Eagle eyed, sayyid-turbanned, courageous without a doubt for standing up to the Peacock Pahlavi, swirled around by akhunds and civilians alike, he bad a rich bazaari remove a gold ring before he would speak with him.

The centre had moved from Persepolis to Qum, maintaining initially powerful personal persian rule: ministers without ministerial buildings came to be ministered to, leaving with their oral instructions, without paperwork, on trust.

But short was the time before the man of finance had found his building and brandished triumphantly his gold visa card to the two emissaries from the west who had showed him the freshly minted gold and silver dinars and dirhams.

And silent was the response to the other delegation from the west who delivered by hand to the eagle eyed, turbanned one a missive explained the manifest proximity of likeness between the seizing of the hostages from the great shaytan’s embassy in Tehran and the hostage taking of Bin Yamin in the story of Yusuf, on whom be peace and blessings: both sought the father.

So it came to pass that the great shaytan father across the waters refused recognition and in defiance a mirror-parliament was set up in a mirror-frame of demokracy with mirror-fiat-chits.

The inqilaab, the revolution, had turned full turn. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.