(From an unpublished memoir about living in Ottawa)
Justin Trudeau’s nanny, Isabelle LeCointee, used to take morning swims at a lonely beach at Meech Lake, about a 30 minutes drive from Ottawa on the Quebec side. When I met her she was done with raising the Trudeau boys and was living a quiet, semi-retired life. She became friends with my mother who was also an early morning swimming fanatic. I would accompany my mother for an icy swim at Meech Lake and we would dry off and then sit with the nanny Isabelle and hear her wild stories about the young Justin. She was basically Justins mother when Justin was between the ages of 9 and 13 (1981-1984). Justin’s real mother, Margaret, had abandoned her children and spent years sowing her wild oats in the States. In 1984 she returned to Ottawa to divorce Pierre Trudeau and immediately marry an Ottawa real estate broker. She gave birth to Justin’s half brother Kyle the same year while Justin was only 12. There is no doubt out Justin had abandonment issues. First mommy ditches him to have sex with strangers for years in another country, then she comes back, dumps his father and starts having babies with another man in another household in the same city as him.
Anyhow, nanny LeCointee described Justin as a terror with a wildly inflated ego, a bully and crybaby, who vacillated between being inconsolable and a miniature despot. His tantrums and rages were spectacular.
(It should be noted that Justin, as prime minister, has dragged his nanny Isabelle out of retirement and used her as a propaganda tool to justify the lavish spending of taxpayers dollars on himself. In this clip she tells CTV News that Trudeau was right to abandon campaign promises and hire a bevy of nannies to raise his children, despite his wife being a full time mom. ctvnews.ca/video?clipId=761562)
So, Justin Trudeau as a child threw tantrums and made impossible demands on his overworked nanny. He abused her to take out his anger and heartbreak due to his absentee, promiscuous mother. Justin's father, Pierre, was a cold disciplinarian and made a poor substitute for a mother. As a consequence, Justin developed an inflated ego and became extremely narcissistic. As a young adult, he attracted the kind of slimy male companions, also born with silver spoons in their mouths, who were spellbound by inherited power and unearned privilege. Justin would put these useless idiots in positions of power in the future. Those around Justin allowed his pathology to flower because of his family name, Trudeau. Justin, always a poor student (reportedly having to repeat grade seven with in IQ around 90) and slow learner, was thrown into the world with penchant for narcissistic exaggeration, always imagining himself someone of high status, someone worthy of the love and attention he never got from his parents. He had the money to play Mr. Dressup and be professionally photographed in a vast number of get ups. It was the behaviour of a conceited, eccentric member of a royal family or perhaps a rich family who indulged a slightly retarded, completely useless child.
Wyatt Lee
In the real world Trudeau could not find work to match his ego. He took three years and changed schools twice to get a one year teaching certificate. He settled for a variety of low tier jobs where he could be flamboyant and play the handsome prince. Because of his connections he got away with anything and everything, including wearing full minstrel black face (including black arms, black legs, black hands and even black feet) “more times then I can remember”. You can see him posing as a black faced genie or some shit while he shamelessly gropes several women whose smiles appear embarrassed. He is Mr. Handsy. Blackface was never socially acceptable in Canada at any time or in any group or class of people. Trudeau habitually playing the minstrel in public was a clear sign of a grossly insensitive, provincial, amoral brat or an outright idiot. Trudeau’s ego is such that he sees everyone as in his dominion. We are all playthings in Trudeau’s little playroom. He’s like a moose in a China shop recklessly breaking things and hurting everyone. He makes a mess of everything then acts like the maid will clean it all up in the morning.
When he first met his wife Sophie he decided that he would marry her. He didn’t bother to tell her or even ask her. She was expected to wait around for years while he had his adventures as a rich spoiled brat, hoping she’d get lucky with him, later. Justin openly brags about this like she were a beach he might surf some time later.
Asher Martinez
His “part time drama teacher” gig was, in fact, simply being lowly support staff at a Quebec high school. When his father died Justin ended up having sex with one of his underage students (rumoured to be as young as 13) as part of his “grieving process”. That grieving process cost his family 2.5 million dollars to buy the girls permanent silence.
His mother eventually returned home after banging every grade A, B and C actor who would have her in the States. She snorted enough coke to keep Columbia busy at New York's disco Studio 54. Plus, she was bonkers, reportedly climbing up a brick wall with her bare hands to get revenge on actor Ryan O'Neil. After wearing herself out for years as the slutty wife of a world leader, she remarried in Ottawa and birthed another son. Justin now had dominion over his mother and ordered her to keep her mouth shut. For her obedience he would shower her with dirty money and bogus positions after he became Prime Minister.
Ottawa is a small town and everyone runs into the Trudeau’s eventually. In my life in Ottawa I ran into Justin Trudeau's mother Margaret twice. Once, when I was a high school senior, (1974). I came out of the then National Gallery on Elgin Street where I'd just seen some show. Outside, there were the usual collection of dirty hippies hanging around the front. Ottawa was awash in hippies in 1974. Sitting alone, huffing on a cigarette , looking pissed off, was Margaret Trudeau. She was indistinguishable from a common hooker. She wore disco red “hot pants” and a revealing ruffled blouse. She was caked in makeup, especially around the eyes. She wore fake eyelashes and an ungodly amount of black eyeliner. She sported a goofy disco perm of curly hair that looked like a bad wig. She was instantly recognizable. Somewhere, beneath her awful getup, was an attractive woman. Because I was an insufferable asshole at the time, I said out loud “Look everyone, a celebrity!” Margaret pretended not to hear me but she winced. A few people chuckled but my crude joke drew the attention of a large, beer bellied biker standing nearby. He came up to me and spit out from his fat, ugly bearded face “Not cool man!” I decided against insulting him because he was kind of terrifying so I turned away. “Have some respect” he yelled as I walked away. When I turned to look he was approaching Margaret as if to get a reward. Margaret looked appalled and ignored him. Canada, may I remind you, is full of hosers. I’m sure Margaret couldn’t wait to escape.
Jaxson White
My second run in with Margaret Trudeau was many years later. She was done banging rock stars and movie stars and I was done travelling the world wherein I'd learned to despise hippies and learned to love farmers. I attended a gallery show of Pierre Trudeau's personal photographer in a little gallery on the outskirts of Ottawa. I was there as a fan of the photographer and Margaret was there as Pierre's widow. Margaret was in some of the pictures, one of which I bought, which featured her in a home made, Salvation Army dress on the arm of Pierre. In the photo they seemed enraptured with each other. Anyhow, one of the framed photographs fell, shattering the glass covering a picture of Margaret and Pierre. Attendants went to pick up the damaged frame but Margaret intervened. She insisted they hang the damaged photo with the broken glass back on the wall because of “symbolism” or some horse shit. She had no authority to do anything except pick out a pickle on a toothpick and a glass of wine. But again, because of the power of the Trudeau name, everyone had to look through nested shards of broken glass to see the photo. There was one little hole in the broken glass where you could glimpse a bit of the photo. There’s symbolism and then there's a public safety threat. The thing was fucking dangerous. Margaret left instructions to leave the broken glass photo up for the duration of the show, because “it meant something”. They even put up a little card explaining her wishes as if she was the Queen of England. Patrons either though it was “deep”, “retarded” or “so Ottawa”.
