So now we are on to Libya

Gaddafi. What a character. He is something straight out of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel a la Autumn of the Patriarch. There is a great story written in The Independent by Robert Fisk. It seems that just weeks ago, our dear "coronel" was asking for a good doctor to give him a face lift. I guess he felt that he didn't look his best. Now he can look forward to exile and a good tan. I wonder if they have the correct hair dye where he is going. I loved his "I am still in Triploi" statement complete with umbrella and Lady Gaga sunglasses. That America supported this guy for so long is really an embarrassment for us all.  Here a taste of Fisk's wonderful writing:

So even the old, paranoid, crazed fox of Libya – the pallid, infantile, droop-cheeked dictator from Sirte, owner of his own female praetorian guard, author of the preposterous Green Book, who once announced he would ride to a Non-Aligned Movement summit in Belgrade on his white charger – is going to ground. Or gone. Last night, the man I first saw more than three decades ago, solemnly saluting a phalanx of black-uniformed frogmen as they flappered their way across the sulphur-hot tarmac of Green Square on a torrid night in Tripoli during a seven-hour military parade, appeared to be on the run at last, pursued – like the dictators of Tunis and Cairo – by his own furious people.

The YouTube and Facebook pictures told the story with a grainy, fuzzed reality, fantasy turned to fire and burning police stations in Benghazi and Tripoli, to corpses and angry, armed men, of a woman with a pistol leaning from a car door, of a crowd of students – were they readers of his literature? – breaking down a concrete replica of his ghastly book. Gunfire and flames and cellphone screams; quite an epitaph for a regime we all, from time to time, supported.

And here, just to lock our minds on to the brain of truly eccentric desire, is a true story. Only a few days ago, as Colonel Muammar Gaddafi faced the wrath of his own people, he met with an old Arab acquaintance and spent 20 minutes out of four hours asking him if he knew of a good surgeon to lift his face. This is – need I say it about this man? – a true story. The old boy looked bad, sagging face, bloated, simply "magnoon" (mad), a comedy actor who had turned to serious tragedy in his last days, desperate for the last make-up lady, the final knock on the theatre door.

Let's just hope that Saif goes away along with Daddy. And that we do not have to pay at the pumps.