Tuesday, July 12, 2005
The National Flag of Poofs. And that's official.
I was searching the web for news on the London bombs, as you tend to do when your coffee shop was recently deluged by victims of a hideous suicide attack, and I came across this delightful piece of journalism. It's by one Willy Trolove, the London correspondent for the New Zealand Herald.
It appears our Willy (or should that be our lack-of-willy? or our total gaylord fuckwit?) has been a little unsettled by the recent 'incidents'. Incidents, I may remind you, which have frightened the average Londoner about as much as the popcorn going off a trifle early in the microwave.
Here's what 'Willy' had to say about his personal reaction to the bombs.
Willy Trolove, The New Zealand Herald
On September 11, 2001, I was in London. I still remember the eerie sense that seized the city of a world turned on its head. Everyone thought London would be hit.
They closed the tall buildings in the Docklands and imposed a no-fly zone over the city. We logged on to the BBC online and waited for an attack to come.
It didn't. At the end of the day we struggled on to the trains and the buses - the longest trip I have taken. London's commuters were even more silent than usual. We willed each other home.
That night we watched the television and saw the planes fly into the buildings. The next day the broadsheets printed special editions with huge double-page spreads showing the havoc in Manhattan. We tried to get on with our work but none of it seemed particularly meaningful. A voice nagged at the back of everyone's minds: When will London be hit?
Over the weeks and months that followed, Londoners tried to silence those voices. It wasn't easy. Every Tube, every public gathering, every landmark was a target. Whenever we were near these things, we felt like targets too.
Two months later I watched the fireworks with friends on Primrose Hill, overlooking Regent's Park. Guy Fawkes Night celebrates the defeat of an attack on parliamentary democracy. That year it held a greater resonance.
Tens of thousands of people gathered. While the sky darkened and we waited for the rockets to be lit, a lumbering jumbo on approach to Heathrow seemed to be flying unusually low and straight for us. It turned away, but the same thought went through everyone's minds. When will London be hit?
Living in London became a calculated risk. Every week an attack seemed inevitable [etc etc] Boarding the Tube, uncomfortable and unpleasant at the best of times, brought on a sense of wall-clinging dread. We felt we were under siege. [etc etc etc].
As for New Zealanders in London, the attack on New York had a different effect. We weren't used to this. Our thoughts were not "we have to live with this", but "how much more of it can we bear?" Two or three years of waiting for an inevitable terror attack was two or three years too many. We became like so many other New Zealanders and decided we didn't want to live like this. We willed each other home.
Now, tragically but inevitably, the "if" has become "when". London has been hit. It is a small blessing that the attacks were not as bad as they might have been. But that won't diminish the trauma of the victims and it won't reduce the effect on New Zealanders living there.
Thousands of them will decide, like we did, that now is a good time to come home.
Let me get this right, Willy love. You say you were on Primrose Hill during Guy Fawkes night, and you were shit-scared of.... a low flying jumbo? And you felt that everyone around you felt the same 'wall-clinging dread'?
I've got news for you, nancyboy. The people around you, those Londoners, they weren't experiencing 'wall-clinging dread'. They were worried the pubs were gonna shut before they got down the Hill.
And now you say you're buggering off home, before you poo your nappy? Yeah? Well I say good riddance to you, you mincing queen. You piece of pantyhose. You man in a skirt. You quivering mass of human jello. You bag of gay. You daisychain. You jessie. You big girl's blouse. You desperate fartypants. You sad-sacked nonce. You colander of fritness. You pathetic, cacking-himself kiwi. You twirly-faced balletomane. You huge great crate of shivering timbers. You TWAT.
Go on, fuck off. Fuck off back to your benighted sheep farm. Your land of the long white coward. Your dismal little country in the armpit of Nowhere. All Blacks my FUCKING ARSE!
You know, we Brits are brought up to believe that the Kiwis are a chip off the old Commonwealth block. That - like us, and the Americans, and maybe the Aussies - you guys down there are made of the Right Stuff.
Seems we were sadly mistaken. Softboy.
Posted by sean at 11:42 pm