Life is full of disappointments. Take that Hurricane Wilma, for example. Inspired by the apocalyptic predictions of the weather wizards on Sky, Sam had planned an all-night party at Snort Towers to coincide with the expected images of Disneyland being laid waste, with Mickey and Donald and Goofy and all the rest being lifted up off their big, stupid feet and hurled bodily into the battlements of the Magic Castle. What a fantastic scene that would have been.
Instead, all we got were rainy glimpses of a few palm trees bending in the wind and one admittedly entertaining shot of a man being blown along a pavement on his arse. Not quite the unholy conflagration we’d all expected. Still, it serves ‘em right for calling a hurricane after the wife of Fred Flintstone, though even that unpromising gambit might have been redeemed if just one of the weather wizards had had the wit to stare stony-faced into the lens and say: “Hurricane Wilma today failed to turn whole sections of downtown Orlando into Barney Rubble.” But no, even that was too much to ask for.
Massive Destruction
Clearly, the problem lies in the system of naming hurricanes. Katrina? Wilma? Jeez, for all the threat of destruction on a massive scale which those wimpy monikers pose, they might as well have opted for Hurricane Enya. Just image: "Hurricane Enya today made landfall in the Florida panhandle. Residents are said to be fleeing a gentle breeze which carries the faintest scent of the exotic east. The expected storm surge was described by one terrified local as being every bit as destructive as an aromatherapy massage. The governor announced that he will be declaring the whole state a disaster zone the minute he wakes up”.
Nope, if you want to get the people up and moving – and then give the actual storm something to live up to – the only solution is to start naming ‘em after some of our most popular beat music entertainers.
I mean, imagine you heard a radio broadcast warning you that “Hurricane Lemmy” was on the way. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t drop the kids down a well and run for your life. Anyway, the failure of the hurricanes to wipe Florida off the map was only a minor disappointment compared to the horror of turning to my Hotpress news pages last issue to read the staggering headline: “Bono Misses Out On Nobel Prize”.
Frankly, if my willowy assistant Astrid hadn’t velcroed me to my high chair, I would have fallen over. As it was, the orange popped out of my mouth and my butt-plug shot right across the kitchen like a bullet, as my whole body went into shock. My mucker Bono passed over for the big peace gong!?! Jesus H. Christ, I haven’t been so upset about anything since I first heard Christy Hennessey sing.
Worse, who did they decide was more worthy than Bono of winning the dosh? Only Mohamed El Baredi, of whom so many have said: who the fuck is he when he’s at home? According to reliable sources – i.e. further down the same news story – Mo is actually an Egyptian dude who works with the International Atomic Energy Agency, an organisation which I learn “has been pivotal in trying to persuade Iran and North Korea to abandon their respective nuclear weapons development programmes”.
Bullgoose Dingbat
Okay, deep breath here. Last time I checked, the boss-man in Iran was talking about wiping Israel off the face of the earth – and I don’t think he was planning to leave it up to Hurricane Lemmy. Now, considering that Israel is armed to its nuclear teeth – and nobody does squat about it – I’m not going to get all hypocritical on yo' ass here, but suffice to say that it sounds to me like my man Mo has a good deal more “persuading” to do before the Mad Mullahs are going to smoke the pipe of peace down at the old Wailing Wall.
As for North Korea, it can justly lay claim to being under the iron rule of the biggest bullgoose dingbat of ‘em all, so where Mo’s persuasive powers get him in that benighted neck of the woods, is anyone’s guess. Still, in their obviously finite wisdom, the judging panel (which, in an unusual departure from the norm, appears not to include “our own Jackie Hayden”) decided that Mo deserved the big one, and so off he goes to Stockholm for a nice weekend in a top hotel, with a bit of spending money thrown in, while poor old Bono is left on the sidelines, wondering how the fuck he can have been topped by the toothless IAEA when – and do I really need to spell this out? – he was the one who actually told the world how to dismantle an atomic bomb. Still, it’s some consolation to see that Paul McGuinness and Principle have been nominated for a Billboard gong for top management company. Nice. And they’d better win because Sam just can’t take any more crushing disappointments.