TRUDEAU, whatever you may think of him, gave Canada a face for 10 years. Everyone in the world knew who the prime minister of Canada was. For me, it elevated my first name from “Canadian pop singer” to “Canadian prime minister” status. Justins the world over were no longer ashamed. Due to some vague, beer goggles-induced similarities, I was even asked a few times if I was the Canadian prime minister. And I didn’t even need to don blackface or fall backwards down the stairs.

Quick, who were all those prime ministers before Trudeau? What? Can’t remember? Maybe it was the ultraboring Stephen Harper, the even more boring and boringly named Paul Martin. The last one who rings a bell is Jean Chrétien. Brian Mulroney? I mean, please. The last interesting Canadian prime minister before Trudeau was his father. And now he’s getting out to avoid online bullying by The Orange One.

In Trudeau, we saw pieces of ourselves. Our interfamilial vaccine feuds. Our health and fitness obsessions. Our hyperfocus on appearing youthful and ageless. Our smiling selfie poses. Our attempts to look respectable. Our collapsing marriages. Our bizarre Indian government assassinations. Nobody’s happy, but there was a brief thought that if the world was run by happy people, its leaders might very well look like Trudeau and Macron, youngish Frenchmen who it seemed just wanted to hang out and have something good to eat. And maybe go skiing.

Alas, it wasn’t to be. Back to the apocalypse.