History is Over

There’s always one, isn’t there?

“It’s all about oil,” he goes, reassuring the regulars of The Cock and Pullet, “We want it, they’ve got it, deals are done, everybody’s happy.”

He’s right, nearly. TV News keeps us up to date, to the second, with the latest people’s revolution in, this time, the Middle East. Ordinary Arabs take to the streets armed with mobile phones, texting, texting and texting. Every scene has at least one group of women given a say, the real revolution in a world of men in charge. Intelligent, educated women provide well prepared sound bites. In the background student types nod in agreement. Some of the men, some of the older men, avoid complete endorsement of a woman’s point of view by giving the V sign and grinning. Of course, they don’t have the oil. Their rulers have the oil. Their rulers have the oil and they keep the money they sell it to us for and we look after it for them in our banks. It’s an international gang show.

We’re entertained, sure, and we have our opinions about foreign affairs, reinforced by the television news these days, our favoured source of information. We watch bespoke-tailored horrible men greet fulsomely robed horrifying men like the old friends they are, and we watch retired generals, civilised by Gieves and Hawkes, glad-hand uniformed despots like the old friends they are. The entourages mingle, men at ease, a meeting of like minds.

It has not yet percolated into the general male consciousness that our time has come. Everything changed with the revolution in Communication. Communication is democracy unlimited, and modern women are embracing Communication Technology and its wide possibilities with quiet determination. Look at them. Listen to them. They know. Men are fucked.