Bush-Blair letters and transcripts of conversations dealing with the invasion of Iraq will never be made public, the official inquiry ruled.
On the one hand, I welcome this decision. After all, every country is entitled to protect its secrets, especially those whose exposure may jeopardise national security.
In this instance the most sensitive information to be protected is neither the supply logistics of the invasion nor the allied coordination of large-scale operations on foreign soil. It’s what kind of people we elect to make decisions affecting, at times killing, millions of people.
Having said that, it’s with quite some pleasure bordering on glee that I’m happy to release a few of those documents I have in my possession.
Don’t ask me how I came by this information: I won’t tell you even if you render me to Guantanamo and waterboard me to kingdom come. A small donation to my favourite charity, however, may make me reconsider my principled stance, but we’ll have to discuss this in private.
Meanwhile here’s the transcript of the telephone conversation between President George W. Bush (GWB) and Prime Minister Tony ‘Anthony’ Blair (TB) that took place at 2.30 am on 1 March, 2003.
GWB: Yo, Blair!
TB: Er… who’s this?
GWB: Hot damn, boy, it’s me, George! Whatsa matter with you today?
TB: Er… what time is it, George?
GWB: It’s 9.30, boyo. Can’t afford a watch, is that it?
TB: Er… it’s quite a bit later here, George. Let me see… It’s 2.30 in the morning actually.
GWB: Gee willikers, Blair, gotta have y’all’s watch fixed. This here ‘merican Rolex says 9.30.
TB: We’re actually in a different time zone, George.
GWB: Don’t give me that bull, Blair. When it’s 9.30 in good ole DC, it’s 9.30 in Londontown. You folla?
TB: Yes, I do actually. So 9.30 it is. How can I help you, George? And pray don’t give me your usual line about bringing you your slippers in my mouth.
GWB: You remember that one? I was only kiddin’, boy. No, it’s about them towel heads.
TB: You mean the Middle East?
GWB: ‘kin-A right, boy. I’m fixin’ to kick the livin’ bejeesus outa them I-rans, I-raqs and A-rabs. Know what I mean?
TB: Actually, I’m not sure I do, George.
GWB: You don’t know jack, Blair. I’m fixin’ to pop over the water with everythin’ I got and kick that bastard Saddam outa I-ran. You folla?
TB: Surely you mean Iraq, George?
GWB: Hey, boy, I ain’t no limey. I’m ‘merican. I mean what I say and say what I mean. Like I say, I’m fixin’ to kick Saddam outa I-raq.
TB: Yes, I thought that’s what you said, George. Is one allowed to ask what this is in aid of?
GWB: Yo Blair, I told you before not to speak like a goddamn faggot when you talk to me. But now you ask, no one blows up Chicago skyscrapers and gets away with it.
TB: You mean New York, don’t you George?
GWB: Yeah, New York, that’s what I said. And now he wants to blow up the whole goddamn US of A with his rockets. Well, not on my watch he doesn’t. You folla?
TB: Er… George, I’ve spoken to our Intelligence Service about this and they seem to suggest that the evidence is rather inconclu…
GWB: Lemme worry about the intel, Blair. Your guys are too busy chasing little boys to take care of business. What I want to know is are you comin’ along for the ride or are you gonna chicken out on me?
TB: I’m with you all the way, George, whatever you do. You know that. But, and I don’t want to be blunt about this, what’s in it for me?
GWB: What d’y’all mean what’s in it for you? You wanna be a world statesman, right? That’s where the money is. And you ain’t got a Chinaman’s chance of that if you don’t go along with the good ole US of A. Who d’you think is gonna pay your ticket after you ain’t a PM no more? Those frog cheese-eatin’ surrender monkeys? You folla?
TB: I most certainly do. Well, all right, George. I’ll certainly take this under advisement…
GWB: Don’t you take me under no advisement, boy, and don’t you advisement me under no taking. In or out, that’s what I wanna know.
TB: I’m in, George, now that you put it this way.
GWB: Just like that? Don’t y’all have to run this by, like, y’all’s cabinet? Or Congress?
TB: We call it Parliament here, George, though you may be right: it’s time we changed that obsolete name. Congress sounds so much better.
GWB: You bet your sweet patootie it does, boy. So don’t y’all have to ask’em first, whatever y’all call’em?
TB: Well, George, you needn’t worry about that. I don’t want to encumber you with extraneous details, but the workings of our parliamentary democracy are such that I don’t have to…
GWB: I get it, boy. You’re in – and welcome aboard. But Blair?
TB: Yes, George?
GWB: Do me a favour, will you? Stop talkin’ like a goddamn faggot.