Noah really is my bestie. We’ve lived together for years and love each other a great deal. “What is love?” you ask — and I ask it too, especially when Noah is being a beastie. But I don’t love anyone else as much as I love him, so he occupies that peculiar chamber of the heart reserved for the person one loves especially. Well, you know what I mean. Even if I don’t.
I’m fairly sure Noah loves me in much the same way. He calls me beautiful, adorable, heavenly, divine. I stare into the mirror, hunting for even one of these qualities, and find none. Either the mirror is lying or Noah is. Obviously it must be Noah; mirrors never lie. But I rejoice: anyone who lies so extravagantly must consider his interlocutor important — a significant other, the apex of his life. In my book, such a person qualifies as a bestie.
We used to bill and coo at each other; now it’s mostly bills. Inevitable, perhaps, but not cool. Still, if we can’t be chilled, we can at least be warm — and nothing warms us more reliably than a hot-button topic.
“Tell me, dahling,” I drawl. “What are they saying in Chambers about the war that is not a war in the country called Iran that should still be known as Persia?” I refer to Chambers because Noah, as you may recall, is a lawyer. His choice to become one was made in his formative years, when wisdom was wanting. The choice has consequences — of that there can be no doubt — but he is not eternally a jurisprude. Occasionally he passes himself off as a human being. It is this vein of humanity I now seek to mine.
“Not much,” he says. “They’re too busy explaining incomprehensible laws to uncomprehending clients at the request of attorneys whose rapacity is entirely comprehensible.”
“Very good,” I say. “Well, if I can’t find an answer there, I suppose I must ask you what you think?” Noah does think, so the presumption of ratiocination is not misplaced. He is no fool, our Noah, though sometimes he expresses himself in language that is a trifle arkane (ha ha).
“I am a man — or at least self-define as such. As a result, I fall into the demographic that tends to support Trump. To be sure, I think little of his hair, his ethics, his demeanour, his manners, or his vanity. But I care no more about these than I care about Obama’s alleged penchant for gay bath-houses or Clinton’s urge for blow jobs. Incidentally, have you ever considered how inapt a description “blow job” is — or do I mean cunnilingus?”
“No wonder your life is a cock-up. It’s fellatio, man, fellatio. Fellatio happens to fellows; cunnilingus happens to… oh, never mind. Let’s return to the point.” Noah gives me a knowing look, and I realize I could have phrased myself better. “I mean — you know what I mean.”
He continues. “On top of that, I am a real man. I believe in solving problems when they arise, not wringing my hands and hoping for—”
“So does Trump. He’s no ‘No Trump’. I like that in him. He is not a nonce — or is it ponce? — who believes cosy chats and ponderous treaties will resolve existential crises created by wicked people.”
“Nor, for that matter, am I a woman. Women, statistically, are more likely to hate Trump. I can explain why, if you like…”
“No, don’t. In one breath you’ve vilified nerds, gays, and women. All that’s left are macho males. Enough.” To my horror, I discover I am becoming Woke. Next I shall be PC Watt, asking, “‘Ullo, ‘ullo. Watt is ‘appening ‘ere, then?”
“All right,” he says. “Let me be serious. Trump and Netanyahu took a long, hard look at the facts. For years, Hamas had been lobbing bombs at Israel, with Hezbollah and the Houthis not far behind. Iran was arming them, encouraging them, and — horror of horrors — developing nuclear capacity.
“The region had become a hornet’s nest, and the hornets were stinging. The two leaders decided these regimes, maddened beyond sanity by a perverse ideology, had to be extirpated. ‘Extirpated’ means ‘eliminated’, if you don’t know.”
I tell him I do know. Really, he can be insufferably condescending when the mood takes him — all lawyer, no humanoid.
“Together,” he goes on, “they settled on an integrated strategy: first defang Hamas, then Hezbollah, then the Houthis, and finally the Mad Mullahs. Strive for regime change if possible, but don’t hold your breath. These people are fanatics, and brutal to boot.
“The US thinks the battle has reached its denouement and is about to pull out. ‘Denouement’ means ‘apogee’, if you like. And ‘apogee’ means—”
“Don’t you dare. Using obscure foreign words, especially Frenchie ones, is pretentious and vulgar. Did your mother teach you nothing?”
He ploughs on. “Trump has blasted the military installations so that virtually none remain. He considers this a great success. All he now wants is control of the Strait of Hormuz. With that, he can prop up the petrodollar and keep fractious countries in check by deciding who receives precious oil and who doesn’t. China, now highly exposed, will pose no perceptible risk and certainly won’t venture into Taiwan.”
“And Israel? Do they think the battle is nearly over?”
“No. Their ultimate aim must be regime change. Letting genocidal militancy persist is not an option. New governments can only be installed if current regimes are destabilised and the opposition becomes organised and armed. Watch this space.”
“You seem to have all the answers,” I say.
“No. I simply draw inferences from what I’m told. I know this is only part of the truth, but I make do. What I do appreciate is that Trump has brilliant men and women around him. Decisions are taken in conclave, based on all the facts the State can gather, and they are weighed carefully.
“Unless I am certain the decision-makers are wrong, I refrain from condemning them. I am careful not to project my own failings — my petty vindictiveness, my tendency to malice — onto them and develop hatred. These people are no fools.
“That I decline to hate Trump should be obvious; but equally, I decline to hate Ramaphosa for punting the Arab case before international tribunals supposedly in exchange for filthy lucre, or Democrats like the torpid Schumer or the grasping Pelosi for doing what oppositions do. Opponents oppose — and in a democracy, so they should.
“Politicians are not film stars or beauty contestants. We should neither idolise nor detest them. Our concern should be with their policies and the consequences they have.”
“I see,” I say. “Your motto is: ‘Let the bombasts bomb!’”
“Something like that,” says my lovely Lothario. “But that’s enough for the nonce — or should that be ponce?”
I give him a kiss and a hug. I am not dispassionate about him.
The views of the writer are not necessarily the views of the Daily Friend or the IRR.
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