What is it with the leaders of Paradise dearie, really, I mean to say. There Satty was, not many moons ago, pretending like nobody’s business about burning the midnight oil in gay Paree, studying and studying at Science Po, with a wet towel turbaned round her frontal lobe and her toes wiggling in a bucket of tepid water when you and I both know that far from having her feet submerged in water the young wench was living it up in the Latin quarter.

And now, there you are pretending you were invited to speak at the Oxford Union last week when all you had done was get that comely Paradisian diplomat in ole Blighty to toddle along to Oxford and book the Oxford Union Hall for a local binge and for ready money courtesy the Paradisian masses.

So there you were, a rice paper invite by the local Paradisian Society in ole Blighty clutched in your left hand, your right index finger absent-mindedly curling itself around your red satakaya wondering what to do. When Ta Da,  Kapaw,  Eureka, you remembered that there was an outpost of minions in ole Blighty willing to go through any number of risks to put the shine on you.

And of course like that mindless freak going by the name, style and firm of consul that is general in the land of the Maple leaf, whose only duty it would seem is to open and close his bally mouth like a demented fish, you too have fumbled upon the useful tool of doing nothing but using some silly little men and women in some state sponsored rags to sing your praises.

You know m’dear, people often find out about these things sooner or later. It doesn’t matter if you have gutter websites steeped in ignorance and knee deep in your poop like the Tribune, and idiotic chaps at the helm of your state rags to sing Alleluia to you and your physical and mental goons.

And pretending to have been invited by the Oxford Union when all you did was yap to a bunch of local yokels while gulping down a dish of kothamalli and crunching down a kokis, is rather silly. It is behaviour wholly expected of you but it does not cease to be well….silly.

Really one gets quite ill to take a glance around and see the burgeoning look of worshipping admiration from the masses. I refer in this instance of course to that section of the masses that are determined to remain asses….No …no, I tell a lie. Their only aspiration in life seems to be to emulate the rear end of asses.

And even as last week you pretended to your minions in Paradise that you had been invited by the Oxford Union I must say that for a moment even Thellie’s eyes sparkled not unlike the sparkle that may have lit the eyes of a distressed damsel of the middle ages as she observed a little known knight slaying a dragon on her behalf despite the fact he was on the list of endangered species by the Medieval Green Peace Council.

The trouble with you darling is that just because you have succeeded in inducing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the local and international scene by supporting your antics you think you are someone.

And I may have gulped a spoonful or two of Jacob’s Creek Chardonnay — yes even Thellie is feeling the pinch, damn you, no more top of the range vino for me either with your economic what not…but it’s no use trying to veer me away from the subject with thoughts of wine I tell you.

There you are pretending to the world you are invited by the Oxford Union just as much as you are pretending to the world about the bally war. Those trumped up figures of dead and dying, those fanciful tales of a epic victory, all part of the bally act. I’ve often wished I’d had a coin for every time you pretended to be what you are not. Would stretch from here to Timbuktoo not to mention help in some small way to alleviate the financial suffering Thellie is undergoing under your bally jackboot.

But despite my lack of fine wine courtesy the Chinthana I weep for you dear.  Poor darling. I know your face would have flushed and your eyes would have bulged and your hair would have stood on end as you imagined that you were part of the Union invitees — if only for one, shining, hallucinatory moment.

Well dear, as far as the President of the Oxford Union went it made perfect sense I suppose.

There you were last week, bearing your teeth over the war like a pit bull at a pre school, sniffing superciliously at negotiated settlements not unlike a Shiatsu who has been given a bowl of inedible soup, yowling about the international community like a Chi Wha Wha in a trance, and strutting about like a Dalmation who has just found his G spot. And all this in the Hall that once Churchill and other leaders waxed eloquent in. Of course when they spoke, they didn’t have to buy the use of the hall with blood money.

And following your yapping who should the Oxford Union invite to give a speech but a  female Dog Trainer. And for real this time too. The wench was invited by the local RSPCA who had to pay a fee for the Hall.