Here's something I penned a few days after Alberto Nisman was found dead last year.
Dear Cristina
Do you remember that glorious and happy day back in December 2007? Do you?
I do and I can’t forget how we watched you receive that stick from your husband as we sipped our Quilmes glued to the tiny TV screen in that little beach hut in Cariló. Oh how we envied you! From First Lady to president of a nation as if in some magical fairy tale; and did you look pretty, dressed in that lovely white suit? You were the belle of the ball and we all wanted that first dance with you.
But of course all honeymoons come to an end and soon enough those imperialist Yankees were pulling your chain and ruffling your wonderful auburn locks with talk of cash and suitcases. And what did you do? Quite rightly you gave them a good slapping and sent the US ambassador to Coventry where he belonged without any supper. All great leaders are tested in their first days in the hot seat my precious and if it hadn’t been for the loving support of Uncle Hugo, it could have been rather slippery.
Summer is a time for holidays of course and even your place in the world can’t last forever, so it’s back to the office only to find those pesky farmers in their 4 X 4’s moaning and groaning, banging silly pots and pans and holding up all the traffic. Lordy lordy, some people just have it so easy don’t they? But you stuck to your guns, whipped up those congressional wasters and threw down the gauntlet. Way to go lady! But you didn’t reckon on being stabbed in the back did you? Most of us don’t, so when that very nice fellow from Mendoza jumps ship, it’s really too much isn’t it, so you send him to Coventry too and he definitely doesn’t get a goodnight story for his bedtime.
Oh those were the days and since then it’s been one long roller coaster hasn’t it? Just when you think it’s safe to dip your perfectly manicured toes in the water, a nasty croc comes along and tries to savage you even after you’ve raided the piggy bank to give your money to those poor wretches with sixteen children, two goats and a truck.The cheek of it, to pile lie after lie upon your shoulders and accuse you of making off with all that loot too. I mean, a president’s got to eat hasn’t she? Yes she has, so to make amends you get some mates together and deliver a masterstroke of stealth and cunning and give back to the people what they always wanted back, but unfortunately you chose wrong and ended up with a string of petrol stations and a dead cow. But heck, you’re patient and those two little windswept sisters will one day come crawling back to mummy, just you wait and see and if ever you need a rock solid shoulder to lean on, they’re always going to be there aren’t they?
But those snappy crocs just won’t go away and before you can say International Monetary Fund you’re overrun with crazy ungrateful zombies marching outside your house making a God awful racket and setting the dogs off; those loony unions and their truckers bring the entire country, yes your country, to a grinding halt and then someone steals your lovely boat and won’t give it back until you fork out a few million and send it to some bloke in New York. The cheek of it!
It’s at times like this when you wish you were back on those sun kissed Seychelles beaches topping up your golden tan, sipping a Daiquiri and checking the piggy bank hasn’t been nicked since you last looked, but then that overweight, chain smoking beardy anarchist who ponces about the stage with a silly microphone goes and spoils it all and you have to get one of your mates to write him a strongly worded letter on live TV. Live TV no less! Reminds me of when I sent a similar letter to my bank manager; but would he listen? Heck no, your secret’s safe with me, so don’t worry love.
Time for a lie down in a darkened room for you my girl before those nasty vultures start a swooping and a snooping. God knows they’ve been up there long enough.
If only ‘Ten Guns’ Willy Brown were there to hold your hand and whisper sweet nothings in your ear right now. He doesn’t take any nonsense and really knows how to stick it to those sniveling, lying media types who’ll print anything for a buck or two. No sir, he doesn’t mess around, which is more than we can say for that long haired lover-boy and his bike. What is it with you and VP’s anyway my love? The first one shafts you and this one doesn’t know diddly and now he’s banged to rights, or soon will be if you hadn’t taken pity on the kid.
You see, it’s tough being surrounded by anarchists and backstabbers only to find that, worse than taking dumb questions from some equally dumb rich-kid Imperialist students in Harvard and some other place you can’t remember, some stinking arabs are actually after your blood. Yes! They want to kill you!
You, who have strived your entire and let’s face it, highly successful career, for the betterment of, well, mostly you actually. But let’s not digress. You’ve some hotels to attend to, a broken ankle, another lawsuit from some slime balls who want to steal your money and all you want to do is crawl into bed and cuddle your puppies and penguins.
But wait, who’s that knocking at the door in the middle of the night? Couldn’t they have Tweeted or Facebooked you for crying out loud? I mean, how utterly selfish some people are to interrupt your beauty sleep just to let you know that some pain in the arse attorney managed to top himself during the night? Yes, that bloke who reckoned you’d misbehaved with those rag heads in some Middle Eastern regime you’d rather forget and not a few hours hence was about to go striding off to the upper school and spill the beans to teacher on you for doing what comes naturally to a President, something no one ever seems to understand, namely playing with the big boys but not actually remembering everything because some neanderthals usually do that sort of thing for you. They will just keep bothering you with details won’t they and now they expect you to actually say something on live TV? With that ankle too?
Lord above, you haven’t trained those monkeys for nothing have you? Why can’t they just open their mouths when you tell them to? Or preferably not at all? And what’s that Ernie bloke or whatever his name is, doing by tramping about that posh apartment and looking for clues that you know will never be found. I thought you’d reeled him in anyway?
But no, they still want to see your face and hear your voice don’t they? It’s not enough that you’ve got a meal to prepare, pages to like, friends to tweet and hair to iron. They always want more, even when you told them you don’t do live TV during the holidays.Have they got no feelings at all? So why not curl up on the sofa with Simon puppy and Peter penguin and join your Facebook friends in the new game, Who Killed the Lawyer?
But wait, you already told your Facebook friends, teacher’s pets and anyone else who could read that the pesky attorney topped himself because he couldn’t cut it and it was best to kick the man when he was down just to make sure, so that’s you out of the game then.
Oh, what’s that? You’ve changed your mind? Already? Gosh, that was quick. So now you want to run with the hares and hunt with the hounds? Best to hedge your bets in case you end up on the wrong side? Well why not? Get it up on your homepage without even leaving your bed.It certainly seems a safer bet than facing a crowd of the great unwashed baying for blood, anyone’s blood. I mean, it could be yours they’re after, who knows?
Well, it’s been fun writing to you Cristina and before I go I’d like to leave you with some thoughts on a title for your much anticipated memoirs I wrote to you about. Remember that scumbag back in the olden days who washed his hands after passing sentence on a particularly decent fellow who was simply trying to enlighten us all and guide us towards the truth? Well I hope that jogs your memory and once you’ve washed your hands of this nasty little business you may be inclined to ponder on a title of this, your last chapter, at the very least.
