I AM NOT PERSONALLY PARTICULARLY ENAMOURED of the glum Australian whistleblower Julian Paul Assange, and, frankly, neither are you. One of the reasons for this is that I feel such a childish idiot when using the slightly smutty name of his website organisation. However, it is impossible to ignore the enormous benefits to the wider world of his journalistic activity. Since 2006 he has quite rightly been the recipient of fame, notoriety and the occasional international award for his brave stance unmasking illegal killings in Kenya, illegal nuclear waste dumping in Africa, the ludicrous scam known as the Church of Scientology (Misellus Fantasiatomcruisensis to give it its medical name), international bank robberies (by international banks) and misuse of power by the Western Alliance government in two wars and in its dealing with the prisoners thereof.
TO SUGGEST HE HAS AN AGENDA against the United States in particular would thus be paranoia; to suggest that anyone can rape a Swedish woman in her house in her own bed, at three in the morning, after having had sex with her once “just after midnight”, and while she was asleep, seems, at least on a cursory reading, far-fetched, although I would plump for the term “impossible” if I were forced into coming up with an adjective.
I HAVE NO WISH TO INDULGE in national stereotypes, so I will resist the temptation to here cite one of the many “What happened when the Australian man met the Swedish girl?” jokes, which usually end with the punch line of the girl saying things like “I do now, you smooth-talking bastard” or “nine is my lucky number”, jokes which are as unfunny as they are insulting to Swedish women everywhere, but I can think of at least five reasons why this woman’s allegation smells fishy.
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