By FIONA McCADE
WATCHING George Bush getting his wrist slapped by the Pope reminded me of something, but at first I couldn’t place it. What was it about the way he gazed at the ceiling while he was being told off about Iraq? Why was there something so familiar about the aimless gawping around, teeth-sucking, shoe-shuffling and general discomfort?
I was just deciding whether Dubya was humming Papa Don’t Preach to himself, or simply repeating the mantra “Get the Catholic vote … get the Catholic vote …” when I remembered. Of course! Mantra! I’d seen almost identical behaviour the day before, during the Dalai Lama’s audience at the Usher Hall.
Before I go on, I must confess that, although I think Buddhism is a Good Thing, I’ve got a long walk along the path to enlightenment before I’ll be bumping into any lamas. When a friend suggested we go and see her spiritual leader speak, I jumped up and down, yelling: “Get the best seats! Right at the front! I don’t want anyone else getting between me and the man!” After she’d finished shuddering, she told me I must accept and trust that whatever seat I got would depend upon what was best for my karmic development. And how much I was prepared to pay, obviously. So, last Thursday afternoon – praise Buddha – I found myself in an excellent seat, reassuringly near the front. My friend had asked me to stop singing, “got myself a crying, talking, sleeping, walking Living God”, on the basis that the Dalai Lama is a man and a monk, nothing more, nothing less, and my explanation of, “but he satisfies my soul”, fell on deaf ears. So I sat quietly, absorbing the atmosphere – which was when I noticed her.
Sitting in front of me, her expensive hairdo interfering with my precious view of the stage, was the gleaming epitome of western womanhood. Let’s call her Ms West. She was immaculate. Sculpted. More made-up than the Beckhams’ marriage and with a tan to make David Dickinson weep. Heels too high, dress too small, boobs too big: the Stepford Wife in all her glory, with an attitude to match.
Ms West shifted uneasily, sighed heavily and walked out twice while we all prayed for peace. She dashed back when the star attraction appeared, clapping because everybody else was. When he began to speak, she rummaged around in her handbag a while, and when we all laughed at one of his jokes, she looked wide-eyed at her escort and whispered to him for an explanation.
Behind her, World War Three was brewing. I couldn’t see for her big head; I couldn’t hear when she was exhaling, shuffling or sucking the lipstick off her teeth and I couldn’t concentrate when she started lolling about, apparently examining the architectural details of the auditorium. Why the hell was she there? I fumed. Was it because this was the happening place to be? The biggest audience for her ridiculously short frock? She was blatantly ignoring one of the world’s wisest men, so was she deliberately providing a flamboyant expression of everything the man on stage had rejected? Or was she simply trying to drive me mad? I began to think of ways to kill her.
Which is when I stumbled on to my path of enlightenment. As I debated whether a gun fired at such short range would actually decapitate her, or just leave the head dangling, I heard the Dalai Lama say: “Violence – and the results of violence – is always so unpredictable. So it’s best to avoid it.” True. Plus, I would have got unsightly splattering on my clean top. Thankfully, I was chastened by an environment where persecution and destruction are never options. The Dalai Lama saved at least one life last week.
Perhaps Mr Wild West might take more notice of the Dalai Lama than he did of the Pope, but I doubt it. Catholicism is a good religion by which to be reprimanded, because, if you play by the rules, you’ll always be forgiven. On the other hand, Buddhism’s karmic wheel might mean that, for his sins, Dubya could come back as a monkey next lifetime around. However, given the history of the United States, there’s no reason why that should prevent him becoming president again.
