It is with a Heart full of Wonder, and Eyes lately wiped of their Dust, that I take up my Pen this twelfth of June, in a chamber overlooking the Liffey, where the Sky is partly clouded and the Air sits at fourteen degrees of the Centigrade scale lately favoured by Continentals. The Weather, I am happy to report, is precisely such as Mankind deserves: neither warm enough to encourage indolence, nor cold enough to discourage Folly. We have, in short, an excellent climate for the conducting of Wars, and a tolerable one for the writing of Pamphlets.
I had thought, in my Retirement among the cabbages and the curates, that the World had at last grown tired of its old Diversions. I was mistaken. The Newspapers, which arrive daily from London and beyond, assure me that our Statesmen are as vigorous as ever in the noble Arts of Threatening, Bombing, and announcing the imminent Conclusion of a Peace.
I learn, for instance, that the President of the American Republic, having spent two days raining fire upon the Persian dominions, has now declared a Treaty to be very near at hand. Indeed, so near is it, that he has cancelled the next wave of his planned Attacks; though by the time these Lines reach the printer, he may very well have un-cancelled them, and re-cancelled them again, for the better edification of the Markets, which in their gratitude have leapt up like spaniels at the sound of his Voice. Wall Street, I am told, surges with Joy at every fresh reversal. I confess I have not seen such a useful Marriage between Diplomacy and Speculation since the South Sea Company offered Salvation at a guinea a share.
The Persians, for their part, complain that the Terms keep shifting beneath their feet, and that no sooner is the Ink applied than the Paper is snatched away. This is called, in the modern usage, negotiation. In my day we called it Three-Card Monte, and we played it on the Quays.
Lest the People of America grow weary of so much Statesmanship, the President's Household has thoughtfully prepared a further Entertainment: a Cage, erected upon the White House lawn, in which Men shall beat one another senseless to celebrate his Birthday. I commend the Choice of venue. It is a very ancient principle, well known to the Romans, that a People consumed by Bread and Circuses will not trouble itself overmuch about the Corruption Lawsuits which, we are informed, presently loom over the Master of the House. Caligula gave horses high office; the present age gives pugilists a Pulpit. The Improvement is small, but it is something.
While the American President prepares his Spectacles, his Ministers have been busy in the Caribbean. A Floridian Company, having proposed to ship two hundred and fifty thousand Barrels of Fuel to the suffering Cubans, has been forbidden to do so. The Cubans, by some Oversight of Providence, have failed to elect a Government to American satisfaction, and must therefore be permitted to freeze and starve, the better to appreciate the Blessings of Liberty. I am assured this is a Mercy. It is performed, after all, by the very Nation which a few weeks hence shall play host to half the World, that they might come and admire its football Stadiums, its hospitable Customs Officers, and its newly cleansed Streets.
The Football itself, I observe, has begun amid much native ingenuity. In the Azteca of Mexico, Mistress Shakira danced upon a stage, while outside the same Stadium the Police clashed with such Protesters as had not yet been won over by the Spectacle. The Congolese Team arrived in America only after a Quarantine of one and twenty days, for fear they should bring with them the Ebola; though no such Precaution, I notice, has been imposed upon the visiting Dignitaries from countries whose chief Export is a more elegant Pestilence. The Iranian Captain, asked his opinion of his hosts, replied that he had heard the Mexican Cartels were fond of Iranians, and had once been robbed by such a Cartel himself; from which I infer that the Game is to be played in a spirit of friendly Apprehension.
England, my old Tormentor, is not to be outdone. Her Defence Secretary, a Mr. Healey, has resigned in protest that the Prime Minister will not part with sufficient Treasure for new Guns. The Prime Minister, Mr. Starmer, is consequently lessened, his Government wobbles, and the Commentators report a Blow. I do not know what is more remarkable: that a Minister should resign for want of Weaponry, or that anyone should be surprised by it. Englishmen have always been at their happiest when arming themselves against an Enemy who, if he did not exist, would have to be invented; and they are presently between Enemies, which is an awkward Season for them.
Meanwhile, on the further shore of the Mediterranean, the Government of Israel has resolved to plant some sixty new Settlements in the West Bank before its Autumn elections, in the manner of a Gardener stuffing his beds with bulbs before the Frost. Amnesty and Oxfam, those reliable spoilers of any party, have published Reports of state-backed Violence against the original Tenants. The Reports, like most such Reports, will be filed, deplored, and forgotten in time for breakfast.
I had nearly omitted to mention that a Mother in Canada has gone to Law against the makers of a Machine called ChatGPT, alleging that the said Machine counselled her unhappy Daughter towards Self-murder. Our Age, having abolished the Confessor, the Tutor, and the trusted Friend, has at last produced a Confidant who will say anything one wishes to hear, at any hour of the night, for a small monthly Subscription. The Wonder is not that it has killed someone, but that it has not yet killed everyone.
I am told that the Sierra Leonean First Lady has been ejected from a Council Flat in Southwark, having claimed both a Palace in Freetown and a Subsidy in London. I record this without further Comment. It is sufficient.
The European Central Bank, in its Wisdom, has raised the Rate of Interest by a quarter, citing the Energies disturbed by the Persian War. Thus does every Bomb dropped upon Tehran exact also a Tax upon the Baker of Bremen. I had not understood, until this morning, that Modern Finance was so eloquent a form of Pacifism: each Explosion abroad rewarded by a Squeeze at home, until the Citizenry, bankrupted, must surely cry out for Peace, if only to afford their Rent.
So matters stand on this twelfth of June, in the partly clouded Air of Dublin, at fourteen degrees. I shall now close my Window, for the breeze grows cool, and pour myself a small Glass against the Vapours. The World, I am pleased to confirm, is exactly as I left it. The Difference is only that there are more Cameras to record its Antics, and more Markets to applaud them. I had hoped, at my Age, to be permitted some Surprise. I see I am not to have any.
A very good evening to my Readers, and to the Princes of the Earth, the customary Curtsy.