The photo (above) depicts [Canadian prime Minister] Trudeau at an “Arabian Nights”-themed gala event, clad in an elaborate turban and robe, his face, hands and neck covered in dark makeup – a breathtaking contradiction to the prime minister’s carefully cultivated image as a standard-bearer for Canadian diversity.
“It was a dumb thing to do,” he said during an emergency news conference on board the Liberal campaign plane before taking off for Winnipeg.
“I’m disappointed in myself, I’m pissed off at myself for having done it. I wish I hadn’t done it, but I did it, and I apologize for it.”
Asked whether it was the only instance of its kind, Trudeau admitted that during a high school talent show (top), he wore makeup while performing a version of Harry Belafonte’s “Banana Boat Song (Day-O),” although he didn’t explicitly say the makeup was dark.
The Guardian documents the recent downfall of Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau (top left with Taoiseach Leo Varadkar at Farmleigh in 2017).
The ‘wacky hosiery’-promoting premier has been fighting claims by his former attorney general that his advisers improperly pressured her to prevent the prosecution of a Canada-based firm over paying alleged bribes in Libya.
These included $30,000 for prostitutes for Muammar Gaddafi’s sons.
Prime Minister of Canada Justin Trudeau and his wife Sophie Gregoire Trudeau are greeted by Taoiseach Leo Varadkar TD as they arrive at Dublin Castle for the Official Dinner last night.
Cometh the rubbish haircuts firing tweets and ICBMs;
the people with bad teeth daring belch their opinions in public.
Cometh also the Warren Beatty of the North,
sans the wrinkles and heavy politics, bearing
to the sisterhood of the stuffed vine leaf
and gourmet sausage
ribbon-wrapped boxes labelled ‘hope’,
‘moderation’, and ‘free trade’;
your tongue’s delicious wiggling
persuading even Lycra clad
husbands to put bikes and running shoes aside
a moment and join the ravenous pack of dangerous
sensibilists in drizzling a tribute
of garlic butter all over
your French speaking torso.
Your hair, a field of wheat that reminds
soon-to-be-ex Prime Ministers
of better times.
Your words, as gorgeously proportional
as the gossip from the ladies’ golf-club,
float off towards the sun. Kevin Higgins