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The scales have fallen from my eyes. Trump is useless. Netanyahu is daddy now

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who salutes her mortgage going up

TRUMP? Yesterday’s alpha. When it came to sacrificing the world economy on the white-hot altar of war, he pussied out. Not like my Benjamin. 

‘We eliminated all the military targets on Kharg Island,’ for God’s sake. And you stopped there? You left the refineries, the people, the trees standing? Call that a war? 

I was delighted with Trump at first. Launching a war with no hint of a casus belli during peace talks? Now that’s the element of surprise. Sinking a ship and leaving the survivors to drown? We could use that in the Channel. 

In recent days, however, he shows every sign of his bloodlust being sated with Iran not half done. Ready to walk away for better ratings before we’ve even turned two major wars into a continent-spanning conflagration. 

But Benjy? He’s up for it. The military targets are just the start. He’ll take out the oil, the gas, the water, all transport, communications, political authority and food supplies until ordinary Iranians rise up to demand an Israeli-friendly government. 

Anyone else would be consumed by a major war against Lebanon. To Big Ben it’s a side chick. He’s waited decades to hammer Iran into dust. He’ll block the Strait of Hormuz with wrecked oil tankers then set it alight, his jubilant grin illuminated by dancing flames. 

So sit down, Donny. You were useful. But as Man United fans sing, Netanyahu’s at the wheel. Your job is to provide all the weaponry, ships, men and money he needs to prosecute his forever war. 

And while he does? Lets loose that unrepentant desire to ruin every neighbour and rule, unopposed, a whole region? Don’t mind me if I strum myself off.

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We fulfilled our marital vows five times in one evening: The wholesome bodice-ripping yarns of a tradwife

By Emma Buckley-Hough, quite dizzy with the spendings

I IMAGINED that honouring your marital commitments multiple times in a single evening was a lurid fantasy confined to correspondence to the parish newsletter. How wrong I was.

As a tradwife, I live by certain ethical standards. I obey my husband in everything, I don’t have a bank account, and I’ve forgone my needless right to vote. Leaving me more time to concentrate on my wedding vows.

The vows exchanged between my husband/owner and myself dispensed with modern trends of personalisation. There was no humour in our sacred commitments, nor any risible concessions to my needs as a woman. If 1662 didn’t need it, why would we?

No, we stuck to the traditional setlist of sickness, health, richer or poorer. Our only deviation to modern tendencies was the pre-nup. In the event of divorce he gets all the livestock and I get tarred and feathered.

But voluntarily choosing to live like a peasant doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know most couples only fulfil their marriage vows during their honeymoon, before tapering off and replacing them with glamorous office affairs.

We were no exception. On our wedding night I kept my vow to love and honour with enthusiasm enough to crack an oaken headboard. But as the years went and I bore six children, our wanton matrimonial lusts cooled deplorably.

I blamed myself. Because my vagina is my wifely function, I’d been throwing myself at him wearing the raciest garters my monthly allowance could afford. Far too sexually harrying. I was essentially being a nagging shrew, but with my fanny.

I practiced forbearance. But my husband’s superior mind, incomprehensible to my meagre facilities, meant after a day or two of abstinence he was again full of lust, even unto bending me over my churn. I daresay it helped the butter.

Delightful it is for our marriage to be back in bloom and for me to be taken firmly in hand. He’s hinting at booking me for a course of electroshock therapy to cure my nymphomania, and we couldn’t be happier.

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