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.