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​Cold November Reign

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.

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​Fred, Sat, Down, Andrew Windsor, Up

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.

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​A Trini Trump Impeachment

THE WORST thing, for me, about the American House of Representatives beginning the impeachment of Donald J Putinovic was all the cringing I had to do on behalf of the Republican congressmen.

Now I expect almost nothing from Republicans. I know they usually deny the science of global warming and swallow whole the old Jewish creation myth of Adam & Eve and that, anytime compelling evidence leads to an obvious logical conclusion, they power-wash their doubt away with jets of blind faith; consider, eg, how easily they squeeze, into the round hole of, “champion of family values”, that square orange peg of a twice-divorced, sex worker-bribing man with a deeply worrying appreciation of his own teenaged daughter.

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​Heavenly Bumcee

TRINIDAD WAS UP in arms over legs this week, as well as bumcees, bellies and boobs, all of which are all well and good, in principle, provided you don’t parade them in bathing suits in the aisles of a church.

Last weekend, a fashion show at Trinity Cathedral kicked off a very Trinidadian debate when female models – sometimes very voluptuous ones – in skimpy bikinis – sometimes very skimpy ones –were exposed, as it were, on the catwalk. The designers had, apparently, received strict guidelines about not showing any revealing clothing but those strict guidelines about outfits were, clearly, only very loosely adhered to by at least one outfit.

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ONLY ONE WEEK ago, last Friday, in this space, I wrote this first paragraph: TRINIDADIANS, NEPALESE, BOLIVIANS – anybody in the world – who thinks Brexit isn’t hugely relevant to them is making the mistake of the man weed-whacking, without a face-mask, a patch of grass where people walk their dogs; he’ll be swallowing faecal matter before the job gets done.

Who tell me push fire? Did I know I’d just opened a Pandora’s Box? Which jumbie answered my unintentional call? Which demon possessed me to tempt Providence and the PDP?

On Tuesday, Boris Johnson finally got the general election he wanted but that Brexit news was buried by far more momentous events in Port of Spain, when Watson Duke, leader of a group called the Progressive Democratic Patriots – I don’t know how they resisted the temptation to call themselves the Progressive Democratic Action Congress & Robbie Woulda Love We Patriots –promised to lead Tobago out of the bondage of Trinidad and into full political independence.

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