A busy few months. The other BG in the city left some weeks ago and we settled down to be the only unit left in town. Not that that was overly concerning; Saddam had no illusions as to his popularity, so rather than getting in Barratt Homes to knock him up a couple of Surreyesque monstrosities and throw in the DFS show home suite for free (plus a top of the range Horrocks carpet (maybe the Boudoir Range)), he called the Norman Fosters of the Pill Box and Reinforced Concrete Building World (the Jerries), to build him big Dictator Stylee Surreyesque monstrosities that could take a direct hit from an Iranian shell. Although the previous occupant has unfortunately gone on to higher things the rest of the sketch has panned out as he, although not out Tony and our George, expected. So in brief the Palace is dead strong and you're only going to get hit if you walk outside for prolonged periods of time. (it has curtailed my trips to muscle beach- as the gym has been hit as well it is I'm afraid inevitable that my body sculpting regime has been affected).
Unfortunately outside the Palace everything isn't quite so strong. We lost two guys on consecutive days to sniper fire within a km of the Palace and then the other BG was hit by the roadside bomb a day later. Seven in a week is expensive and actually slightly numbing. Guys from the BG you tend to know well others you don't. It's probably better that the lads are so busy that there is little time to reflect on their losses; a quick sunset service and then as night falls a helicopter drops in, his mates carry the body on and then its off- the only reminder being the flag drooped halfway up the flagpole. And by the next morning even that is back to normal. Not a lingering act of remembrance but unfortunately a practical one. As the Commanding Officer said after the second death, the time for sitting morosely and questioning what we are doing here and why we are here is in eight weeks time over a glass of wine, now the only option is to regain the initiative, keep the lads focussed and busy and ensure that our job, however small and ineffective in the big scheme of nation building/ face saving is done.
Apologies that I have not managed to keep up normal service of e-mails or reply to personal e-mails, or write any letters at all; in a weeks time (God and RAF willing) I should be sitting somewhere cold, wet and unsandy with all the time and inclination to re-establish contact. Until then I'm afraid its sleep, sweat and the daily grind. But the end is in sight. Looking forward to seeing/ speaking you all in the near future.
20 May 2007
7 February 2007
Basra, 7th February 2007
First things first, if anybody knows Jack Bauer please tell him to get his ass over here. We have a serious situation over here and a lot of people demanding and deserving some hot lead and lack of mercy from Jack Bauer- I've been doing my best to impersonate him but find the gunshots a little taxing on the ears and feel it highly irresponsible to drive whilst taking a phone call. Sorry for lack of e-mails, I know that you've all been waiting with baited breath for my next instalment, unfortunately tempo of ops (good non-sensical Military excuse that none of you will understand and therefore will be unable to question) and a Commanding Officer who will be found hanging off Waterloo Bridge if he doesn't appear in the New Years Honours List have kept Al Bauer's, not inconsiderable (i hear you say), nose to the grind stone. Anyway now he's gone on leave, in the spirit of true professionalism I've slackened off somewhat- so his, and Basra's loss. is your gain. Not that I imagine you will see it that way- and I doubt the Baswari's will realise
Anyway jesting aside it has been a somewhat taxing and depressing few weeks. The Baswaris, or more accurately the Baswari leaders, are proving exasperatingly duplicitous- only vague acquaintances with the truth but good friends with corruption, extortion and medieval thuggery. It's very hard to enforce law and order when the biggest crook is the chief of police and the main perpetrators of crime the policemen underneath him- we have created a monster. Having agreed wholeheartedly prior to the event, and even begged us to do it, once we actually blew up the Police Station before Christmas they all publicly denounced us and refused to talk to us for three weeks. No great loss, they only agreed to 'swallow their pride' when we stopped their monthly allocation of US reconstruction money. It is unfortunate that the way to reduce crime is to arrest every single policemen and throw them into the Shatt Al Arab with bricks attached to them- last week in the space of three days they blew the head off one of our Platoon commanders and then shot our 72 year old interpreter in the hands legs and head- so I'm afraid the stream of mercy is running a little dry at the moment. A medieval society trying to get to grips with a newly enforced democracy is a delicate and largely unappetising prospect. I perceive the main effort amongst the US and British hierarchies now is to extract ourselves with minimum humiliation and embarrassment...my how the Iranians must be rubbing their hands...and supplying the weapons.
In the meantime we continue to meander around the streets trying to buy friends with American money and wait for Tony to come up with some form of meaningful policy on Iraq rather than just blindly following the Americans. On a lighter side today, for the first time since prep school, I was kissed by another man. (you see all those he have stubbornly persisted and read this far are finally rewarded with a nugget of gossip). He was early fifties, probably quite good looking in his day, and wearing a fetching tea-towel on his head- but considering we had just given him $30 000 I thought that I was a little short changed with only a kiss. Beefcake seemed to get way more than that for this 150 pounds in Vauxhall. All you ladies out there will be glad to hear that it was not a road to Damascus moment, a bolt of realisation did not strike me from behind, the path to happiness did not suddenly appear all pink and fluffy before me...so sorry lads- and you know who you are- the 'love that dare not speak its name' obviously had a bit of a tickly cough on the day the Arab sheik kissed me, though a budding Arabist and ardent self publicist I felt unable to follow in the footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia.
Anyway enough school boy illusions to homosexuality- must remember that I'm thirty. Oh yes and at the end of the tour I will be unemployed so if any of you know anybody who needs to employ somebody and pay them lots of money to do not a great deal then I think I'm your man.
Anyway jesting aside it has been a somewhat taxing and depressing few weeks. The Baswaris, or more accurately the Baswari leaders, are proving exasperatingly duplicitous- only vague acquaintances with the truth but good friends with corruption, extortion and medieval thuggery. It's very hard to enforce law and order when the biggest crook is the chief of police and the main perpetrators of crime the policemen underneath him- we have created a monster. Having agreed wholeheartedly prior to the event, and even begged us to do it, once we actually blew up the Police Station before Christmas they all publicly denounced us and refused to talk to us for three weeks. No great loss, they only agreed to 'swallow their pride' when we stopped their monthly allocation of US reconstruction money. It is unfortunate that the way to reduce crime is to arrest every single policemen and throw them into the Shatt Al Arab with bricks attached to them- last week in the space of three days they blew the head off one of our Platoon commanders and then shot our 72 year old interpreter in the hands legs and head- so I'm afraid the stream of mercy is running a little dry at the moment. A medieval society trying to get to grips with a newly enforced democracy is a delicate and largely unappetising prospect. I perceive the main effort amongst the US and British hierarchies now is to extract ourselves with minimum humiliation and embarrassment...my how the Iranians must be rubbing their hands...and supplying the weapons.
In the meantime we continue to meander around the streets trying to buy friends with American money and wait for Tony to come up with some form of meaningful policy on Iraq rather than just blindly following the Americans. On a lighter side today, for the first time since prep school, I was kissed by another man. (you see all those he have stubbornly persisted and read this far are finally rewarded with a nugget of gossip). He was early fifties, probably quite good looking in his day, and wearing a fetching tea-towel on his head- but considering we had just given him $30 000 I thought that I was a little short changed with only a kiss. Beefcake seemed to get way more than that for this 150 pounds in Vauxhall. All you ladies out there will be glad to hear that it was not a road to Damascus moment, a bolt of realisation did not strike me from behind, the path to happiness did not suddenly appear all pink and fluffy before me...so sorry lads- and you know who you are- the 'love that dare not speak its name' obviously had a bit of a tickly cough on the day the Arab sheik kissed me, though a budding Arabist and ardent self publicist I felt unable to follow in the footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia.
Anyway enough school boy illusions to homosexuality- must remember that I'm thirty. Oh yes and at the end of the tour I will be unemployed so if any of you know anybody who needs to employ somebody and pay them lots of money to do not a great deal then I think I'm your man.
13 December 2006
Basra, 13th December 2006
Conscious of the fact that I'm prone to whinging on e-mails I'll start with a few thank yous. Despite the fact that a simple 3 digit BFPO number took me a very long time to master some of you have shown way more ingenuity than I ever gave you credit for and actually mastered the e-bluey system. So here goes this month’s roll of honour:
Beefcake thank you for the Hasselhoff download- again too large to download (must be a list of his number 1 hits)
Dan thanks for the more sober, and mature, downloads. A lot more informative, and fitting with my age
Everybody else for their e-mails, letters and updates. Truly appreciated and valued
Al, a whole load of thanks for sorting me out with Gmail- everybody else don't kid yourselves that I had the ability to do anything so complicated as change e-mail accounts
Right that’s the thanks over with, now for the complaints. If anybody is in contact with Saddam Hussein (e-mail, letter or phone) can you please ask him where he put the switch for the frickin heating in this palace? It's all very well building a 50 acre palace with more gold than on my Mum's fingers after a good year at the carpet factory but if nobody knows where the switch for the heating is we might as well be living in the dung heap with the rest of his erstwhile subjects. Not that these dung heaps come cheap out here. I was chatting to an Iraqi outside his spacious 1 roomed breezeblock built home that had obviously been built as a favour by day one of the beginners bricklaying course, with aromatic views over a drainage ditch and on-suite rubbish dump and he told me that it was worth $40 000 (US). Now $40 000 Iraqi, that would be a fair one. Iraq being such a stable country the Iraqi dollar being a such a credible currency, $40 000 Iraqi dollars would buy you a Wham Bar and five cola bottles. But $40 000 US- either he should change his estate agent or these Arabs are more gullible than Tony Blair.
So yes its a smidgeon cold- and it rains out here. And when it rains out here the whole country turns into one big mud wrestling pit- unfortunately nobody told the Iraqis the rules and they insist on bringing heavy machine guns to an event that should involve foxy ladies, overly tight bikinis and a couple of beers. I know when younger, before I discovered girls (so third year university- I thought I'd better get that gag in before any of early starters got in there first) i used to make model soldiers and make up scenery to put them on- and nobody try to be cool and claim they were too busy reading Sky magazine and listening to the Levellers to do such dweeb activity- if anybody feels like doing the same, here are some simple instructions to recreate your own Iraq War (Operation Enduring Ball Ache) diorama- buy a big roll of sandpaper use half of it to scrape out last nights pizza box, get an obliging donkey to piss on the other half and then put some severely pissed off plastic soldiers in the middle, turn the lights out and then start throwing fireworks at them.
In case anybody forgot, or chose to forget, it happens to be my birthday next week. I've hired out a bar in Chelsea be there by nine o'clock to get in on the guest list- just let me know how it all goes as I won't be able to make it. In fact, even though thirty, my birthday this time round will actually be remarkably similar to my 15th- remember those days when girls were seriously off limits and spirits were consumed from the bottle in the bogs- as alcohol is banned here and girls look like boys, me and a close knit circle of male friends will be sneaking off to the roof of the Palace to swig whiskey from the bottle- all we'll be missing is the pickled onion monster munch and my Dad playing his hit parade vinyl collection on a record player borrowed from the tennis club- I wonder if Chesney Hawkes will sound quite so cool on IPOD. As ever with teenage parties there will be the usual band of gatecrashers- although this lot will not be the chavs from down the round- and Dad will have trouble repelling them with his 1 Wood.
And after that 24 hour vomit and grunge rave it will be straight into Christmas festivities, apparently the Arabs aren't big on Christmas so we'll just be having a small in house family affair this year. We do have a massive portable megaphone that we attach to the side of vehicles and drive round telling the Iraqis not to worry we are only going to arrest half the town and we will deliver some plastic sheeting tomorrow to patch up the hole the tank made in their living room, so in the perfect ecumenical world of free love and idealism we would declare a Christmas truce and I would drive around Basra singing Christmas carols handing out brandy and pork sausages. Sadly the relationship is fragile enough with Old King Cole, Yuletide greetings, and Horrocks at 300 decibels. So it'll be the normal army Christmas of see-through turkey, armoured plated mince pies and a strictly timed 35 minutes of forced festivities. Joe Pasquale will be coming to perform for the troops at the airport- sods law the one flight the RAF don't fuck up will be his- surprisingly aren't many takers for the gig.
Hope that the Christmas Party season is in full swing. If any of you see a plump lad in a Gap shirt come looming out of the drunken haze by the photocopier don't go near him- it could be 5 times a night Edmondson.
Beefcake thank you for the Hasselhoff download- again too large to download (must be a list of his number 1 hits)
Dan thanks for the more sober, and mature, downloads. A lot more informative, and fitting with my age
Everybody else for their e-mails, letters and updates. Truly appreciated and valued
Al, a whole load of thanks for sorting me out with Gmail- everybody else don't kid yourselves that I had the ability to do anything so complicated as change e-mail accounts
Right that’s the thanks over with, now for the complaints. If anybody is in contact with Saddam Hussein (e-mail, letter or phone) can you please ask him where he put the switch for the frickin heating in this palace? It's all very well building a 50 acre palace with more gold than on my Mum's fingers after a good year at the carpet factory but if nobody knows where the switch for the heating is we might as well be living in the dung heap with the rest of his erstwhile subjects. Not that these dung heaps come cheap out here. I was chatting to an Iraqi outside his spacious 1 roomed breezeblock built home that had obviously been built as a favour by day one of the beginners bricklaying course, with aromatic views over a drainage ditch and on-suite rubbish dump and he told me that it was worth $40 000 (US). Now $40 000 Iraqi, that would be a fair one. Iraq being such a stable country the Iraqi dollar being a such a credible currency, $40 000 Iraqi dollars would buy you a Wham Bar and five cola bottles. But $40 000 US- either he should change his estate agent or these Arabs are more gullible than Tony Blair.
So yes its a smidgeon cold- and it rains out here. And when it rains out here the whole country turns into one big mud wrestling pit- unfortunately nobody told the Iraqis the rules and they insist on bringing heavy machine guns to an event that should involve foxy ladies, overly tight bikinis and a couple of beers. I know when younger, before I discovered girls (so third year university- I thought I'd better get that gag in before any of early starters got in there first) i used to make model soldiers and make up scenery to put them on- and nobody try to be cool and claim they were too busy reading Sky magazine and listening to the Levellers to do such dweeb activity- if anybody feels like doing the same, here are some simple instructions to recreate your own Iraq War (Operation Enduring Ball Ache) diorama- buy a big roll of sandpaper use half of it to scrape out last nights pizza box, get an obliging donkey to piss on the other half and then put some severely pissed off plastic soldiers in the middle, turn the lights out and then start throwing fireworks at them.
In case anybody forgot, or chose to forget, it happens to be my birthday next week. I've hired out a bar in Chelsea be there by nine o'clock to get in on the guest list- just let me know how it all goes as I won't be able to make it. In fact, even though thirty, my birthday this time round will actually be remarkably similar to my 15th- remember those days when girls were seriously off limits and spirits were consumed from the bottle in the bogs- as alcohol is banned here and girls look like boys, me and a close knit circle of male friends will be sneaking off to the roof of the Palace to swig whiskey from the bottle- all we'll be missing is the pickled onion monster munch and my Dad playing his hit parade vinyl collection on a record player borrowed from the tennis club- I wonder if Chesney Hawkes will sound quite so cool on IPOD. As ever with teenage parties there will be the usual band of gatecrashers- although this lot will not be the chavs from down the round- and Dad will have trouble repelling them with his 1 Wood.
And after that 24 hour vomit and grunge rave it will be straight into Christmas festivities, apparently the Arabs aren't big on Christmas so we'll just be having a small in house family affair this year. We do have a massive portable megaphone that we attach to the side of vehicles and drive round telling the Iraqis not to worry we are only going to arrest half the town and we will deliver some plastic sheeting tomorrow to patch up the hole the tank made in their living room, so in the perfect ecumenical world of free love and idealism we would declare a Christmas truce and I would drive around Basra singing Christmas carols handing out brandy and pork sausages. Sadly the relationship is fragile enough with Old King Cole, Yuletide greetings, and Horrocks at 300 decibels. So it'll be the normal army Christmas of see-through turkey, armoured plated mince pies and a strictly timed 35 minutes of forced festivities. Joe Pasquale will be coming to perform for the troops at the airport- sods law the one flight the RAF don't fuck up will be his- surprisingly aren't many takers for the gig.
Hope that the Christmas Party season is in full swing. If any of you see a plump lad in a Gap shirt come looming out of the drunken haze by the photocopier don't go near him- it could be 5 times a night Edmondson.
23 November 2006
Basra, 22nd November 2006
Never being the coolest adolescent around- how things change- I never made it to Glastonbury, hence I never experienced the Portaloos there first hand, however if you imagine going to Glastonbury for eight weeks and never once having the Portaloos sucked out you can imagine the scene inside one of our mighty turdises in the fading grandeur of Basrah Palace. A combination of the odour, the fact that lack of papers forced me to read a three week old copy of the daily express and the fact that I must perform in full body armour and helmet in the midday heat means that my post lunch 'commanders half hour' has somewhat lost its appeal. Ice-caps melt, galaxies collide, Edmondson relinquishes his Razzle subscription, but I never miss my post lunch 30mins on the loo with the paper- a measure of the desperate circumstances I find myself in. Nor would my situation grate if i didn't know that the precious petals in the Foreign Office on the same camp as us enjoy the comforting feel of porcelain as many times a day as they chose- not of course that I’m bitter that I didn't get in.
Anyway life must surely revolve around more important things than Armitage Shanks so apologies. In a totally ethical and unexploitative attempt to cut costs the MOD has shipped in some willing Bangladeshi contractors to cook our food for us; unfortunately nobody briefed the poor Bangles either of the rich variety of British cuisine or of the fact that the Palace comes under rocket attack every day. So either in ignorance or in a fit of spite at being forced to sleep in canvas tents they steadfastly refuse to cook anything other than curry. After six weeks even if somebody offered me eight pints of cobra and a chance to watch Match of the Day afterwards I won't be able to touch another curry again- the Korma source makers of the world will be wiping the tears from their face with garlic nans (isn't that what they do in India?).
So apart from the loos and the curries- normally closely connected problems- there must be more weighty matters of state to discuss. Life here is incredibly hectic, to use a Gladiators metaphor (a literary step down from a Hasselhoff metaphor I know but I've got to keep my powder dry) its like we've got to the travellator at the end of the assault course, and a malicious John Anderson (come on you must remember the umpire's name in Gladiators) sees us in our baggy Lycra suit embark at the bottom, waits till we're halfway up at the point of no return and then turns the speed up to drug assisted Ben Johnson with a strong following wind. It seems to be never ending; we're constantly reacted to the next crisis. You try to imagine all the possibilities that could happen and then something comes from totally out of the blue and whacks you hard in the knackers- girls not a feeling you will ever be able to experience but imagine giving birth (but eighteen times more painful). As a measure of busyness I haven't managed to catch X Factor since I got out here. I reckon the Iraqis know that the way to break the backbone of the British army is to wait until they've settled down in front of the only TV in camp, drooling in anticipation at watching the X factor, before sending in a salvo of rockets just as the opening credits roll. Surely the Geneva Convention must ban these sort of underhand tactics. Whereas in the UK if you are a local wide-boy with pretensions of tuffness you take your souped up XR3I (or Volvo s40) to the local Tesco’s car park and do wheel spins in front of an assortment of be-shell-suited be-hairgelled and be-jewelled local maidens, in Iraqmanistan you acquire some large rockets from your friendly Iranian arms dealer line them up in your mate's back garden (or rubbish pit -they are synonymous in Iraq) and then fire them of at that symbol of British imperial might Basra Palace. One night I thought I would investigate reports from the sangers of suspicious movements on the other side of the Shatt (pronounced as it sounds and aptly named). After 30 minutes chatting to the lads in the sanger they were heartily glad when I nipped out of the back for a quick cigarette. Imagine my surprise- and sheer pant wetting fear- when I heard a piercing whistle getting louder and louder in the sky above me. Normally the whistle finishes at it lands somewhere else in the camp- on this occasion it kept on coming as I scrabbled in the dirt to wrest my chiselled frame below the ground. My pathetic efforts only stopped when I heard the rocket bounce off the sanger above my head- fortunately for the hairdressers (and strimmer salesmen) of the world the rocket proved to be a dud and bounced harmlessly off into the bushes. In the black and white films they dust themselves off, readjust the quiff, pick their cigarette out of the dirt and make some pithy remark to their muckers. Alas after years of training, the stiff upper lip, in its first call to duty, deserted me totally and I ended up writhing in the dirt. Thankfully it was dark so nobody could see me. Once I realised that I had received nothing more than a painful nettle sting and a slightly damp pair of trousers from the rocket I crawled ignominiously back into the sanger and joined the other two grown men in a ball in the corner. Not an experience that I want to repeat in a hurry but I have learnt my lesson- next time the sanger phones up with suspicious activity I'll tell them not to be so bloody stupid and then leave the phone off the hook.
Anyway enough contrived war stories- that's my only decent one so don't expect any more- until I start making them up. Hope England is good, and that everybody unfortunate enough to be invited survived Edmondsons' fancy dress party- I imagine it was a bit like a pool party at Michael Barrymore's.
I managed to get the BFPO wrong again, so all those who have written will find their letters being enjoyed by some bored squaddie in Diego Garcia.
Anyway life must surely revolve around more important things than Armitage Shanks so apologies. In a totally ethical and unexploitative attempt to cut costs the MOD has shipped in some willing Bangladeshi contractors to cook our food for us; unfortunately nobody briefed the poor Bangles either of the rich variety of British cuisine or of the fact that the Palace comes under rocket attack every day. So either in ignorance or in a fit of spite at being forced to sleep in canvas tents they steadfastly refuse to cook anything other than curry. After six weeks even if somebody offered me eight pints of cobra and a chance to watch Match of the Day afterwards I won't be able to touch another curry again- the Korma source makers of the world will be wiping the tears from their face with garlic nans (isn't that what they do in India?).
So apart from the loos and the curries- normally closely connected problems- there must be more weighty matters of state to discuss. Life here is incredibly hectic, to use a Gladiators metaphor (a literary step down from a Hasselhoff metaphor I know but I've got to keep my powder dry) its like we've got to the travellator at the end of the assault course, and a malicious John Anderson (come on you must remember the umpire's name in Gladiators) sees us in our baggy Lycra suit embark at the bottom, waits till we're halfway up at the point of no return and then turns the speed up to drug assisted Ben Johnson with a strong following wind. It seems to be never ending; we're constantly reacted to the next crisis. You try to imagine all the possibilities that could happen and then something comes from totally out of the blue and whacks you hard in the knackers- girls not a feeling you will ever be able to experience but imagine giving birth (but eighteen times more painful). As a measure of busyness I haven't managed to catch X Factor since I got out here. I reckon the Iraqis know that the way to break the backbone of the British army is to wait until they've settled down in front of the only TV in camp, drooling in anticipation at watching the X factor, before sending in a salvo of rockets just as the opening credits roll. Surely the Geneva Convention must ban these sort of underhand tactics. Whereas in the UK if you are a local wide-boy with pretensions of tuffness you take your souped up XR3I (or Volvo s40) to the local Tesco’s car park and do wheel spins in front of an assortment of be-shell-suited be-hairgelled and be-jewelled local maidens, in Iraqmanistan you acquire some large rockets from your friendly Iranian arms dealer line them up in your mate's back garden (or rubbish pit -they are synonymous in Iraq) and then fire them of at that symbol of British imperial might Basra Palace. One night I thought I would investigate reports from the sangers of suspicious movements on the other side of the Shatt (pronounced as it sounds and aptly named). After 30 minutes chatting to the lads in the sanger they were heartily glad when I nipped out of the back for a quick cigarette. Imagine my surprise- and sheer pant wetting fear- when I heard a piercing whistle getting louder and louder in the sky above me. Normally the whistle finishes at it lands somewhere else in the camp- on this occasion it kept on coming as I scrabbled in the dirt to wrest my chiselled frame below the ground. My pathetic efforts only stopped when I heard the rocket bounce off the sanger above my head- fortunately for the hairdressers (and strimmer salesmen) of the world the rocket proved to be a dud and bounced harmlessly off into the bushes. In the black and white films they dust themselves off, readjust the quiff, pick their cigarette out of the dirt and make some pithy remark to their muckers. Alas after years of training, the stiff upper lip, in its first call to duty, deserted me totally and I ended up writhing in the dirt. Thankfully it was dark so nobody could see me. Once I realised that I had received nothing more than a painful nettle sting and a slightly damp pair of trousers from the rocket I crawled ignominiously back into the sanger and joined the other two grown men in a ball in the corner. Not an experience that I want to repeat in a hurry but I have learnt my lesson- next time the sanger phones up with suspicious activity I'll tell them not to be so bloody stupid and then leave the phone off the hook.
Anyway enough contrived war stories- that's my only decent one so don't expect any more- until I start making them up. Hope England is good, and that everybody unfortunate enough to be invited survived Edmondsons' fancy dress party- I imagine it was a bit like a pool party at Michael Barrymore's.
I managed to get the BFPO wrong again, so all those who have written will find their letters being enjoyed by some bored squaddie in Diego Garcia.
12 August 2006
Basra, 11th August 2006
Apologies for lack of contact from Iraqistan - but in my defence I have been quite busy (and nor has the postman been overburdened by my incoming mail sacks). Arrived 14 days ago; it seems like about a month. Alas Basrah Palace ain't the boudoir I had imagined it to be. The ever pervading stench of rotting faeces drifting dreamily down the Shatt Al Arab, combined with the delicate tang of diesel from the Warriors and some three day-full Portaloos really add to atmospherics. To cap it all the barber was shot last week leaving nobody to manage the boufon- maybe some kind Iraq was doing the world of style a favour- its currently restricting my ability to put my helmet on. Life is pretty hectic at the moment the good people of Basrah don't seem to be buying into Tony and George's vision of a pro western democratic middle eastern state- but I'm sure that we can make a difference in the next six months. As a result they let off steam by firing rockets and mortars into the camp on a regular basis. Luckily I'm a heavy sleeper so don't get bothered bi it too much- nor do my good bloke room mates pause to wake me as they head for the door or under the bed. At least I get a decent night's sleep and don't have to constantly get in and out of my body armour and helmet- do these Iraqis not realise that I always sleep!
Came to the airport today for a meeting- hence the e-mail- took me eight hours to get here, that works out at about one kilometre per hour (not bad for the Volvo I know) but not what you would expect from a war machine. Three years ago it took 20 minutes with a sun hat on- now I’m wearing Ned Kelly’s cast offs, can barely move my head and arms and have to endure the RAF at three in the morning. I suppose after arriving at five thirty in the morning it was inevitable that I managed to sleep through most of the meeting. A worthwhile trip then. Right must dash off to get some decent food before I return to the dubious luxuries of Basrah Palace and the agonies of the RAF. Sorry for lack of messages from me hopefully everything and everybody will calm down a bit.
Came to the airport today for a meeting- hence the e-mail- took me eight hours to get here, that works out at about one kilometre per hour (not bad for the Volvo I know) but not what you would expect from a war machine. Three years ago it took 20 minutes with a sun hat on- now I’m wearing Ned Kelly’s cast offs, can barely move my head and arms and have to endure the RAF at three in the morning. I suppose after arriving at five thirty in the morning it was inevitable that I managed to sleep through most of the meeting. A worthwhile trip then. Right must dash off to get some decent food before I return to the dubious luxuries of Basrah Palace and the agonies of the RAF. Sorry for lack of messages from me hopefully everything and everybody will calm down a bit.
12 June 2004
Armagh, 12th June 2004
It's a sad fact of human nature that when one's own morale is low only one thing can improve it, and, I'm ashamed to say, in the true spirit of schadenfreude, that thing is somebody else's suffering....and again whilst in polite society one should not draw attention to another man's more personal problems....without this man, who knows I might still be trying to get through the childproof top on the aspirin bottle, still be trying to tie a proper reef knot to fix the rope to the beam...so in this case, where I owe so much to this one individual, I could not let his heroics go unsung, or unhung.
....So here it is, a big shout out to Will and his variocus scrotum. Ladies I apologise now for lowering the tone, but, my morale apart, there is a more serious side to this story that needs telling. As in all good comedies there is a subliminal message, a public service message that should be taken in whilst chuckling over the punchline. And in this case it's quite simple - Beware Lycra.
God in his wisdom, built into each of us a defence mechanism that warns us off wearing items that could potentially damage our health, wealth and pride. And Lycra is no exception to this. Knowing the damage to be done by encasing the crown jewels (or in my case the Kinder Surprise Toy) inside Lycra for hours on end he so designed Lycra that anybody wearing it looked such a prick that they would be unable to endure more than two hours of humiliation before running home and changing.
Unfortunately in Will he met his match- for the man who knows no shame- the Lycra one piece was a source of pride to be worn like a second skin and shed but once per year. Whilst the German mullet men of the eighties were forced by the seasons to swap their Campri one piece ski suits for their muscle vests once touched by the first rays of spring, whilst the more senior members of the family ritually change from their M&S woollies to their Y fronts on the 1st of May, whilst even the doyen of fashion Big John B is forced by the heat to discard his winter brown suit in favour of his silvery/grey summer number, Will grimly clung to the Lycra. So Will, whilst we applaud your steadfastness, God has ultimately punished your fashion sense. I know when it comes to fashion, I, and the rest of my dynasty, are on extremely thin ice, but hypocrisy, unlike Lycra, never hurt anybody.
All those Ladies who look forward to seeing the great man with a surgical support in his pants I'm afraid will be disappointed . In order to ensure Will's recovered fully from his magnum opus without any adverse side effects, I have had to delay going to press until the rehabilitation process was completed.
Sorry it's taken so long getting back in contact, we've been so busy dishing out unlawful beatings to the locals that I've barely had time to write - except of course my regular piece for the Daily Mirror. For all those curious as to whether the army has turned me into an undiluted psychopath with a penchant for amateur photography, don't worry, my phots from Iraq (have I showed them to you yet?) consist of nothing more offensive than me trying to look as hard as nails in as many different grid squares in Iraq as humanely possible.
Meantime back in the Big Brother House, Gerry Adams came to protest against our presence in this god awful place. It's a pity he didn't give us more warning as we could have gone out and added some numbers to his measly crowd. So in order to help mine and Gerry's combined manifesto don't waste your Euro vote, go out and vote one for Bairbie De Bruin (Sinn Fein). Today being election day hundreds of us have sat out in the fields all day in order to ensure the ex-terrorists manage to exert their democratic right without interference, and all the ungrateful buggers could do was claim that we were trying to intimidate the good people of South Armagh from voting. Well bollocks to them and everybody else in this cesspit.
And now to the good news. After three months good behaviour I am been released on license for 12 days starting next Wednesday. I should be in London for the weekend 25, 26, 27 and would love to meet up with any friends that I have left. Dave and Damo, for once you should not feel threatened by my aggressive drinking, on current form I'll be lucky to make it through Happy Hour.
Meantime you could all tear many leaves from Duncan book, whilst in Canada (ostensibly to visit Al, in fact due to the sad demise of the Millets fashion label, it is the only place left to restock his lumberjack shirt collection) he kindly bought me an iPod. So now I can record my Roxette album over 1000 times and listen to solid soft rock undisturbed for the next two weeks - paradise. Everybody else travelling abroad don't feel overawed by Dunc's largesse, dip your hands deep in your pockets and make a sad man happy, or failing that send a post card.
Hope you are all well and enjoying the summer- get thinking of your excuses for the 25th!
....So here it is, a big shout out to Will and his variocus scrotum. Ladies I apologise now for lowering the tone, but, my morale apart, there is a more serious side to this story that needs telling. As in all good comedies there is a subliminal message, a public service message that should be taken in whilst chuckling over the punchline. And in this case it's quite simple - Beware Lycra.
God in his wisdom, built into each of us a defence mechanism that warns us off wearing items that could potentially damage our health, wealth and pride. And Lycra is no exception to this. Knowing the damage to be done by encasing the crown jewels (or in my case the Kinder Surprise Toy) inside Lycra for hours on end he so designed Lycra that anybody wearing it looked such a prick that they would be unable to endure more than two hours of humiliation before running home and changing.
Unfortunately in Will he met his match- for the man who knows no shame- the Lycra one piece was a source of pride to be worn like a second skin and shed but once per year. Whilst the German mullet men of the eighties were forced by the seasons to swap their Campri one piece ski suits for their muscle vests once touched by the first rays of spring, whilst the more senior members of the family ritually change from their M&S woollies to their Y fronts on the 1st of May, whilst even the doyen of fashion Big John B is forced by the heat to discard his winter brown suit in favour of his silvery/grey summer number, Will grimly clung to the Lycra. So Will, whilst we applaud your steadfastness, God has ultimately punished your fashion sense. I know when it comes to fashion, I, and the rest of my dynasty, are on extremely thin ice, but hypocrisy, unlike Lycra, never hurt anybody.
All those Ladies who look forward to seeing the great man with a surgical support in his pants I'm afraid will be disappointed . In order to ensure Will's recovered fully from his magnum opus without any adverse side effects, I have had to delay going to press until the rehabilitation process was completed.
Sorry it's taken so long getting back in contact, we've been so busy dishing out unlawful beatings to the locals that I've barely had time to write - except of course my regular piece for the Daily Mirror. For all those curious as to whether the army has turned me into an undiluted psychopath with a penchant for amateur photography, don't worry, my phots from Iraq (have I showed them to you yet?) consist of nothing more offensive than me trying to look as hard as nails in as many different grid squares in Iraq as humanely possible.
Meantime back in the Big Brother House, Gerry Adams came to protest against our presence in this god awful place. It's a pity he didn't give us more warning as we could have gone out and added some numbers to his measly crowd. So in order to help mine and Gerry's combined manifesto don't waste your Euro vote, go out and vote one for Bairbie De Bruin (Sinn Fein). Today being election day hundreds of us have sat out in the fields all day in order to ensure the ex-terrorists manage to exert their democratic right without interference, and all the ungrateful buggers could do was claim that we were trying to intimidate the good people of South Armagh from voting. Well bollocks to them and everybody else in this cesspit.
And now to the good news. After three months good behaviour I am been released on license for 12 days starting next Wednesday. I should be in London for the weekend 25, 26, 27 and would love to meet up with any friends that I have left. Dave and Damo, for once you should not feel threatened by my aggressive drinking, on current form I'll be lucky to make it through Happy Hour.
Meantime you could all tear many leaves from Duncan book, whilst in Canada (ostensibly to visit Al, in fact due to the sad demise of the Millets fashion label, it is the only place left to restock his lumberjack shirt collection) he kindly bought me an iPod. So now I can record my Roxette album over 1000 times and listen to solid soft rock undisturbed for the next two weeks - paradise. Everybody else travelling abroad don't feel overawed by Dunc's largesse, dip your hands deep in your pockets and make a sad man happy, or failing that send a post card.
Hope you are all well and enjoying the summer- get thinking of your excuses for the 25th!
19 April 2004
Armagh, 19th April 2004
To all those kind enough to send me e-mails, thank you very much sorry about the lack of replies. Have been working every hour God (and any other deity there is) gives making sure nobody catches the terrorists. For all those with strict censorship on their e-mails the word to describe it rhymes with clucking bap and implies massively negative vibes. Oh well only 4 months 3 weeks and 4 days to go. When people stop landing me with pump taskings then I might be able to get round to writing. In the meantime enjoy my silence, hopefully it won't last, and join my campaign to give this bumhole back to the Republic.
Long live Irish unification.
Long live Irish unification.
25 March 2004
Armagh, 25th March 2004
…feeling the pinch….short of money..?
Why not move to South Armagh and use one of the 51 border crossing points conveniently placed not 5 miles from your doorstop to smuggle any commodity you wish into the United Kingdom. Guaranteed to make you at least a million pounds a year for sitting on your fat ass six days a week. What is more the police and army will watch you do it and make sure nobody robs your house whilst your out making your ill gotten gains.
Aaah the honest life of the South Armagh tenant farmer: a few pigs, some friendly sheep and a industrial fuel processing plant in your kitchen. Everybody here is way too busy counting the cash to bother their ass with anything quite so energetic as killing soldiers these days. Which is a shame as without them trying to kill us there is absolutely fuck all reason for us to be here- unless of course getting massive in the gym is now a central pillar of our Tonee’s foreign policy- probably a more sensible one than his ‘ethical’ one. Unfortunately though the military in South Armagh are now a bargaining tool caught up in the whole painfully drawn out ‘non war’ process, so judging by the speed of progress we could be here for some time to come. I’m sure in years to come the simile ‘like pulling teeth’ will be replaced by ‘like getting Adams and Paisley to agree on anything more controversial than the day of the week’. If only we could have done a Bush and declared victory, flogged off all the mineral resources and hived off the security to private companies owned by our mates we would have been out in 69.
Anyway enough bitching about something way above my pay scale, I will stick to commanding the private phone (with outside line) in my room. Thankfully- as you buggers never phone it - it never answers back, although often in desperation I just pick it up on the off chance that there is somebody out there. Just in case you do ever have a really bad day at work and feel the urge to insult somebody give me a call - if somebody with a thick Irish accent answers you’ve got the wrong number- if somebody claims to have never heard of me before- ignore them- it’ll mean that I’ve been out of the room for 30 minutes and one of the boys has forgotten I ever existed.
I know you’ve all been on tender hooks and could not sleep for wondering so here are this weeks stats:
hours spent outside- less than 1
money spent- less than £10
fun had- incalculable
Last weekend I just happened to be loitering outside the sauna (old habits die hard…although when aged 11 at the local leisure centre you could never quite guess which nubile young thing might emerge, unfortunately here you know exactly what type of thing will splutter forth) when I caught sight of the obligatory army health and safety message (in the crazy world of the MOD even bullets carry their own individual hazard ‘warning this item is liable to kill if placed the right way in the rifle’- so with me you’ve at least got a 50% chance of surviving). Thankfully on the sauna some conscientious civil servant had taken the time to warn me not to:
a. shave in the sauna (thank god he told me)
b. do physical exercise in the sauna (because exercise isn’t painful enough in the air-conditioned gym I thought I might start moving the rowing machine, the peck deck and some exceptional heavy dumbbells into the sauna)
c. engage in sexual activities in the gym (hopefully - in a base full of blokes - unlikely; although a particularly good usage of the word ‘engage’- in the pamphlet of infantry tactics the job description of the infantry has just changed from ‘to close with, and kill the enemy’ to ‘engage the enemy’ - so, in the corridors of Whitehall, ‘engage’ is obviously the new buzz word, to be applied to both loving and fighting)
And before any of you tight fisted tax payers start complaining about the luxuries the gov’t is lavishing upon us pampered boys, I didn’t feel the need to go into the sauna as my windowless box of a cell replicates that millionaire feeling 16 hours a day. My only hope is early release for good behaviour.
Right must dash, one of the locals is off smuggling and he’s asked me to watch his house whilst he’s away.
You all take it easy out there.
Why not move to South Armagh and use one of the 51 border crossing points conveniently placed not 5 miles from your doorstop to smuggle any commodity you wish into the United Kingdom. Guaranteed to make you at least a million pounds a year for sitting on your fat ass six days a week. What is more the police and army will watch you do it and make sure nobody robs your house whilst your out making your ill gotten gains.
Aaah the honest life of the South Armagh tenant farmer: a few pigs, some friendly sheep and a industrial fuel processing plant in your kitchen. Everybody here is way too busy counting the cash to bother their ass with anything quite so energetic as killing soldiers these days. Which is a shame as without them trying to kill us there is absolutely fuck all reason for us to be here- unless of course getting massive in the gym is now a central pillar of our Tonee’s foreign policy- probably a more sensible one than his ‘ethical’ one. Unfortunately though the military in South Armagh are now a bargaining tool caught up in the whole painfully drawn out ‘non war’ process, so judging by the speed of progress we could be here for some time to come. I’m sure in years to come the simile ‘like pulling teeth’ will be replaced by ‘like getting Adams and Paisley to agree on anything more controversial than the day of the week’. If only we could have done a Bush and declared victory, flogged off all the mineral resources and hived off the security to private companies owned by our mates we would have been out in 69.
Anyway enough bitching about something way above my pay scale, I will stick to commanding the private phone (with outside line) in my room. Thankfully- as you buggers never phone it - it never answers back, although often in desperation I just pick it up on the off chance that there is somebody out there. Just in case you do ever have a really bad day at work and feel the urge to insult somebody give me a call - if somebody with a thick Irish accent answers you’ve got the wrong number- if somebody claims to have never heard of me before- ignore them- it’ll mean that I’ve been out of the room for 30 minutes and one of the boys has forgotten I ever existed.
I know you’ve all been on tender hooks and could not sleep for wondering so here are this weeks stats:
hours spent outside- less than 1
money spent- less than £10
fun had- incalculable
Last weekend I just happened to be loitering outside the sauna (old habits die hard…although when aged 11 at the local leisure centre you could never quite guess which nubile young thing might emerge, unfortunately here you know exactly what type of thing will splutter forth) when I caught sight of the obligatory army health and safety message (in the crazy world of the MOD even bullets carry their own individual hazard ‘warning this item is liable to kill if placed the right way in the rifle’- so with me you’ve at least got a 50% chance of surviving). Thankfully on the sauna some conscientious civil servant had taken the time to warn me not to:
a. shave in the sauna (thank god he told me)
b. do physical exercise in the sauna (because exercise isn’t painful enough in the air-conditioned gym I thought I might start moving the rowing machine, the peck deck and some exceptional heavy dumbbells into the sauna)
c. engage in sexual activities in the gym (hopefully - in a base full of blokes - unlikely; although a particularly good usage of the word ‘engage’- in the pamphlet of infantry tactics the job description of the infantry has just changed from ‘to close with, and kill the enemy’ to ‘engage the enemy’ - so, in the corridors of Whitehall, ‘engage’ is obviously the new buzz word, to be applied to both loving and fighting)
And before any of you tight fisted tax payers start complaining about the luxuries the gov’t is lavishing upon us pampered boys, I didn’t feel the need to go into the sauna as my windowless box of a cell replicates that millionaire feeling 16 hours a day. My only hope is early release for good behaviour.
Right must dash, one of the locals is off smuggling and he’s asked me to watch his house whilst he’s away.
You all take it easy out there.
13 March 2004
Armagh, 13th March 2004
As you probably realised by the sudden inexplicable void that has appeared in your social calenders I left on Tuesday for HMP Bessbrook Mill South Armagh. So you can once more breathe a huge sigh of relief and take the call diverts off your phone safe in the knowledge that I will not be bothering you for the next six months- all those who I didn't manage to see, congratulations you're safe till September.
I spent the last few days prior to departure putting my life into suspension. A bit like the United States packed most of their fast jets off to sit in some desert after the end of the cold war, so the Volvo S40 M6 Stratofighter detaxed and decommissioned, lies like a sleeping leviathan in the garage at home- not for the next six months will it be see burning Sunshine Variety buses off the lights or pulling doughnuts in the car park at the bowls club. However any of you thinking about having a fastball wedding in the next 6 months ( if any of you ladies suspect that the extra spare tyre around the waist may not just be due to the 15 meat pies you ate last Saturday, or if any of you modern men, wish to take a leaf from Dave and Damian's book and take advantage of the new San Franciscan interpretation of the marriage laws before our man Dubya repeals them) do not worry you will not be left without a wedding limousine, Dad (ever keen for some cash in hand) has kindly agreed to don his shiny grey lounge suit, blow the cobwebs off the Vo and deliver you in style to the Holiday Inn of your choice for the reception. He'll even throw in a tasteful textile bouquet made from carpet off cuts- and we can't say fairer than that.
If, like me, you utterly despise the RAF you will be pleased to hear that they managed to surpass even themselves for jobsworth stupidity whilst transporting us out here. Flight Sgt Numb nuts insisted that we each put our rifles, that we were carrying on to the plane as hand luggage, through an x ray machine to confirm that they were indeed rifles. But not content with that, having confirmed that I was indeed carrying an extremely dangerous semi automatic weapon he proceeded to confiscate 5 AAA batteries from me. This of course was in case the terminals of the batteries touched in my pocket causing me to explode and take the plane with me. Whilst admitting I did not really want to waste 6 months of my life sitting in an Irish bog I told him that the prospect was not, as yet, making me suicidal, and that even with the massive electrical force generated by 2 AAA batteries accidentally touching, I thought my internal organs ( with perhaps the exception of my bladder) were stable enough not urge to explode. However he had obviously had a more pessimistic physics teacher at school and the fear of the nuclear winter that the battery explosion would cause prevented him, quite understandably, from bending the rules. After a few minutes verbal sparring (whilst the batteries rolled around on the desk and inched the planet ever closer to Domesday) it transpired that he would relent if placed each of the 5 offending super conductors separately into the finger of the rubber glove that he just happened to have in his bag ( obviously left over from his weekend's antics). Little do you people know how close you came to your maker on that fateful Tuesday morning- if it hadn't been for the suspiciously moist rubber glove we could all be wearing white sheets and singing psalms.
Apart from my £10 pocket money a week for sweets (yes very prep school- hope the shop has wham bars) the rest of my enormous wage packet is going offshore, apparently Haiti is quite a steady bet at the moment. My world renowned music collection is up for grabs, but be quick I've had offers from a number of supermarkets and line dancing clubs already. All those clamouring for my cutting edge M&S woolly jumpers will, I'm afraid, be disappointed they are already encased in moth balls to retain their unique mustiness for my return. I would like to say that as I have just invested in a new phone communications will not be a problem however... My bobby dazzling new phone would appear to do absolutely everything, e-mail, play music, get radio 4, take photographs and videos, track war criminals, move Chinese Spy satellites etc .. apart from make phone calls. I should actually qualify that by saying 'make phone calls when you intend to make phone calls', as I haven't yet worked out how to lock the keys, as soon as I put the little baby in my pocket it seems to systematically go through my phone book, work out who is away in a country with the most expensive phone tariffs and then leave 5 minute messages from my left testicle on their answer phone. So if you've had a long indecipherable message from my left testicle many apologies. Once I have crunched through the 18 volume instruction manual I might know how to transfer my sim numbers across and establish contact. I know that the cynics amongst you might think these lame excuses are merely cunning ploys by the tightest man in South Manchester to avoid making expensive phone calls, however the good news is that as I am now so far up the army hierarchy I have been trusted to have a phone in my room ( obviously when more junior they think you might be unused to such responsibility and try and eat it/ pour beer down its receiver/ wrestle it/ make friends with it) so you will be able to ring me whenever I'm asleep- so don't expect me to answer.
As yet have not seen any of the bad guys, although according to my blokes I do closely resemble a well known terrorist (I thought Che Guevara died years ago), so have to watch my back in case any of the more docile ones try to arrest me as i walk to the shower. That apart thanks for all your letters, do pop in for a chat if you happen to be passing.. and remember your tax returns should be in by the end of the month.
That's all.
Fuck Off you Brit Bastards (as the locals seem to use as friendly salutation around here).
I spent the last few days prior to departure putting my life into suspension. A bit like the United States packed most of their fast jets off to sit in some desert after the end of the cold war, so the Volvo S40 M6 Stratofighter detaxed and decommissioned, lies like a sleeping leviathan in the garage at home- not for the next six months will it be see burning Sunshine Variety buses off the lights or pulling doughnuts in the car park at the bowls club. However any of you thinking about having a fastball wedding in the next 6 months ( if any of you ladies suspect that the extra spare tyre around the waist may not just be due to the 15 meat pies you ate last Saturday, or if any of you modern men, wish to take a leaf from Dave and Damian's book and take advantage of the new San Franciscan interpretation of the marriage laws before our man Dubya repeals them) do not worry you will not be left without a wedding limousine, Dad (ever keen for some cash in hand) has kindly agreed to don his shiny grey lounge suit, blow the cobwebs off the Vo and deliver you in style to the Holiday Inn of your choice for the reception. He'll even throw in a tasteful textile bouquet made from carpet off cuts- and we can't say fairer than that.
If, like me, you utterly despise the RAF you will be pleased to hear that they managed to surpass even themselves for jobsworth stupidity whilst transporting us out here. Flight Sgt Numb nuts insisted that we each put our rifles, that we were carrying on to the plane as hand luggage, through an x ray machine to confirm that they were indeed rifles. But not content with that, having confirmed that I was indeed carrying an extremely dangerous semi automatic weapon he proceeded to confiscate 5 AAA batteries from me. This of course was in case the terminals of the batteries touched in my pocket causing me to explode and take the plane with me. Whilst admitting I did not really want to waste 6 months of my life sitting in an Irish bog I told him that the prospect was not, as yet, making me suicidal, and that even with the massive electrical force generated by 2 AAA batteries accidentally touching, I thought my internal organs ( with perhaps the exception of my bladder) were stable enough not urge to explode. However he had obviously had a more pessimistic physics teacher at school and the fear of the nuclear winter that the battery explosion would cause prevented him, quite understandably, from bending the rules. After a few minutes verbal sparring (whilst the batteries rolled around on the desk and inched the planet ever closer to Domesday) it transpired that he would relent if placed each of the 5 offending super conductors separately into the finger of the rubber glove that he just happened to have in his bag ( obviously left over from his weekend's antics). Little do you people know how close you came to your maker on that fateful Tuesday morning- if it hadn't been for the suspiciously moist rubber glove we could all be wearing white sheets and singing psalms.
Apart from my £10 pocket money a week for sweets (yes very prep school- hope the shop has wham bars) the rest of my enormous wage packet is going offshore, apparently Haiti is quite a steady bet at the moment. My world renowned music collection is up for grabs, but be quick I've had offers from a number of supermarkets and line dancing clubs already. All those clamouring for my cutting edge M&S woolly jumpers will, I'm afraid, be disappointed they are already encased in moth balls to retain their unique mustiness for my return. I would like to say that as I have just invested in a new phone communications will not be a problem however... My bobby dazzling new phone would appear to do absolutely everything, e-mail, play music, get radio 4, take photographs and videos, track war criminals, move Chinese Spy satellites etc .. apart from make phone calls. I should actually qualify that by saying 'make phone calls when you intend to make phone calls', as I haven't yet worked out how to lock the keys, as soon as I put the little baby in my pocket it seems to systematically go through my phone book, work out who is away in a country with the most expensive phone tariffs and then leave 5 minute messages from my left testicle on their answer phone. So if you've had a long indecipherable message from my left testicle many apologies. Once I have crunched through the 18 volume instruction manual I might know how to transfer my sim numbers across and establish contact. I know that the cynics amongst you might think these lame excuses are merely cunning ploys by the tightest man in South Manchester to avoid making expensive phone calls, however the good news is that as I am now so far up the army hierarchy I have been trusted to have a phone in my room ( obviously when more junior they think you might be unused to such responsibility and try and eat it/ pour beer down its receiver/ wrestle it/ make friends with it) so you will be able to ring me whenever I'm asleep- so don't expect me to answer.
As yet have not seen any of the bad guys, although according to my blokes I do closely resemble a well known terrorist (I thought Che Guevara died years ago), so have to watch my back in case any of the more docile ones try to arrest me as i walk to the shower. That apart thanks for all your letters, do pop in for a chat if you happen to be passing.. and remember your tax returns should be in by the end of the month.
That's all.
Fuck Off you Brit Bastards (as the locals seem to use as friendly salutation around here).
1 December 2003
Basra, 1st December 2003
And so the end is nigh... the good news is that we are being brought forward and must be prepared to move from tomorrow night. As you can imagine the blokes are gutted. Like the departure from Blighty another mad rush to get everything sorted. However no doubt once we're all ready to go we'll sit on our bergans till the New Year whilst the RAF dust off and tape up their Sopwith Camel troop transporters.
So more than enough time to reflect on the tour. All in all we can't really complain in and out in just under 3 months and then back home for tea and medals- or in my case just the tea. A couple of moments of high drama, a few more of high farce, a lot of thumb twiddling (or its Arabic equivalent sand counting) and a faded suntan. This story has got it all, and I'm sure will soon become an accepted bed fellow with the other great narratives of men and warfare, For Whom the Bell Tolls..., Reach for the Sky..., The Cruel Sea..., Combat Choirboys.
Though there will, amidst the half truths and blatant lies, be only one episode of real excitement (though not a 'near death episode' it could almost pass as a 'just round the block from death episode'), the coolness with which your hero handled the occasion would not surprise you. Unfortunately as it all happened so quickly his sang froid under fire was purely because he did not realise the danger until 10 seconds after it had passed.
I suppose though that I have been lucky (that and spending far to much time staring at map boards), this is definitely the most volatile place we have served so far, borne out by the fact that one of our blokes has been the target of 4 separate shooting and bomb attacks throughout the tour (one lucky punter I won't be sitting next to on the plane).
Though my personal contribution to the new Iraq will not recorded for posterity on tablets of stone, I do believe that the collective military effort is definitely justified. (Here's the serious bit, scroll down now before it gets too heavy).Whatever our reasons behind going to war there can be no doubt that our presence here is improving the lives of the Iraqi population. Saddam was an evil bastard who for decades had terrorised the population of a country and sucked its immense wealth dry. A few weeks ago i was up in Baghdad and we were standing in one of Saddam's immense palaces in the city. The guy i was with said that the scale and opulence reminded him of Ceausescu's (spelt wrong but you know who I mean) palace in Romania. The difference in Iraq though is the fact that Saddam didn't just build one of these massive complexes- there are over 50 dotted all over the country. The evidence of his other major expenditure lies rusting all over the desert. The amount of military ordinance that sits burnt out and useless is hard to comprehend. Just one of the 100s of captured ammunition dumps that we have found is larger than the whole American national reserve of ammunition. Crossing over the border to Kuwait, a country with oil deposits smaller than Iraq's, emphasises the disparity in standards of living. The mismanagement and corruption of Saddam's regime is the only reason why Iraqis are driving donkey casts whilst their Kuwait neighbours drive BMWs.
So the situation in Iraq is currently stable but fragile, unfortunately I think that the new American timetable is premature. Whilst there is a need to demonstrate that the occupying powers want to hand the control of the country back to its inhabitants, and does not intend to sit there and suck its resources dry, the timetable for handover is, for all the wrong reasons, too quick. There can be no doubt that the increasing American casualties in the north (more in November than in the whole fighting phase of the war) and the forthcoming Presidential election have forced Bush's hand.
However the indigenous forces of law of order lack the confidence, credibility and integrity to take the lead and the IGC and others have little grasp of the realities of the democracy they have voted for. Having voted for a Provisional Government in July 04 they have just woken up to the fact that they have effectively voted themselves out of a job. All the various factions, of which there are many, are now putting forward motions to ensure their own appointees are guaranteed places on the government and to ensure their own right to veto the candidates of the other parties- obviously some way to go before they grasp the fundamentals of democracy.
Sorry international affairs lesson over. Back to more important subjects- am ashamed to report that my overarm serve in volleyball is still slightly pathetic- apparently the wrists still aren't firm enough. I have masted the Arabic script and learnt the Arabic alphabet, but unfortunately still cannot yet tell whether the Iraqi who greets me every morning is indeed saying 'Good Morning' or 'Screw you you big nosed tosser'- so am some way from full fluency. And have read some relatively grown up books. So that is a list of my achievements on the tour. Here is a list of those missions not accomplished:
1. Found Saddam
2. Found an American sense of humour
3. Fired a shot in anger - or even by mistake
4. Opened up an Arabic outlet for Horrocks' quality shagpile
5. Thought of a decent excuse why I shouldn't spend the next 6 months of my life in South Armagh
Yes talk about out of the frying pan into the tub of lard. Northern Ireland- a place where getting a puncture on patrol is a serious incident. So on that depressing note, I hereby issue warning that as that incarceration looms large in the New Year, I fully intend to make this Christmas as festive as possible - on current form that will mean passed out by nine. So thank you for all your letters, eblueys, e-mails and parcels (oh yes and not to forget Beefcake's generous one liner 6 weeks ago), all very much appreciated. Look forward to seeing you sometime soon.
Now it's all up to the RAF so don't hold your breath.
So more than enough time to reflect on the tour. All in all we can't really complain in and out in just under 3 months and then back home for tea and medals- or in my case just the tea. A couple of moments of high drama, a few more of high farce, a lot of thumb twiddling (or its Arabic equivalent sand counting) and a faded suntan. This story has got it all, and I'm sure will soon become an accepted bed fellow with the other great narratives of men and warfare, For Whom the Bell Tolls..., Reach for the Sky..., The Cruel Sea..., Combat Choirboys.
Though there will, amidst the half truths and blatant lies, be only one episode of real excitement (though not a 'near death episode' it could almost pass as a 'just round the block from death episode'), the coolness with which your hero handled the occasion would not surprise you. Unfortunately as it all happened so quickly his sang froid under fire was purely because he did not realise the danger until 10 seconds after it had passed.
I suppose though that I have been lucky (that and spending far to much time staring at map boards), this is definitely the most volatile place we have served so far, borne out by the fact that one of our blokes has been the target of 4 separate shooting and bomb attacks throughout the tour (one lucky punter I won't be sitting next to on the plane).
Though my personal contribution to the new Iraq will not recorded for posterity on tablets of stone, I do believe that the collective military effort is definitely justified. (Here's the serious bit, scroll down now before it gets too heavy).Whatever our reasons behind going to war there can be no doubt that our presence here is improving the lives of the Iraqi population. Saddam was an evil bastard who for decades had terrorised the population of a country and sucked its immense wealth dry. A few weeks ago i was up in Baghdad and we were standing in one of Saddam's immense palaces in the city. The guy i was with said that the scale and opulence reminded him of Ceausescu's (spelt wrong but you know who I mean) palace in Romania. The difference in Iraq though is the fact that Saddam didn't just build one of these massive complexes- there are over 50 dotted all over the country. The evidence of his other major expenditure lies rusting all over the desert. The amount of military ordinance that sits burnt out and useless is hard to comprehend. Just one of the 100s of captured ammunition dumps that we have found is larger than the whole American national reserve of ammunition. Crossing over the border to Kuwait, a country with oil deposits smaller than Iraq's, emphasises the disparity in standards of living. The mismanagement and corruption of Saddam's regime is the only reason why Iraqis are driving donkey casts whilst their Kuwait neighbours drive BMWs.
So the situation in Iraq is currently stable but fragile, unfortunately I think that the new American timetable is premature. Whilst there is a need to demonstrate that the occupying powers want to hand the control of the country back to its inhabitants, and does not intend to sit there and suck its resources dry, the timetable for handover is, for all the wrong reasons, too quick. There can be no doubt that the increasing American casualties in the north (more in November than in the whole fighting phase of the war) and the forthcoming Presidential election have forced Bush's hand.
However the indigenous forces of law of order lack the confidence, credibility and integrity to take the lead and the IGC and others have little grasp of the realities of the democracy they have voted for. Having voted for a Provisional Government in July 04 they have just woken up to the fact that they have effectively voted themselves out of a job. All the various factions, of which there are many, are now putting forward motions to ensure their own appointees are guaranteed places on the government and to ensure their own right to veto the candidates of the other parties- obviously some way to go before they grasp the fundamentals of democracy.
Sorry international affairs lesson over. Back to more important subjects- am ashamed to report that my overarm serve in volleyball is still slightly pathetic- apparently the wrists still aren't firm enough. I have masted the Arabic script and learnt the Arabic alphabet, but unfortunately still cannot yet tell whether the Iraqi who greets me every morning is indeed saying 'Good Morning' or 'Screw you you big nosed tosser'- so am some way from full fluency. And have read some relatively grown up books. So that is a list of my achievements on the tour. Here is a list of those missions not accomplished:
1. Found Saddam
2. Found an American sense of humour
3. Fired a shot in anger - or even by mistake
4. Opened up an Arabic outlet for Horrocks' quality shagpile
5. Thought of a decent excuse why I shouldn't spend the next 6 months of my life in South Armagh
Yes talk about out of the frying pan into the tub of lard. Northern Ireland- a place where getting a puncture on patrol is a serious incident. So on that depressing note, I hereby issue warning that as that incarceration looms large in the New Year, I fully intend to make this Christmas as festive as possible - on current form that will mean passed out by nine. So thank you for all your letters, eblueys, e-mails and parcels (oh yes and not to forget Beefcake's generous one liner 6 weeks ago), all very much appreciated. Look forward to seeing you sometime soon.
Now it's all up to the RAF so don't hold your breath.
16 November 2003
Basra, 16th November 2003
For all those out there who have just jetted off on exotic holidays thanks for sending eblueys to rub my nose in it- for all those who haven't please write and tell me how shit life in the UK is just to raise morale. The use of that swear word in the first sentence was intentional it means that all the gay law firms who get their fun police to censor e-mails should have already rejected this missive by now. So for all those interesting people left- here begins the first lesson starting at the 1st verse and ending when your patience wears out.
Life in Basrah continues as usual- the locals are still dieting religiously and in general being relatively well behaved. It is unfortunately the fanatics from outside who make the situation more difficult. What I did not grasp was that for all those real fanatics out there Ramadan is seen as an extra holy time to blow yourself and the infidel into Sushi. Having been forced to give up my bed/ hotel room on many occasions so that some other bloke can knock off some maiden I'm pretty sure that I don't want to spread my internal organs over a wide area to ensure some other bloke can knock off many maidens for as long as he wants. Increasingly convinced that Islam is a religion that is let down by the fine detail of the contract and the strings attached - if you could have the maidens for life without having to go to such extreme lengths I could be convinced.
For all those still writing letters/ e blueys my address will change on Monday. Unfortunately the Company to which I was attached are leaving theatre early - if they can get home before Jack Straw cancels all redeployment out - so mail must go via a different route. The rest of us are caught in a quandary- the longer we stay out here the later we deploy to Ireland which has got to be a good thing- however would we want to miss Christmas in the bosom of our families? (a decision that obviously depends on the presents they are planning to give us). However as it is now getting 'proper cold' out here it might be better sitting out the winter in a house designed for the cold rather than a tent.
Unfortunately I dashed all hopes of securing employment after the army by blowing my audition for the spot of rugby reporter for Al Jazeera Television- a much sort after post in the up and coming Middle Eastern TV company- apparently when not watching bombs tearing people apart the Arabs like nothing more than watching people tear each other apart for fun. Amazed that not a single British soldier was out on the streets, Al Jazeera wanted to report this amazing rugby game to their audience. Obviously searching the TV room for the new face of Al Jazeera Rugby, they alighted on the virile good looks and square jaw of the Hotrox- strange choice for an Arabic TV station- normally I'm told that I've got a good face for radio and look Yiddish. So as Half time I was told to give my verdict and predict the future outcome of the match. Well it started so well- Alan Hansen would have been proud- managed to adopt the working class northern accent befitting of the son of a northern textile magnate and got in some classic 'Game of 2 'alves' 'team that scores more tries will win' phrases, then as I started to warm to the role and see a full time contract dancing before my eyes started to develop the theme of national stereotypes, French flare and elan meeting head to head with British endeavour, robustness and determination- add in a small reference to climatic conditions and the Bill Mclaren of the Middle East was in the process of being born (nor was it a tricky Caesarian but rather an effortless clinical delivery). Unfortunately just as the piece was reaching its climax and the Saddam look alike behind the camera was in his first throe of ecstasy I heard the immortal phrase slip from my lips "Yes and I think that it'll be the French who will be left crying after the match....the spineless bastards"....if I could turn back time (good song), if i could only do a retake who knows what different turn history could take- rather than being a retired major in charge of a firing range in the Outer Hebrides i could have been the Omar Sharif of the Arab Sporting Media (rugby would have been the mere tip of the iceberg- pretty soon I could have branched out into camel racing and goat wrestling). Anyway suffice to say that after my damning slur on the French national character and fearing an international diplomatic incident the MOD media minder quickly terminated Saddam's recording, told me she would be seeing me later (I don't think she meant behind the bike sheds) and told Saddam it was time to be going.
So anyway am now eagerly awaiting my date with the media ops dragon- must dash off and stuff some old maps down my trousers to soften the blows.
Hope you are all well - don't look out for me on TV, maybe I'll stick to radio.
Life in Basrah continues as usual- the locals are still dieting religiously and in general being relatively well behaved. It is unfortunately the fanatics from outside who make the situation more difficult. What I did not grasp was that for all those real fanatics out there Ramadan is seen as an extra holy time to blow yourself and the infidel into Sushi. Having been forced to give up my bed/ hotel room on many occasions so that some other bloke can knock off some maiden I'm pretty sure that I don't want to spread my internal organs over a wide area to ensure some other bloke can knock off many maidens for as long as he wants. Increasingly convinced that Islam is a religion that is let down by the fine detail of the contract and the strings attached - if you could have the maidens for life without having to go to such extreme lengths I could be convinced.
For all those still writing letters/ e blueys my address will change on Monday. Unfortunately the Company to which I was attached are leaving theatre early - if they can get home before Jack Straw cancels all redeployment out - so mail must go via a different route. The rest of us are caught in a quandary- the longer we stay out here the later we deploy to Ireland which has got to be a good thing- however would we want to miss Christmas in the bosom of our families? (a decision that obviously depends on the presents they are planning to give us). However as it is now getting 'proper cold' out here it might be better sitting out the winter in a house designed for the cold rather than a tent.
Unfortunately I dashed all hopes of securing employment after the army by blowing my audition for the spot of rugby reporter for Al Jazeera Television- a much sort after post in the up and coming Middle Eastern TV company- apparently when not watching bombs tearing people apart the Arabs like nothing more than watching people tear each other apart for fun. Amazed that not a single British soldier was out on the streets, Al Jazeera wanted to report this amazing rugby game to their audience. Obviously searching the TV room for the new face of Al Jazeera Rugby, they alighted on the virile good looks and square jaw of the Hotrox- strange choice for an Arabic TV station- normally I'm told that I've got a good face for radio and look Yiddish. So as Half time I was told to give my verdict and predict the future outcome of the match. Well it started so well- Alan Hansen would have been proud- managed to adopt the working class northern accent befitting of the son of a northern textile magnate and got in some classic 'Game of 2 'alves' 'team that scores more tries will win' phrases, then as I started to warm to the role and see a full time contract dancing before my eyes started to develop the theme of national stereotypes, French flare and elan meeting head to head with British endeavour, robustness and determination- add in a small reference to climatic conditions and the Bill Mclaren of the Middle East was in the process of being born (nor was it a tricky Caesarian but rather an effortless clinical delivery). Unfortunately just as the piece was reaching its climax and the Saddam look alike behind the camera was in his first throe of ecstasy I heard the immortal phrase slip from my lips "Yes and I think that it'll be the French who will be left crying after the match....the spineless bastards"....if I could turn back time (good song), if i could only do a retake who knows what different turn history could take- rather than being a retired major in charge of a firing range in the Outer Hebrides i could have been the Omar Sharif of the Arab Sporting Media (rugby would have been the mere tip of the iceberg- pretty soon I could have branched out into camel racing and goat wrestling). Anyway suffice to say that after my damning slur on the French national character and fearing an international diplomatic incident the MOD media minder quickly terminated Saddam's recording, told me she would be seeing me later (I don't think she meant behind the bike sheds) and told Saddam it was time to be going.
So anyway am now eagerly awaiting my date with the media ops dragon- must dash off and stuff some old maps down my trousers to soften the blows.
Hope you are all well - don't look out for me on TV, maybe I'll stick to radio.
24 October 2003
Basra, 24th October 2003
Sirs, Ladies, Gents good morning from sunny Basraah.
Firstly thank you for all the mail- thanks for your 'Heat' back selection - everybody now thinks that I'm a bit of a poofter, thanks for your ebluey you're one of the few who has mastered the phD computer science system, thanks for the book- I did begin to smell a rat when you assured me that your 'stunning new girl friend' had 'lost a lot of weight since Alex met her', El Conko somebody has told me that I have a parcel waiting back in Shaiba for me that proports to be from the great man himself - so look forward to modelling my new basque / suspenders combo.
Have spent the last week on a cracking, although slightly goulish task. Now that they have singularly failed to find any trace of weapons of mass destruction outisde Edmondson's Y front drawer, they are looking to shift their justification for the war and emphasize the fact that Saddam really was a jolly bad man. Therefore the race is on to uncover evidence of his killing sprees during the 4 major periods of repression of his years in control.
Hence the mass graves investigation circus flew into town 10 days ago and Hotrocks was told to go and be their ringmaster. They had a long list of sites given to them by informers and satellite imagery where it was likely large amounts of bodies had been interned. The gravediggers were mainly Scandinavian, with some Brits and Yanks thrown in for good measure and all had brains the size of planets- if you didn't have more than 15 degrees in forensic geology you were considered a bit of a thicko. The best bit of the whole affair though was that amongst all these bearded intellectuals was one absolutely stunning Danish chick- definitely the nigger in the wood pile- I would like to say that I was Kevin Costner to her Whitney Houston- but she couldn't sing.
You can imagine the repartee and intellectual bonding that went on between the Riflemen and the Professors- 2 groups from further apart in the intellectual sphere it would be hard to find. Added to that heady mixture we had in the party a Dutch Bomb Disposal Team, some Norwegian Engineers and some American Military policeman- all in all a good recipe for a complete balls up.
However we set off into the desert to explore these various sites and miraculously nobody stepped on a mine ( which was lucky as the Dutch mine experts simply kicked any suspicious objects out of the way)or pissed off the locals by digging up their vegetable garden. Some of the sites could not really be called mass graves and were more 'en suite graves', twins, triples anything up to 10. however it was not until we started to go to the Kurdish grave sites that we started to suspect graves on an altogether bigger scale. These were literally in the middle of nowhere. The biggest being 70kms across the desert from the nearest tarmac road- amazing scenery nightmare map reading, tested all the skills I had learnt watching Lawrence of Arabia. Apparently it was here that the Kurds were brought in batches of 400 following the uprising in 1981. All there was in the flat desert was a small marker mound with and iron post stuck in it and a plastic shoe uncovered by the shifting sands- it was impossible to get the digger across the desert to confirm but from all the local stories this was almost certainly the site.
Anyway once the desert sun became too oppressive you could also raise morale by looking across at the Danish lady bending over and examining some soil. Unbelievably despite adopting the most macho of poses throughout the week and ensuring i didn't step out of my tent with less than 5 belts of machine gun ammunition draped about my person and 15 grenades hanging off my webbing she did not fall for my chiselled good looks and piercing glare. Having done their initial recce though they will be back so there may just be time for Costner to pull this one out of the bag- but don't hold your breath.
Meantime I'll get back to topping up the tan, ingesting sand and trying to perfect my overarm serve in volleyball. Hope Blighty is freezing and pissing wet- can't wait to get to Northern Ireland in February.
Smoke me a kipper I'll be back for Chrimbo.
Firstly thank you for all the mail- thanks for your 'Heat' back selection - everybody now thinks that I'm a bit of a poofter, thanks for your ebluey you're one of the few who has mastered the phD computer science system, thanks for the book- I did begin to smell a rat when you assured me that your 'stunning new girl friend' had 'lost a lot of weight since Alex met her', El Conko somebody has told me that I have a parcel waiting back in Shaiba for me that proports to be from the great man himself - so look forward to modelling my new basque / suspenders combo.
Have spent the last week on a cracking, although slightly goulish task. Now that they have singularly failed to find any trace of weapons of mass destruction outisde Edmondson's Y front drawer, they are looking to shift their justification for the war and emphasize the fact that Saddam really was a jolly bad man. Therefore the race is on to uncover evidence of his killing sprees during the 4 major periods of repression of his years in control.
Hence the mass graves investigation circus flew into town 10 days ago and Hotrocks was told to go and be their ringmaster. They had a long list of sites given to them by informers and satellite imagery where it was likely large amounts of bodies had been interned. The gravediggers were mainly Scandinavian, with some Brits and Yanks thrown in for good measure and all had brains the size of planets- if you didn't have more than 15 degrees in forensic geology you were considered a bit of a thicko. The best bit of the whole affair though was that amongst all these bearded intellectuals was one absolutely stunning Danish chick- definitely the nigger in the wood pile- I would like to say that I was Kevin Costner to her Whitney Houston- but she couldn't sing.
You can imagine the repartee and intellectual bonding that went on between the Riflemen and the Professors- 2 groups from further apart in the intellectual sphere it would be hard to find. Added to that heady mixture we had in the party a Dutch Bomb Disposal Team, some Norwegian Engineers and some American Military policeman- all in all a good recipe for a complete balls up.
However we set off into the desert to explore these various sites and miraculously nobody stepped on a mine ( which was lucky as the Dutch mine experts simply kicked any suspicious objects out of the way)or pissed off the locals by digging up their vegetable garden. Some of the sites could not really be called mass graves and were more 'en suite graves', twins, triples anything up to 10. however it was not until we started to go to the Kurdish grave sites that we started to suspect graves on an altogether bigger scale. These were literally in the middle of nowhere. The biggest being 70kms across the desert from the nearest tarmac road- amazing scenery nightmare map reading, tested all the skills I had learnt watching Lawrence of Arabia. Apparently it was here that the Kurds were brought in batches of 400 following the uprising in 1981. All there was in the flat desert was a small marker mound with and iron post stuck in it and a plastic shoe uncovered by the shifting sands- it was impossible to get the digger across the desert to confirm but from all the local stories this was almost certainly the site.
Anyway once the desert sun became too oppressive you could also raise morale by looking across at the Danish lady bending over and examining some soil. Unbelievably despite adopting the most macho of poses throughout the week and ensuring i didn't step out of my tent with less than 5 belts of machine gun ammunition draped about my person and 15 grenades hanging off my webbing she did not fall for my chiselled good looks and piercing glare. Having done their initial recce though they will be back so there may just be time for Costner to pull this one out of the bag- but don't hold your breath.
Meantime I'll get back to topping up the tan, ingesting sand and trying to perfect my overarm serve in volleyball. Hope Blighty is freezing and pissing wet- can't wait to get to Northern Ireland in February.
Smoke me a kipper I'll be back for Chrimbo.
10 October 2003
Basra, 10th October 2003
Well compadres I hope you all recovered from your serious illnesses- being stuck in hospital can surely be the only possible reason why nobody has written to me. I don't want to have to name and shame but apart from Natwest Bank, who seem to find me wherever I go, my sack has been pretty empty (there are long nights here in the desert).
We continue sweating and the locals continue trying to wipe out their tribal enemies. Rather than play football on a Saturday afternoon they seem much more into their kidnappings. What seems to happen is that on the Friday night/ Saturday morning once you've been revved up by the Imam you and your extended family get tooled up, anything from AKs to fuck off massive machine guns, and go en mass down to your rivals areas and nick one of his people. This is a derivative on robbery, unfortunately in Iraq everything worth nicking and most things that are not has been robbed a long time again, so the only thing left to nick is people. Once you've got him you pile into your souped up Nissan Sunnys and Datsun Cherrys (the kidnappers car of choice) and make best speed back to your gaff. Here, like a grown up game of risk, you spend the rest of the day reinforcing the neighbourhood with bunkers and roadblocks and try to second guess how the Abdullahs from Number 24 are going to try and attack you. When they approach in their convoy of Sunnys you unleash hell. However obviously there is a prearranged pact to leave the Sunnys unscathed (how could you possible pull the chicks in a bullet ridden Sunny) so everybody starts pumping bullets in the general direction of the convoy although of the small arsenals fired you'd be lucky if more than a couple of rounds landed in the same grid square. Eventually once you've shot of all your ammo a stalemate breaks out and the local Imam or impartial tribal leader, usually Big Sami from Number52, comes and negotiates the release of the victim. And so ends a merry weekend of kidnapping. fun for all the family.
Anyway we try and fit our convoys and moves in around the national sport, so as disturb the game as little as possible- imagine driving a Land Rover across the wicket whilst they were playing at Lords. And life goes on.
Had 2 whole beers last night and am feeling absolutely dreadful this morning- how the mighty are fallen- not sure if I am now even more of a lightweight than normal (highly unlikely) or whether it was the top quality Bulgarian beer (no expense spared for our boys in the gulf).
Am learning Arabic but can so far only say three letters- I should say can only draw 3 letters- so communication with the locals is still a bit hit and miss.
Hope Blighty is nice and cold and wet.
We continue sweating and the locals continue trying to wipe out their tribal enemies. Rather than play football on a Saturday afternoon they seem much more into their kidnappings. What seems to happen is that on the Friday night/ Saturday morning once you've been revved up by the Imam you and your extended family get tooled up, anything from AKs to fuck off massive machine guns, and go en mass down to your rivals areas and nick one of his people. This is a derivative on robbery, unfortunately in Iraq everything worth nicking and most things that are not has been robbed a long time again, so the only thing left to nick is people. Once you've got him you pile into your souped up Nissan Sunnys and Datsun Cherrys (the kidnappers car of choice) and make best speed back to your gaff. Here, like a grown up game of risk, you spend the rest of the day reinforcing the neighbourhood with bunkers and roadblocks and try to second guess how the Abdullahs from Number 24 are going to try and attack you. When they approach in their convoy of Sunnys you unleash hell. However obviously there is a prearranged pact to leave the Sunnys unscathed (how could you possible pull the chicks in a bullet ridden Sunny) so everybody starts pumping bullets in the general direction of the convoy although of the small arsenals fired you'd be lucky if more than a couple of rounds landed in the same grid square. Eventually once you've shot of all your ammo a stalemate breaks out and the local Imam or impartial tribal leader, usually Big Sami from Number52, comes and negotiates the release of the victim. And so ends a merry weekend of kidnapping. fun for all the family.
Anyway we try and fit our convoys and moves in around the national sport, so as disturb the game as little as possible- imagine driving a Land Rover across the wicket whilst they were playing at Lords. And life goes on.
Had 2 whole beers last night and am feeling absolutely dreadful this morning- how the mighty are fallen- not sure if I am now even more of a lightweight than normal (highly unlikely) or whether it was the top quality Bulgarian beer (no expense spared for our boys in the gulf).
Am learning Arabic but can so far only say three letters- I should say can only draw 3 letters- so communication with the locals is still a bit hit and miss.
Hope Blighty is nice and cold and wet.
20 September 2003
Basra, 20th September 2003
After 4 days sitting in the desert trying to stop the sand blowing up my hoop have finally twigged that the only safe haven from it is in the internet shack. So you can blame the desert, if it hadn't been for those pesky grains of sand i would not have blown the cobwebs off myl acount and pestered you with e-mails-it's amazing despite all those years off line some bastard still seems to remember certain of my 'personal inadequicies' and throughout the last 3 years has still been sending me the 'get ripped quick' and penis enlargement adverts. Well at least a full inbox makes one feel popular.
Anyway arrived here 5 days ago and are still acclimatising before we join the international game of hide and seek for Sadman Hussein. If you happen to see him down the market in Clapham (where he is much more likely to be) would you please inform him that when I finish sweating I will be coming-ready or not. In the meantime we sit in the sand and lose body mass, am currently unsure of my commitment to the war effort or my role in Saddam's Downfall-can only assume at the moment that it is cheaper to keep me out in the desert than it is to keep me in Edinburgh. So to avoid me having to delete my entire inbox without reading it please get in contact. However if your name is Mr Peter Nis do not expect me to read it.
Mark, I hope you got the message that I wouldn't be able to meet you at the airport yesterday. I tried your various numbers, on one got a bleary eyed German speaker (I don't think we bonded) and then a girl who sounded suspiciously like an ex-girlfriend who gave me the wrong number for your mobile. If you didn't get the message then you'll still be at the airport and probably pretty peeved, so I won't expect a Christmas Card.
That's all.
P.S if anybody knows when the bloody tide comes in would appreciate if they would let me know. Have packed my best Speedos and am eager to deploy them in earnest
Anyway arrived here 5 days ago and are still acclimatising before we join the international game of hide and seek for Sadman Hussein. If you happen to see him down the market in Clapham (where he is much more likely to be) would you please inform him that when I finish sweating I will be coming-ready or not. In the meantime we sit in the sand and lose body mass, am currently unsure of my commitment to the war effort or my role in Saddam's Downfall-can only assume at the moment that it is cheaper to keep me out in the desert than it is to keep me in Edinburgh. So to avoid me having to delete my entire inbox without reading it please get in contact. However if your name is Mr Peter Nis do not expect me to read it.
Mark, I hope you got the message that I wouldn't be able to meet you at the airport yesterday. I tried your various numbers, on one got a bleary eyed German speaker (I don't think we bonded) and then a girl who sounded suspiciously like an ex-girlfriend who gave me the wrong number for your mobile. If you didn't get the message then you'll still be at the airport and probably pretty peeved, so I won't expect a Christmas Card.
That's all.
P.S if anybody knows when the bloody tide comes in would appreciate if they would let me know. Have packed my best Speedos and am eager to deploy them in earnest
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