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SUPPORTERS OF the United National Congress and the People’s National Movement will be arguing for months over who really won Monday’s local government elections, citing numbers of held seats lost, the popular vote, voter turnout etc – but I’m more concerned, today, with next year’s scheduled general election, when 41 people, in some permutation of the UNC and the PNM, must clearly lose a seat in the House of Representatives.
What are those poor, useless future sufferers to do?
In the spirit of goodwill fostered by the parang and thing, I’ve come up with new jobs for the loser boys, based on their House performances.
In the whole House, the most natural Parliamentary/real life skill set match for a new career is easily Colm Imbert, who will go from minister of finance to standup comedian. I know some irresponsible and inconsiderate persons will suggest that he has spent the last five years as finance minister doing exactly that, standup comedy, so it won’t technically be a career change, but I would argue that his most memorable lines – I raise the price of gas three times and they ent riot yet, when the PM made me minister of finance I thought he had to be crazy– show that he has the material and, critically, the delivery to turn everything tragic into hilarity, just by giving it his spin. Of course, he will have to work on his timing. The only possibly insurmountable obstacle between Colm and the pinnacles of standup comedy success is that his prospective audience might not be able to tell when he has actually stood up.
Prime Minister Keith Rowley would expect to be the jefe of something, anything, everything, based on five years of bossing everybody around, but I have applied my gimlet/Gilpin eye and I’ve discerned him at his best, not in Parliament (scarf notwithstanding), but in the living room chat-style public appearances in which he connects sincerely with the common, rank-and-file PNM supporters on the floor of a grubby community centre from an overstuffed armchair on a stage filled with floral arrangements: Keith is a natural as a greeter at what we call a cassy-no, which is a place where very poor people congregate in large numbers to throw away their pennies, en masse, so as to make a handful of very rich people even richer. Keith’s natural charm exudes despite the slightly gruff voice, which might militate against his new job as greeter, except that it’s actually a bonus, because I’ll arrange for him to double his extra income stream by doubling as the casino’s bouncer.
Opposition Leader Kamla Persad-Bissessar House skills allow her to pick from a range of jobs. Obviously, the principal of St Augustine Girls High School must even now be looking nervously over her shoulder, as might be the proprietresses of every upscale gentlemen’s club in Town. But a woman who has lost little of her beauty and none of her charm must be our next high commissioner to the Court of St James. It’s a rarefied atmosphere, the diplomatic swirl of London, but Kamla was to the good manners born; no one will sip inconsequential tea as gracefully.
Marlene McDonald’s particular skills, as revealed in both the House and President’s House, would make her a natural selection for Donald Trump’s next press secretary but her mobile phone management skills would cost her the gig, and more’s the pity, because she has a clear knack for being photographed with companions with distinctive ties.
Attorney-General Faris Al-Rawi would, of course, become a real estate agent to the elite; either that or he could offer VIP tours taking his clients’ teenaged children on exclusive tours of restricted sites, including Facebook page photo-ops, with no follow-up questions.
Barry Padarath, after five years of enduring PNM ultra-macho masking -their-own-insecurity personal attacks, is perfectly trained for cleaning up after spoilt children’s parties at Chuck E Cheese.
Roodal Moonilal is a natural ambassador to Hong Kong, where the tape across his mouth will allow him to blend in with the face-masked protestors. (Neither Franklin Khan nor Suruj Rambachan could get this job because it would require occasionally removing his foot from his mouth.)
Fitzgerald Hinds will have to relocate, for a short time, to the United States to take up the job he’s perfect for: the foreign half of a couple on the new season of 90-Day Fiancé; the fact that he’s already married will only add to his backstory in the show.
Stuart Young will, naturally, take over from Double-G as police commissioner, inheriting even the wardrobe as a perfect fit, but only if he can be persuaded away from Hollywood.
Daryl Smith will settle in nicely in Woodford Square, as executive in charge of the maintenance of the female toilets.
Anthony Garcia doesn’t need a new job because, clearly, he was already cast as stand-in for Robert De Niro in Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman.
Everybody else will all get the same job they showed themselves to be perfectly suited for: when police in Town arrest somebody on a criminal charge, these MPs will get a little something for taking a walk-on, walk-off part in and making up the numbers of identification parades.
BC Pires is a rolodex
And when your fears subside/ And shadows still remain/ I know that you can love me/ When there’s no one left to blame/ So never mind the darkness/ We can still find a way/ Cause nothing lasts forever/ Even cold November rain – Axl Rose, from the Guns ‘n’ Roses song, November Rain
Last Friday of November, second-to-last day of the second-to-last month of the year, and Y’Boy studying them Americans celebrating Thanksgiving, though why them thankful ‘bout having a madman/man-child/orange white supremacist in the White House, Y’Boy really couldn’t say.
Across the pond, in the Increasingly-More-Dis-United Kingdom, them Brits and them painstakingly setting theyself up, not so much to, “Get Brexit Done” as to “get done by Brexit”. Y’Boy watch Jeremy Corbyn read out from a leaked document how the Tories will extend patent protection in Britain to American pharmaceutical companies – the same ones who count every opioid addict as a plus in the share price and watch people lose they whole life and still laugh all the way to the bank – and then Y’Boy watch journalists stand up and axe Corbyn if he don’t want to say sorry to them Jew and them; the National Health Service – the high-water mark of British civilization – on the auction block and the hammer fall twice already, going, going about to be gone – and the British media care more ‘bout how unelectable Corbyn is than how much more damage the electable Bozo the Evil Clown will do.
FUNNY OLD THING, this life. One moment, you’re sitting, sipping a cold beer and watching the sunset and, the next, you’re the centre of attraction at an event you know nothing about, dead on Accra Beach!
But most people won’t keel over, dead in a microsecond due to brain aneurism/massive cardiac arrest – though it’s a pretty firetrucking good way to go, if you have to go – as, apparently, we all do, even me, who has railed against it almost non-stop since birth. (Still doesn’t seem fair!) The best firetrucking way, though, would be to go out close to the way you first came in, in the same way one former Chief Justice of Trinidad & Tobago famously went – which is the best firetrucking way, literally, even if it does leave the last person you were with shocked half-to-death herself, and naked as the day she was born.