Sirte has fallen; the last remnant of the old regime is smashed and the tyrant Gaddafi is dead! Truly, nobody in these isles could be happier than I am to see the evil old bastard gone - I had a tenner bet on him not making it to Christmas. Ker-ching!
Oh, what a joy it's been this afternoon, to watch the unbridled delight and celebration; the exultation, the sheer ecstasy as an entire country united and, with one voice, announced on Twitter that they had finally remembered that Libya exists, after months of talking loudly about anything else.
I urge each and every one of you to watch as much coverage of events in Libya as you can over the next two days, because once the celebrations are over, Godzilla Himself could rise roaring from the Mediterranean and take a giant, radioactive shit in the middle of Martyr's Square without the British media giving it more than a nod.
I mean, it's been a bizarre war, if you were lucky enough to follow it from the security and comfort of the United Kingdom. Talking about our Libya adventure in Britain this year has been a bit like trying to carry on a relationship with a resentful and heavy-drinking lover - sudden, unexpected outbursts of blazing passion punctuating great yawning months filled with nothing but angry silence and the occasional dirty look or sulky tut.
And what a blaze of passion we've had today! Personally, I found initial reports that Colonel Gaddafi had been summarily executed by the Libyan rebels hard to believe. After all, the man may have been a murderer, a thug and a gangster, but he wasn't black.
And so, Gaddafi died as he lived - with the officially-denied complicity of the British government*. It's unfortunate that he wasn't captured alive, in the end. I think everyone would've enjoyed seeing him get his just desserts in the new government's courts. That's assuming that he would've survived getting his just desserts in the new government's prisons, of course.
Even now, I struggle to believe that the prancing old fleabag is dead. I won't fully credit it until Gaddafi himself makes a rambling, two-hour speech on radio, incoherently denying his own extinction and urging his bajillion-strong army of followers to avenge him.
Of course, there are those who grumble that all these pictures of the splattered dictator are ghoulish and inappropriate, and that celebrating a man being beaten and executed is distasteful. I say, thank God we were so lucky. Given Nato's conduct over the last few weeks, I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd nuked Gaddafi's hiding place from outer space.
Anyway, what a war it's been. It was full of ironies - who can fail to forget William Hague and David Cameron calmly insisting that we weren't trying to rub out Gaddafi and his family while we were bombing his compound with high explosives, and while Liam Fox was simultaneously telling the press that we actually were trying to rub out Gaddafi? Precious.
I think my favourite part was the bit when Britain went to the United Nations to seek permission for a preventative No-Fly Zone over the country, and mysteriously emerged with a mandate to smash fuck out of whoever and whatever we liked, providing we sort-of pretended that we were "protecting civilians" while we did it.
Thus did we get the final orgy of violence, destruction, mayhem and humanitarian civilian protection that was the assault on Sirte, during which Nato helped the NTC to protect seven shades of shit out of the city and what remained of its populace. Watching the pictures of a bombed-out Sirte on TV, you can see how we protected that place to fucking rubble, house-by-house. Now, what does that remind me of?
Well. More cynical voices than mine will say that our noble intervention in Libya has led to a death toll that outstrips even the worst of the Arab Spring crackdowns by a factor of at least ten; that our undoubtedly sincere intentions were not entirely selfless in nature, and that the whole thing may just reek more of a hitjob than a humanitarian enterprise**.
Pish and tush, say I. If nothing else, our government's relentless honesty and transparency in explaining its motives and methods prove that their behaviour is entirely beyond reproach, and.... No, actually, fuck it. Even my sarcastic superpowers have limits.
Anyway, let's all sit back and enjoy this small moment of happiness for the Libyan people, after long years of grinding misery and repression. After all, there's nothing we in the west enjoy more than TV footage of Arabs celebrating deaths, right?
Let's just hope that, after all this horror, tyranny and violence, the Libyan people can now enjoy a bright, liberal democratic future. Really, we might as well because, if they wind up getting more horror, tyranny and violence, it isn't like we'll be hearing about it with any great frequency.
Up the revolution! Hey, has anyone seen that Musa Kusa lately?
*This joke copyright Justin McKeating, 2011
**I've been asked today whether I think that this victorious outcome will embolden Britain's countless war-happy interventionists, to which I can only say - guys, Gaddafi could've won and been crowned Supreme Emperor Dalek Of All North Africa, and it wouldn't deter those crazy motherfuckers one bit.