The Secret Blog of Patrick Manning

Seems I’ve achieved what I set out to do here. Or perhaps I’ve failed miserably. It was fun while it lasted.

Writing this from the men’s room at Balisier House, where I’m hiding out from the throngs celebrating outside and also from former Minister Sahadeo, who’s been on my case all evening, obviously trying to secure another cabinet post when we form the new government. Fortunately Hazel has been swigging Riunite all evening so hasn’t noticed a thing.

Thank God this is a secret blog where I express my inner thoughts for the benefit of myself alone, and not a public forum, because if people had been expecting me to make any of my usual profound statements this evening they’d be severely disappointed.

Hazel and I just looked at my elections’ eve address on television, which was followed by a presentation by the Elections and Boundaries Commission’s Chairman, Norbert Masson, reminding voters about the procedures they need to follow at the polls tomorrow. Hazel said she found Masson’s address more compelling than mine. I let it go, as she’s been in a grumpy mood all day, and it wouldn’t do for her to be looking sour when the press photographers take pictures of us leaving the polling station tomorrow.

Earlier this afternoon I found her weeping in the bedroom. I tried to comfort her with stories of our future days in the mansion and even offered to go and get her oestrogen pills. She eventually revealed she was crying was because Imran Khan has been taken into custody in Pakistan. What is it with these Indians (and yes, I know Khan isn’t technically Indian, but that’s only because of Partition), always trying to put a spoke in Patos’s wheel?

Trying to get an early night tonight in preparation for the big day tomorrow.

Should I sue myself?

With the election only four days away, I haven’t had a moment to myself these past few. There’s been more traffic in and out of my office than City Gate at rush hour (was about to say “than the Churchill-Roosevelt Highway at rush hour”, but at rush hour nothing moves on the CRH, either in or out).

The group from Sea Lots who blocked Dookeran on his walkabout the other day came to my office this morning to collect their money. I asked whether the one who had made the kidnap threat to Dooks was among them, and a fella with several scars and no front teeth (and few in the back either) proudly stepped forward. I told him to try and be more careful in the future about the things he said, especially to political figures, but that he’d be receiving $50 extra for his valour. This caused some consternation among the other members of the group, and I ended up having to give them all $50 extra and three bottles of Angostura 1824 from the secret stash in my office. [Read more →]

Clearing my desk this evening, I found a copy of the note I wrote to Nelson Mandela just prior to the visit to South Africa by those two scamps:

Dear Nelson,

Let me begin by apologising again for that disastrous event we held in your honour at the Queen’s Park Oval when you visited in 2004 (though it wasn’t our fault that it rained - next time visit in the dry season). But at least you acheived on that trip what you had set out to do: namely, to seal South Africa’s bid to host the World Cup in 2010.

Speaking of that bid, you will certainly recall that during your Caribbean sojourn, at the CONCACAF Congress in Grenada, you dealt with an individual named Austin “Jack” Warner. He was the one whose name was marked on the fat, sealed envelope Thabo Mbeki gave you to deliver–the same envelope Thabo told you contained promotional brochures (which just happened to be the same shape and size as South African rands), but which he advised you nevertheless to conceal in a secret compartment in your suitcase. [Read more →]

I admit it: my son David has a place in Germany. But he did not acquire it in the manner Ramesh claims. In fact, Hazel and I had no idea David owned property until last week, when he e-mailed us the image above. He says he won the house last year in a World Cup betting pool. It’s gratifying to know that at least one of my sons is good at gambling.

Swamped with phone calls and visits today, mainly from people claiming to be in possession of photographs of houses owned by senior members of the opposition parties, including one of Dookeran lounging poolside at a mansion in Malibu, California and another of Jack Warner standing in front of the Pyramid of Khufu waving a bunch of house keys. Even if I thought the first one was genuine, I’d be very hesitant to look at it as I understand the Dookeran body double isn’t wearing a shirt. The second merely confirms rumours I’ve already heard about Jack Warner and Egypt’s World Cup 2010 bid: apparently Jack rejected the offer of a pyramid after glimpsing a mummy with a face resembling Andrew Jennings’s inside.

In other news, Narace spoke with Sizzla, but says he couldn’t understand a word the reggae star said. He’s since recruited an interpreter from Morvant and will be speaking to the dancehall luminary again this evening.

Also attended another emergency meeting at Balisier House to discuss the matter of the the PNM candidate for Laventille and his alleged tussle with a police officer. Turns out that the two were fighting over which of them had the more ridiculous name.

It was only a matter of time before my love of Indian delicacies and my ignorance of dancehall reggae would conspire to get me into serious trouble. I just received an irate call from a senior member of the PNM’s gay wing:

“Pah-tos, what is the meaning of all this???”

“The meaning of what, [name of senior member of gay wing]?”

“Outing us on your blog, first of all!”

“You got into my blog????”

Long faggoty steups on the other end of the line.

“Don’t play stupid with me, Pah-tos. We said we’d keep the wing a secret until after elections, seal the gay vote, then launch at the end of November with a massive drag ball at the new mansion. And now the talk is all over town.”

“It was that damn Panday and his homophobic comments that made me do it! I just couldn’t bear to see you bullers and your reputation dragged through the mud like that.” [Read more →]

Made several attempts to write here earlier today but kept getting interrupted by crank calls from Ken Valley and members of the PNM’s gay wing complaining about Panday’s latest slur against the homosexual community.

At a campaign meeting in the UNC stronghold of Barrackpore at the moment, locked inside one of the port-o-lets behind the stage (writing this on my Blackberry). Seems I’ve come down with the latest virus, which I understand they’re calling “the Patrick”. Had to dash to the toilet at least five times during this afternoon’s walkabout in the district. The worst attack arrived while I was kissing a baby. Fortunately the candidate for the area was standing next to me and managed to catch the child as I flung her into the air and fled into the bushes. Indian-baby blood isn’t something Patos needs on his hands right now.

Another emergency meeting this morning at Balisier House, this one to scan the records of the slate of PNM candidates once again for evidence of multiple bank accounts, dodgy aliases and disgruntled ex-spouses. We found nothing damning, though some of our candidates could do with a few “lifestyle adjustments”, shall we say.

Minister Sahadeo cornered me after the meeting to ask whether she’d be returning to her ministerial post after the PNM won the election. Luckily my phone rang just at that moment, and I used the opportunity to escape the premises through a back door.

It’s only a matter of time before Hazel asks the same question. For the first time in my life I’ve begun secretly wishing the PNM would lose. Maybe I am mentally imbalanced after all.

One of the most challenging aspects of contesting a general election is dealing with the parade of freaks, weirdos and left-field dwellers who darken the doorstep of one’s office daily (and this doesn’t include members of cabinet). As I sit here writing what my assistant believes is a letter to Ramesh Lawrence Maharaj telling him I’ve accepted his seven-day deadline for the enforcing of the Equal Opportunities Act (not!), sitting in the waiting room outside my office here at Whitehall are the following:

- a man claiming to be in possession of photos of Gillian Lucky breaking into and ransacking her own office (will at least look at the photos - even if they’re not genuine, they’re likely to be highly amusing)

- a woman claiming to be in possession of two cell phone videos of Oma Panday dancing at a passa passa event (will send her away - have several of those already)

- a woman holding a baby she claims is mine (have to see her or else it will look suspicious. Hoping the baby doesn’t have dimples)

- a woman holding a baby she says may be either Panday’s, Dookeran’s, Jack Warner’s or Kamla Persad-Bissesar’s (will refer this one directly to the mental outpatient unit at Port of Spain General and/or the Blind Welfare Association. But will still take a look at the child and maybe take a cell phone photo)

- Ken Valley (will call security)

Under normal circumstances the above would fill me with joy, but this morning I overheard Hazel telling somebody on the phone that she would “do Panday any day.” The day she says the same about Dooks I’m drinking gramoxone.

And whatever happened to good old rum and roti?

Hard to believe I haven’t written a word here in 10 days. Ten rotten days, I might add. I’d grown somewhat accustomed to using this space as a refuge of sorts, but lately my online life has proven to be almost as tumultuous as the offline version.

First there was that business of the broken computer. We solved this by buying Hazel her own laptop, on which she can now correspond with former Nigerian magnates and watch YouTube videos to her heart’s content. I also bought her a pair of Bose noise-cancelling headphones: there are just so many times a grown man can stand listening to “Dick in a Box“.

Just as I was settling down to enjoy exclusive use of the PM’s PC, however, I started receiving these mysterious and disturbing e-mails from a Google Group for overthrown dictators. At first I thought it was another prank from Valley, who’s been even more pissed off with me since he overheard me the other day at Balisier House describing him as “Ken “Wolfowitz” Valley”. But the Google Group material was of a higher order than the Photoshopped nonsense (my head on Robert Mugabe’s and Kim Jong-Il’s bodies, me with a Hitler moustache etc) Valley has been sending me. [Read more →]

Computer down again. The problem was traced this time to an e-mail from a Nigerian scam letter writer Hazel seems to have been corresponding with over the past several months. May take several days to fix.

Writing this from an internet café. Could the odd looks I’m getting be on account of the rasta wig and the fake moustache?