It's hard not to be moved by the faces on the Cairo street, by the elegant, tri-lingual women with sculpted faces and rehearsed certainties, by the old men with broken teeth, hopeful that a long, dark night is over and by exuberant youth, jumping for joy. Yet all that has happened, thus far, is that Ali Baba has slunk away to huge wealth and luxurious exile and a handful of the Forty Thieves now squat on the magic carpet of junta, still, to all intents and purposes, a corp in Uncle Sam's Imperial Army, funded, trained and directed by the Pentagon. The uneasy thought intrudes, Oh, what kind of love is this, which goes from bad to worse?
Maybe, optimistically, the playboy headchoppers and women-stoners across the region, dreading contagion, will be running for their goldplated helicopters, pockets bulging with cocaine and gaudy Rolexes, heading for the international gangster havens of Kensington or Berkshire, maybe the elegant Arab women and the media savvy cosmopolitan youth will ascend and the wicked, evil, beardy sheikh and prince and imam bastards will be consigned rightly to the stone age, Isis triumphant.
Wouldn't that be good shit, a politics guided by women. Rattle some aplha male cages, even in MediaMinster, Bismillah.