I had never thought James McLeod to be one of the four
horsemen of the apocalypse. In last Saturday’s Telegram, he telegraphed just
the one responsible.
he called “Meet Uncle Gnarley: Muskrat Falls’ prolific doomsayer blogs in
turbulent times”. I had no idea that, after
just a few hours with him, McLeod would want to ‘cut and run’ — hightail it —
for the mainland!
Marine Atlantic Ferry, he left this advice:
of every man, woman and child in this province to do the same thing I’m doing:
pack up and move literally anywhere else. The province has a demographic
problem and a geographic problem. There are too many old people…
|Telegram James McLeod|
nearly a whole page, disavowing even the Telegram’s preoccupation with brevity
to Gnarley. And that’s the kiss of death. For nearly three hours, McLeod hung
on his every word; Gnarley was scaring the bejesus out of him. The interview seemed
long; but, actually, he left too soon. I guess he needed to book his ticket.
how the great man arrives at his great insights. Of course, he could not have
known that his destiny would be changed forever.
had condemned him to eke out an existence in Toronto which, notwithstanding our
formidable economic woes, holds none of the virtues of a place whose only
unencumbered asset is the East Coast Trail.
And speaking of encumbrances, evidently for James not even a
house in Dannyland constituted an oasis of suburban bliss — not even with
Mount Pearl nearby.
that someone seemingly so grounded would become unhinged — willing to forgo, in
the process, even the inevitable excursion to a far larger bastion of economic
decay: St. Brendan’s?
moments in which he discovered the truth of it all — as if given the clarity of
a Cheshire Cat, that “we’re all mad here”.
province; a tsunami of economic hardship and deficit spending is hitting the
province, and the Muskrat Falls project stands to make things dramatically
longer — even at the risk of Gnarley boring him to tears.
might have asked him whether the crowd at the Telegram told him about us.
have found out that, in Newfoundland, no one ever leaves a party before the
fight breaks out!
over down here. For crying out loud, didn’t he realize that he’s a reporter,
not a banker? And, anyway, why would someone so young and bright want to leave here?
overwhelmed by savvy reporters besting him with breaking stories. Sure, the few
that are here can’t be dragged away from potholes, snow drifts or that most
favoured — and most ubiquitous — gig in the news business: Chase the Ace.
CBC. Trivialities are not his schtick. But
even that crowd is smart enough to know that nothing gets resolved here until
we have one Jesus-ly row.
wanted to declare bankruptcy a few years ago just because two Quakers missed
the church collection plate! NL is coming off a party that cost mega-billions —
enough even to cause watery eyes on Bay Street.
the ability to string three sentences together will be in higher demand than Mike
Wangersky warn him? And if not them, surely that old scoundrel Bob Wakeham could have ‘sot’
him down with a bottle of Jockey Club rather than put the whole goddam works on
are the ones who wouldn’t leave in the ‘60s when unemployment was well over 20%,
wouldn’t leave in the ‘70s after the cod moratorium, wouldn’t leave in the ‘80s
or the ‘90s…
son to come home, they were afraid to because they’d be eaten alive if they put
one foot back across the Gulf.
No, by Christ, and if the bondholders on Bay Street think they’re going to get
more than 10 cents on the dollar after we’re finished with Danny Williams, Ed Martin
and Gilbert Bennett, we’ll save a few bruises for them, too.