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​Hair of the S.O.B.

After more than two decades of writing columns for newspapers, I finally persuaded them to reprint earlier, well-received columns and give me a paid holiday in September. I think they gave in, not because of the need for a creative break I outlined, but because they knew that newspaper sales are then the lowest for the year, with people saving every penny for back-to-school costs). In any event, in my most extended newspaper holiday, ever, I’m taking my September holiday. This column first appeared on Friday 20 July 2012.

IT’S ONE OF my abiding disappointments that I have to wash my hair every week. You’d think something so obviously negligible could be safely permanently ignored, like people who act on principle and not out of self-interest in Trinidad, but, no, that smattering of growth that still struggles to emanate from a small and ever-shrinking portion of my follicular endowment requires depressingly regular attention. Washing my hair every Saturday is like mowing the lawn every week in dry season: you can do it, but why would you go to all that trouble for so little effect? It’s like a fat person drinking Diet Coke: dude, you’re not fooling anybody.

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​Who Slit Paradise’s Throat?

I’m so in love with this girl called Paradise/ I’m so sorry I lost my true love/ Somebody told me I should take some of the blame/ When I put the facts together, I hang my head in shame/ – The rock-and-roll band jointpop, from the song, “Who Shot Paradise?”

TRINIDAD IS dead. After hanging on for a few decades by a few slim threads – a Minshall King of Carnival here, a World Cup Finals qualification there – the last bit of Trinidad you could love had its throat slit for no good reason in Claire Broadbridge’s bedroom in Fondes Amandes last week.

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​We Jammin’ Still

55 YEARS of so-called Independence and I wouldn’t mind us not being able to do even the most basic stuff for ourselves that minor cities all over the world have mastered, like running a ferry service between two small islands, paving a road properly (with a firetrucking Pitch Lake!) or appointing a judge or Cabinet minister, if we could at least think for our firetucking selves.

If we thought for ourselves, we would, in time, find ways of overcoming, or at least facing, our challenges.

But we don’t think for ourselves: our mental activity peaks at making either excuses for or whipping-boys of ourselves. The Catholics – Devil bless ‘em – invented two complementary ‘sins against hope’: the sin of despair and the sin of presumption. The sinner in despair loses all hope of God’s forgiveness or his help in getting to heaven while the sinner in presumption trusts in his own power to save himself or presumes God will forgive him without any repentance or good works on his own part.

Newspaper columns and social media posts, in the run-up to today's Independence holiday came in two broad stripes: one cheering and one jeering section. The jeering section, the sinners against hope, with their litanies of woe about Trinidad & Tobago, are at least closer to the reality: that we have almost terminally firetrucked up our own place.

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Another One Dusts the Blight

DEBBIE JOHN is gone and another thread pops in the fraying old rope I know as Trinidad. Cancer. She was only 61. Funny, but I always thought she was much more than just two years older than me; she was probably just far more responsible and grownup.

My memory gives me (but I am often forced to give whatever it is back) that she was my first features editor back in 1988 (and it could well have been the other Debbie, Jacob), when I moved from the legal department of the Board of Inland Revenue to the newsroom of the Trinidad Express, a move that made my earnings plummet as much as it made my wellbeing rise.

It’s nice to imagine DeeJay sauntering into some great newsroom in the sky, where the coffee is always piping hot Hong Wing and the soft drink vending machine gets the Diet Coke frosty cold, and the assignment is always to cover the Tribe band launch or the Chaud champagne dinner.

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The Last Satire in America

Satire: The use of humour, irony, exaggeration or ridicule to expose and criticize people’s stupidity or vices.

ANYONE WHO thought that Donald Ciretrunt would somehow mysteriously ‘become more presidential’ if he won the election got the rudest possible awakening a week ago, when Ciretrunt deliberately placed both feet upon the corpse of an innocent woman, murdered by savages, to stand up for those fundamental American values of Nazism, anti-Semitism and white supremacy.

Ciretrunt snuffed out the American Dream with his support for a group he ought to have condemned; and he just about extinguished satire, too. How the firetruck do you exaggerate the occu-ciretrunt of the White House supporting Nazis?

There’s only one piece of satire left in America and here it is, presented in the vain hope that people who think of themselves as ‘good Christians’ can see the Devil if he is exposed in front of their eyes.


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