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.

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.