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.