Too High a Price
Few sins are less forgivable than denying a British prime minister the chance for a bit of wog-bombing, and the late Head Boy has certainly never pardoned the Milibeing for requesting a bit of forethought three years ago. Thanks largely to his own laziness and complacency over whipping up his vote, the Head Boy lost his chance at inscribing his name in the rolls of history as the brave little piggie who turned Syria into another Libya, or even another Iraq. Since the brave little piggie has better things to do these days than play the bully in the Commons, his slimy little henchman has been wagging the finger instead. If you don't wog-bomb for yourself, others will wog-bomb for you, was the refrain; the unruly Arabs stood in need of Anglo-American leadership, but now the late Head Boy's seventy thousand jihadi for fair play and British values have been scoffed by the Russian bear, and the usual happy outcome of wog-bombing by the right sort of people has been sacrificed on the altar of appeasement. The price of intervention is well-known; the price of non-intervention is that the wogs get bombed anyway, but by people whose weapons hurt more because their use means that the children of British arms dealers go hungry to bed.