Dismiss this if you like as the churlishness of a Westerner who has lived many years in Quebec, but Justin Trudeau reminds me of a one-eyed inebriate playing whack-a-mole. On the rare occasions when he scores a clean hit, he celebrates by thumping himself in the head with the rubber mallet.
Last year, I overcame my nature-and-nurture revulsion toward the Trudeau name. Setting aside my reflexive loathing of Pierre Elliott Trudeau as a prime minister, I praised his son—despite the many sins of the father—for his immediate and pointed rejection of Quebec’s odious Charter of Values.
It stands true that as one of the first to object vehemently to the Charter’s illiberal nastiness, Trudeau fils was a catalyst for the ensuing opposition. At the time, I thought he had taken an intelligent and principled stand.
Turns out, it was much more like a lucky guess.