It really has been one of those days. I’ve spent most of my time playing about with dynamic ranges and dashboard tools on Excel and the rest of the time was spent trying to get an Access query to accept a reference to a table as criteria. Both activities were as frustrating as each other. I’ve got a sore head. It was a bad day in the middle of a bad week.

But on the way home, I learnt that while my day won’t be remembered in my advancing years with much fondness, it was nothing compared to poor old Robert Mugabe’s.

You really do have to feel sorry for the Zimbabwe President. Let’s face it, he’s got a helluva lot on his plate at the moment. Those citizens aren’t going to murder themselves, you know. And rigging supposed free elections takes a lot of planning and intimidation and the maintenance of a decent infrastructure of underlings to do your bidding.

So I can only imagine his sinking heart this morning when he got an email from the ICC telling him that his team wasn’t welcome to come to our house to play cricket next year.

“It’s going to be one of those fucking days,” I can hear him say.

And for the rest of the morning, I’ll wager that he didn’t put his normal 100% into his genocide. I’ll bet that his heart wasn’t really in it when he continued to ensure his nation be shunned by the international community. That cricket dealy would be biting away at the back of his head.

But worse was to come. Just as he’s getting over that, a wee fax comes in from HRH, no less.

“Oi, Bob,” it read. “See how I gave you a knighthood back in 1994, some 14 years after you came to power following an election campaign marked by widespread intimidation, outright violence, and your threat to continue the civil war if you lost, and after you compared yourself with Hitler? Well, see that knighthood? I’ve been giving it a wee thunk or two and enough’s enough. I’m having it back, Sonny Jim. From now on, the only Honorary Sir Bob will be Geldof. And I’m having second thoughts about that one, too.”

Jesus Suffering Fuck.

I mean, what’s a despot dictator to do? Rethink his ways, that’s what. And quick. For who knows what tomorrow might bring? Perhaps a chinese burn from Wolf off of Gladiators? Or a particularly scathing comedy roasting from Jimmy Carr?

My mum was at a dinner where Ann Widdecombe was giving a speech — my mum’s at that age — and someone asked why we don’t follow the Iraq model and bomb the hell out of Mugabe and then hang him and record it on a mobile phone and post it on YouTube? You can see how that might make sense. But no, says Ann after she thought about why we went to war and why we said we went to war and why the two might not bare any resemblance to each other. That’s not the same thing, she said. You see, we thought Saddam had weapons of mass destruction. So sure were we, that we invented an acronym and everything. The fact that he didn’t have any and it quickly turned into regime change is by the by.

So it’s just as well we don’t think Mugabe’s got weapons that he’ll turn out not to have in the first place. Because if we did, even if it was just for one moment, we’d be in like Flynn to sort out the whole beggar’s banquet and we’d see how he liked them bananas. As it stands, we’ll have to make do with sending some spiteful letters and maybe spreading rumours about his mum.

I’ll do my best to keep this perspective in mind when confronted with more of my MS Office problems tomorrow. It could be worse, Gav. I could be Robert Mugabe KCB.

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