror as they shuffle sideways down a narrow aircraft aisle. Or perhaps a girl informs you that her resolution is to find a good man and get married. Place a few dollars on her being a single mother by the end of the year and living in abject poverty while she contemplates whether or not to become a heroin addict.
Before we left for our Italian holiday I informed the good wife that my resolution was to not get involved in any political arguments for the duration of our stay. Whether with friends or perfect strangers it mattered not. I intended to abstain from and avoid any political discussions whatsoever. This included but was not limited to any mention of someone who will be soon sworn in as the new American president, as well as a little diplomatic matter that arose between Europe and a certain island nation some time last year.
My wife greeted this announcement with happiness tinged with inevitable disappointment that I would fail miserably. It was after all a resolution.
We journeyed into the mountains and arrived at the little valley where I had spent so many years working as a rafting guide, (which is chronicled in my second book – Run Guts Pull Cones. Go on, you know you want a copy). We were staying with a friend and he had organized a little dinner at a local pizzeria where they know us well. We sat down after all the effusive greetings and pretty soon the talk turned to my writings and this blog. Someone made a slightly caustic remark about my political opinions. I laughed it off and ordered more wine. Another friend leaned close in and asked me with total seriousness if the stuff I wrote was simply me trolling to get attention. It’s okay, you can tell me, he said.
I replied that my opinions were written with total sincerity and I believed everything that I wrote. Which incidentally was also done with the objective of getting lots of attention. I’m just not trolling, I told him.
He then asked me something about this new American president person. I smiled and refused to take the bait. The good wife’s shapely and attractive eyebrows rose as she registered some surprise. Good this resolution of his be actually working?
Someone else spoke to me about Aleppo. How terrible it all is, simply terrible. This person was not a guest at our table but someone that I bumped into while I was doing my rounds of greetings. I murmured an inanity and slipped away. The truth is that I couldn’t give two shits about Aleppo. Just like I couldn’t care less about the near total destruction of Miranshah. Where is that, I hear you ask. Why, it’s the capital of North Waziristan. The Pakistan army decided that it had to go due to it being a hotbed of Taliban activity. I read in The Spectator that it has been turned into ‘a car park’. Me? I sleep soundly in my bed at night, thank you very much.
There are many of these cursed locales around the world. I wonder if our modern-day virtue signalers need to feel public angst for each and every one of them. What about Kilinochchi? You know all about that lovely spot, right? After enduring 25 years of civil war the Sri Lankan government finally got sick of listening to the so-called “experts” at the UN and despite much international condemnation they went in and blew the place to smithereens in the final battle that defeated the Tamil Tigers. Peace restored.
But back to Aleppo. Why on earth would I care if one bunch of towel-heads wants to shoot another bunch of towel-heads over which version of their miserable religion is the more extreme? I’m certainly not going to wail and moan over completely made up propaganda photos of some little girl covered in dust. I mean, how many photos has she been in with different “concerned and distraught” parents holding her? Is it four or five? I lose count.
But think of the children! moan the virtue signalling do-gooders as they wring their hands while causing the cheap and tasteless bangles that adorn their arms to jingle in an unattractive manner. What, you mean the same eight year old’s who don explosive vests to blow up all us infidels? Nah, I think I’ll pass on feeling any angst and guilt for that lot. In any case, an eight year old is an eighteen year old in a decade and then they’ll all be set to jump over into Europe and do all manner of nasty things in the name of the religion of pieces.
Just so you all know, before you begin lambasting me that I have most certainly broken my new year’s resolution by writing this article, I’m not talking to anybody. I’m tapping away on a keyboard. My resolution still holds. Although we will see how successful I will be. I’ll probably put on fifty kilos while falling pregnant and getting into a hot dispute with my waiter over whether or not Italy should go back to the lira. Such is life.
(On that note, yes Italy should go back to the lira. That way I can more easily purchase a nice mountain chalet. Just saying, Italy – get on with it.)