The Florence Hawk effect

I took part in a pro-war demonstration the other day.

It was fun.

Instead of lighting candles, we lit firecrackers.

Instead of wearing khaki combat trousers fashionably, we wore them in earnest.

But here’s the thing: overall, the protest was far more peaceful than the peace protests. Not a single McDonald’s or Starbucks outlet was trashed. There was no fighting with the police. There were no fists being angrily punched in the air, and no banners with iron fists clasped tightly demanding solidarity, or else.

In fact, I don’t think I saw a single fist all morning.

There was no Radiohead soundtrack about the walls closing in on us, man, and how we were all getting *!#*#! by corporations. There were no poetry readings about how the big *!#*? were out and were going to *!*! us all.

Everyone was very polite. We smoked Cubans, we talked sports, we held doors open for ladies.

No-one burnt the Star-Spangled Banner. No one screamed into a microphone about smashing anything, machinery or otherwise. There was zero talk of revolution. No-one was dressed as a suicide bomber.

We just quietly went about our business, demanding an end to all peace, encouraging the Pentagon to take care of the rest of the evil axis. Our slogan, “One Down, Two to Go!” turned a few dreaded heads, but we were not to be put off.

Some call us naive. They say we are too united and organised a group of individuals, without enough conflicting interests or spirit of the medieval carnival. Oh sure, they say, you know what you are for, but what are you people against? What is your “anti-”?

The charge against us is a strong one. Perhaps, as yet, there is no “us”. Perhaps we are still finding our tennis shoed and loafered feet. Perhaps we have not yet fully defined what our “anti” is.

But every global movement has to start somewhere. Our core values are strong. We think nice things need defending – nice things like liberty, democracy and Krispy Kreme donuts.

You might call us the neo-peaceniks. Our aim is universal peace. Our means are military.

In other words, a world at peace is not a world without war, it is a world where there is no longer a need for war.

Bad regimes – goodbye. Terrorists – adios. Tyrants who think they can hold the world to ransom – good riddance, suckers.

Cynical? Maybe. Think of it as the Colonel Bogey school of international relations – Bogey, as in Humphrey Bogart. “I never knew a broad who didn’t understand a slap in the face or a slug from a .45,” said everyone’s favourite private dick.

Swap “tyrant” or “terrorist” for “broad”, and bingo – there’s our motto!

It’s a nasty job, but someone’s got to do it. Tough streets need tough guys.

It’s a cruel world out there, sweetheart, full of dodgy beards lurking in the shadows. Angels ain’t gonna get the job done. To get the bad guys, you sometimes gotta use a few dirty methods.

You want to rely on committees, on bureaucrats? Go ahead. See where it gets you. We work alone, and that’s the way we like it.

We’re like superheroes. We know that to catch the bad guy some fists have gotta fly. We know our enemy won’t crumble just because you asked him nicely to please start behaving himself. There’s no play in trying to get his sidekicks to turn against him, either. And his victims? They need help, not empty statements of support.

Get real.

Bogey once said, “Listen, when I slap you, you’ll take it and like it.” This is the basis of an entire foreign policy.

Let’s call it the “Florence Hawk effect”.

After we’ve bombed and liberated them, our patients will fall in love with us. They’ll admire our toughness, our steely determination, our seeming cold-heartedness. Our matron-like bedside manner will get them up and on their feet in no time, and they’ll say, ‘Boy, that Florence Hawk! She was one tough dame, but did she mend things! God bless that broad!”

And as for you – well, you might like to pretend you disapprove of our methods, but, let’s face it, you’re glad we’re out there, doing the dirty work you’d rather not think about, making the streets safe so that you can sleep at night.

Sure, in public you make a big display of how much you disapprove of our immoral practices. But in private ... well, don’t pretend you don’t find us a little bit attractive.

Oh sure, you want to keep up appearances – on the diplomatic circuit, you may strut around arm-in-arm with Jacques Ch’Iraq, take a few spins with the card on the dance floor. But deep down, you know that French phoney is all mouche and no pantalons.

After the ball, who do you dream about Cinderella? It’s us, isn’t it? Us real men out on the mean streets, fighting crime, not resting until you can sleep your pretty little head down on your fluffy pillow. You may not like our methods. We may wear dirty vests instead of top hats and tails, polo shirts instead of tie-dyed rags. But trust me, you’re glad we’re out there, filling the bad guys full of lead.

And we can, see? You wanna know why? Because we talk the language of the street, the language of the bad guys. Out there, in the real world, nobody talks like a UN mandate. In the real world, it’s kill or be killed.

Fire must be fought with fire, not with open-toed sandals, ethnic jewellery, or banquets at the Grand Palais with stuffed goose neck on the menu.

The bad guys will only respect you if you’re tougher than they are, if you can draw faster than them in a straight shoot-out. You gotta teach them a lesson they understand.

I know many of my readers won’t want to hear this. I know many of my readers will think I’m showing a shocking disregard for the sovereignty of Saddam’s Iraq, Kim’s Korea and Osama’s caves. I know I can expect the usual amount of hate mail to land on my desk this week, plus some.

But the truth must triumph, whatever the cost to openDemocracy.

And the truth is this: [blah blah blah. copy to follow. definition of the truth to go in here. This bit needs more work – Eds.]