Hope nobody finds out about this one or bookmarks the site or subscribes to the feed . . . .

I asked her if she thought it was okay if I prayed for something bad to happen to André Monteil. “Like ‘ow bad?” she asked. I said maybe not death, but perhaps a severe illness, or an accident. She said she she thought that was fine – those were no worse than some of the things she’s prayed would happen to Bruce Golding. Portia said God has told her personally that he makes special exceptions for things that are clearly in the national interest.

2. Decide whether my membership in the Facebook group “Douglarize the Nation” will be a help or hindrance in the upcoming election

3. Call Portia and find out how she arrived at September 3 as the revised date for the Jamaica election (i.e. did she dream it or was she advised by her pastor?)

So you got in again. Satisfied, now? I realise this is a losing battle. You are way ahead of me in the computer game, having owned one since the day the government purchased that first batch of PCs for the primary school computerisation programme (I’ll never forget how long it took us to scrub off the “Biche Government Primary School” that was stencilled on the case). So I’m not going to do anything further to keep you out. But you should know that this is a place where I’ll be expressing some of my deepest, darkest thoughts, and it’s not going to be pretty. Hope you have the belly to deal with it.

You’ve never been able to see old Patos with anything, have you? This takes me right back to 2001, when you were hounding me down for that ministerial post. “His and her ministries,” you used to say, “to match the towels!” No, I said, no way. You’re not qualified to be a government minister. Then you pointed at the lineup of proposed cabinet members and I had to agree that being qualified for the post didn’t seem to be one of the selection criteria. But I stood my ground. Nobody was going to accuse Patos of being a nepotist.

You tried everything. You bought me presents. You cooked my favourite meals. You withheld sex (though I only realised this after you pointed out that this was what you were doing. The basic rule of withholding is that you have to have given some in the first place). The day you were out and I happened to intercept the delivery package from Frederick’s of Hollywood, I thought, Hallelujah, the Lord is truly on my side! (You wondered what happened to all that sexy lingerie, eh?). But you had saved the best for last. “Make me a Minister, Patos,” you said, “or I’ll reveal to the world that you wet your bed.”

Your appointment as Minister of Education was announced the next day.

Since that moment I’ve faced nothing but humiliation over that decision. I’ve been accused of nepotism, feathering my own nest, endangering the lives of the country’s young people and of being married to a woman who can’t pronounce the word “breakfasts”. As schools install metal detectors, as our teachers live in fear of being stabbed or shot by by godless little bandits who can’t even read or write and as you stand nightly in front of the mirror practising that “tsuh” sound that you can never seem to master, I’ve become less and less able to deny any of these accusations.

And now here you are trying to hijack my blog. And lying in the worse way! I do not catch vapses! All my decisions are clearly thought out, with the help of the Lord Jesus. I’ll admit that the smelter thing was due to a biblical misreading on my part. I could have sworn that line from Mark 14:27 said “I will smelt the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered” (who ever uses the word “smite” anymore?), which to me was a sign that the Lord wanted me to build an aluminium smelter or two in the middle of a rural area and cause the local population and fauna to be displaced. By the time I discovered the mistake, the government officials who had been paid off by Alcoa had already squandered most of their their kickback money and were refusing to give it back, so my hands were tied.

And can’t you tell the difference between a Cessna and a Gulfstream? You should know as well that I’ve had the immigration status of “Fabio, Gianni, Giovanni and Paolo” checked. As it turns out, they’re not Italian designers – they’re Venezuelan gigolos who used to sell their wares on the Sabana Grande before Chavéz nationalised the Caracas gigolo trade. Have fun!

And now I have a bone to pick with you. I hope you’re happy with the position you put me in at that meeting on Saturday, having to announce that our September 1 convention was taking place at a “secret location” at a primary school in the East West Corridor. You think people don’t realise that was only because none of the primary schools in the East West Corridor is currently fit for human habitation? You better have one of them ready for us by September 1. Or else.

Anyway, you nearly make me forget what I log in here for. I don’t know why you gone and put the 3D artist renderings of the new interior designs online. Now every Tom, Dick and Oma could see what the inside of my boudoir will look like once we move into the new imperial palace–ahm, PM’s residence. But you know what? Looking at the photos on the blog, I suddenly realise gold and ivory are not really my colours (except for jewellery and bathroom fittings of course–tee hee). Hence why I spent the weekend slaving over those fabric swatches with the design team I had to fly down on very short notice from Las Vegas in the private jet–by the way, cloaking device or no cloaking device, is only a matter of time before somebody let something slip–somebody like your friend Mr. Valley–and then everybody in the whole country find out you went and bought the private Gulfstream after all.

So as I was saying–me, Fabio, Gianni, Giovanni and Paolo spend the whole weekend locked in my, um, office going over the designs, and we come up with a whole new colour scheme. They tell me jewel tones is the thing these days. Sapphires, emeralds, rubies. Plus we feel the old design a little too plain, too simple. You know, we’s the Prime Minister, so we have to set a certain standard. Anyway, the new 3D renderings should be arriving on the jet by the end of the week. This time, try not to let them leak. The only thing is, ahm, the designers’ bill going to be a little higher than previously expected. You know how it is with these projects and their cost overruns. So we might have to organise that fundraising breakfuss after all…. Also me and Fabio might have to make a short trip to Italy to source some materials–you know, marble, alabaster, jade, onyx, that kind of thing. So my private secretary will be in touch with your private secretary shortly with the dates for my Official Visit to Investigate Educational Innovations in Southern Europe. I might miss a couple cabinet meetings, but that’s nothing.

After a person bearing the rather alarming sobriquet of “manbeater” left two somewhat unpleasant comments on the blog again this morning, I summoned Christine S’s nephew (my then IT advisor) to Whitehall. The ten year-old took his cool time to arrive, and when he did, I must say I was quite taken aback at the child’s appearance. In the old days, one of the things you could have at least given Indians credit for was their neat appearance, but this youth was dressed the same as any bandit from Morvant or John-John — voluminous trousers with the waistband way down by his knees, revealing boxer shorts emblazoned with what looked like tiny AK47s, and a massive t-shirt with some big logo on it. To make matters worse, the boy had his hair in cornrows, or canerows, or whatever it is they call them, which I have to say was a real revelation to me, as I had no idea Indian hair was susceptible to this kind of manipulation. And the boy’s demeanour matched his appearance. He slouched and slurred his words so I could barely understand what he was saying, if it was in fact English the child was speaking. I’m glad he hadn’t come to the house, because Hazel would have chased him away immediately, as she does all reminders of her complete failure as Minister of Education.

The boy finally admitted that his computer expertise revolved mainly around video games, instant messaging, Hi5 and MySpace, and that he had never heard the word “blog” before his aunt Christine mentioned that I needed help with mine. Blogs, he said, involved reading and writing, skills he would have little use for in his future career as a chutney singer.

I dismissed the youth and wished him good luck with his future career, but not after explaining to him how his duplicitousness had jeopardised his aunt’s good standing in the party, not to mention her chances of securing another cabinet post in the 2007-12 PNM administration.

My IT security needs will henceforth be taken care of by one of my Facebook friends, who shall remain nameless.

Why the sudden urgency about keeping local internet access at connection speeds currently enjoyed only by peasants in remote parts of rural Africa? I intimated earlier that I think the Internet can be a dangerous influence, especially in small societies like ours. Like gambling, the Internet destroys the fabric of family life, as people spend unhealthy amounts of time in front of the computer screen interacting with virtual “friends”, and men’s attentions are drawn away from their spouses and significant others and into illusory relationships with tawdry porn actresses (and in a few cases I’ve heard of, tawdry porn actors). I also hear that certain web sites emit a form of radiation that causes cancer. But the worse effect, by far, of the Internet is the devastating effect of this constant exposure to foreign ideas and values on this country’s already threadbare social fabric.

The wake-up call for me was the blog post pictured above, which was evidently written by some foreign election finance wonk with no life and zero understanding of how this country works. I’ll admit that Christine S is partly to blame for that dotish line about the finances being “separated out” (Note to self: arrange for closer monitoring of Christine S’s interactions with press), but imagine if locals on fast broadband connections find this site and start pushing – God forbid – for campaign finance reform? And what is this IDEA database? Can locals access it? Can we arrange for them not to access it? Should I seek Hu Jintao‘s advice on the matter?

Further research led me to this site and this site, which fill me with even greater alarm. While it is very interesting to learn that Halle Berry donated US$2,300 to Barack Obama, people need to understand that Ms. Berry is a citizen of a large, wealthy country where the populace can deal maturely with this kind of data; not a tiny, post-colonial state riven by social and ethnic strife fomented by the likes of the UNC and COP. Put that kind of information within reach of the some of the godless characters running around out there and their first reaction would be to lock either Ms. Berry’s neck, Mr. Obama’s neck, or both — which is one of the many sad legacies of the UNC years and the terrible neglect of the East-West Corridor citizenry during that period whose effects the PNM has been working so hard to reverse. Donors should be safeguarded as well from the scrutiny of the Inland Revenue Service and the VAT office, who are likely to draw inaccurate conclusions from the data provided by web sites of this ilk.

At the end of the day, overpriced dial-up access is the only way forward.

The upshot is that Saith has been fired. My new IT advisor is Christine S’s nephew, who had the blog locked down again in minutes. What’s even better is that he did it all over the phone, which saved me from having to explain to Hazel why a ten year-old Indian boy was poking around inside our computer.

The commenters were named “Jumbie” and “chennette”, however, so I probably shouldn’t take them too seriously. Why, by the way, do Trinidadian bloggers insist on giving themselves silly names? What normal person would want to be named after a big, pale, furry rat, a malevolent spirit, a fruit that ties up your tongue and a kind of devil? This trend doesn’t seem to be limited to Trinidad, however, as I’ve discovered bloggers in other CARICOM states called things like Mad Bull and Titlayo. Get a spine, Caribbean bloggers. Even Raymond Ramcharitar has the guts to blog under his own name.

Speaking of house, I’ve been meaning to address the issue of those leaked house photos that have been circulating via e-mail. (Note to self: insist that all attendees at the National Awards ceremony taking place here on August 31 surrender cell phones and cameras at the door). A few people have inquired as to whether the photos are real. Others have asked me if they’re “for real”, as if to suggest that Hazel’s and my taste in interior design was questionable or something. I understand as well that one member of cabinet has been going around describing the style as “drug-lord chic”, and Hazel said she overhead somebody referring to it as “Jenny Sharma-esque” (which we both take as a compliment, actually). As I always remind myself: “Jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame” (Song of Solomon, 8 v. 6)

I know for a fact that Dookeran and/or Kamla are behind the e-mail as they both have been saying in public that the day they come to power (as if that could ever happen!), the first thing they’ll do is sell the house. If you believe that, I have a piece of Caroni swampland to sell you. I could just see Kamla sprawled off Oma Panday-style on that red velvet bedspread, awaiting “Bissessar pipe” (let us not forget the Member for Siparia’s immortal quote from the 2000 election season – see page 136 of the linked document!) and Dooks and his pardners would be right at home watching the West Indies lose on that big screen TV and drinking Scotch paid for with taxpayers’ money.

But this is probably nothing compared with how the Pandays would behave within these walls, were there even the remotest possibility of that duo occupying the premises at La Fantasie Road ever again. I shudder at the thought of Oma carousing in the swimming pool with God knows which member of staff, and at least Dooks would probably share the Scotch with pardners, unlike Bas, who would try to drink it all himself.

In a subsequent entry, I shall address the question of why Hazel and I felt we needed a fireplace.

Now people are going to think I’m not really the Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago. The Internet is bad.