The lefties are in spasmic thrall this Thursday. No really, I had to step over two rolling around in road on Glentworth Street on the way to work this morning. They were sweating, eating their own fists and hurling curses at an invisible form of Ariel Sharon.
Their hero Robert Fisk is in town, and will be speaking at UL this evening.
I've never really known what to make of Dear Robert. He's as frustratingly layered as a wedding cake. Some parts go down well, like sweet, sweet vanilla, and others cause you to dry wretch and throw plates in disgust at an increasingly distraught bridegroom.
During my hedonistic UL days studying an Arts degree - *cough, splurt* - I spent a lot of time (too much?) with overbearing lefties and smelly socialists who groomed themselves once every lunar eclipse. They liked Robert, but I didn't really like them. As such, Fisk became tarred by association.
Children can be so cruel, I know.
But when my inner fool took me and I decided that I wanted to become a journalist, I started to read, and it wasn't long before I wandered across 'Pity the Nation: Lebanon at War'. That set me off, and before long I was buying the London Indo and piecing together as clear a picture as I could about this perplexing preacher of a writer.
Four years later, and I'm still confused.
He writes with such detail! Such agonising emotion! So why do I want to hit him? Why is he never, ever happy? In the morning Israel could hand back the Golan Heights, leave the West Bank, lift the blockade of Gaza, bend over on all fours and start whimpering like a King Charles and I think he'd still find cause to complain.
America elects a centre-left intellectual to undo the crimes of the Bush years. Is Robert happy? No.
But at the same time, Fisk has been a constant check on human rights abuses, political corruption and Western indifference in the Middle East. He has bravely lead the line in the search for truth in God's country.
The Board is looking forward to being able sit in the audience this evening and try and figure out what the hell is going on.
If you're there, look for the tall chap slouched in his seat, furiously rubbing his head in a vain attempt to understand.
I may or may not say hello.