It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Just yesterday I saw a jolly fat man all dressed in red being followed about town by a clutch of very small people, possibly elves, nattering at his heels, catering to his every whim and looking like they bore the brunt of all the hard work the fat man could think up for them to do. Santa? Possibly. But he had IOC credentials hanging from his neck. More likely just one of the family.
With enough snow on the mountain to redeem the most savaged soul, enough lights on the trees on Lorimer Road to blind anyone turning onto it who hasn't already been blinded by the reflective glare of the 1,287 orange sticks on the highway between Creekside and the village, and enough good deals in town to warm the heart of Scrooge, this must be time to don our gay apparel, deck our halls, nog our eggs and go through the motions of peace on Earth and goodwill towards men... women too, especially those whose Christmas wish list is topped by the simple desire to compete at the Olympics, just like the, uh, men.
But before we get all seasonally disordered and turn as soft as figgy puddin', let me just take a moment and ask a simple question. If, as the old chestnut goes, the truth sets you free, does that mean Little Stevie Hapless, prime minister of all Canadians, is enslaved? Rumour in the nation's capital has it that the Doughboy's Christmas wish list is topped by the same dysfunctional toy he got last year, a prorogation of Parliament. This time it has nothing to do with a coalition of inept elves threatening to band together and unionize his workshop. It's all about saving face... or at least what's left of it after the Chinese scraped off most of it and served it at a state dinner.
It's becoming more clear every day - and will likely become even more so when Richard Colvin releases his rebuttal to the testimony delivered by the three blind mice - The Weasel knew, or should have known had he been endowed with the curiosity of a flatworm, about operation Torture in the Desert. This is seriously undermining Doughboy's dream of one day leading (sic) a majority government. The Conservative party's popularity is approaching the same percentage of the population who believe, in their frozen, shrunken hearts, Scrooge was a humanitarian.
Reeling from his Chinese takeout, about to be reeling from the warm, perhaps even globally warm, reception he's likely to receive in Copenhagen where, rumour has it he's being referred to as Stevie the Sith, watching his approval rating melt away like snow in the spring while The Weasel continues to pantomime Pinocchio, the Doughboy may have decided when the going gets tough, the tough go home. At least until after the Olympics.