as told to AL Likilla 

Home Defence UK
A Symptom of a Greater Malaise
Bashar Al-Assad – And You Think Your Life is Chaotic!
                                    Greetings again my happy internet fanbase. Bashar is sorry it has been so long since he spoke into 
                                    your computers. Being President of the flourishing, democratic state of Syria really cuts into your 
                                    day – what with all the international liaising, administrative challenges and militant terror groups 
                                    trying my patience. Then there is everyday life at the palace, trying to keep my young family 
                                    happy and content. Some days it is very much like an episode of The Cosby Show here, one set in 
                                    the cradle of civilization!

                                    This time I would like to use my column on the Home Defence platform to thank your Prime Minister, Diddy David Cameron, the ham-faced pig fucker. Lord of the Tax Diddy made a great fist of
                                    inspiring your warmongering lunatics, like Hilary Benn and Stella Creasy, to get the Great British Isles dropping friendly bombs on my enemies, those shouty lunatics from Islamic State. Don’t you
                                    just love enabling Bashar’s continued ‘dictatorship’? Lol! Those loyal Syrian citizens who remain here, all several of them, have expressed their love for your P.M. Diddy and all you 
                                    bomb-purchasing British taxpayers from the bottom of their bleeding hearts. Now ISIS in Europe is your problem, not mine. This only fair - they are 
                                    bloody irritating.

When things calm down I hope to come over and visit you with fragrant wife Asma al-Assad when we will see the in-laws in Acton (I mean, surely this civil war cannot go on 
forever? After five years of fighting we are all quite tired…) That would surely be the thing for all you Britishers to see - Asma and SamCam shopping at exclusive West 
                                                                    London boutiques while myself and your Diddy Dave discuss offshore policy and porcine preferences in No.10 Downing Street. 
                                                                    Then I would go out on the pull with your next P.M. – Bojo the Trouser Snake. Mr Boris would spend all night yelling ‘hurrah for 
                                                                    Bashar!’ and complimenting me on recent victories with no one mentioning little chemical mishaps in past. Let us make it 
                                                                    happen my loyal readers! Lobby your MP now and say you want Bashar to come on tour in 2016! I can still travel to the United 
                                                                    Kingdom, even if those EU bastards don’t want anything to do with me. I hope you leave them behind and shake the fuckers 
                                                                    up, I really do.

                                                                    After my name-checks on US TV, being feted across world for re-taking strategically-important shithole of Palmyra and similar successes, Bashar was hoping to have
                                                                    theatrical agent by now, for acting work and possible hand modelling. Sadly, I have not heard back from any of the ‘big' agencies. Sometimes it feels like everyone is out 
                                                                    to get Bashar! A persecution complex is hard to avoid when you know so many countries are secretly arming your enemies, especially those swarthy Turk bastards. Luckily my BFF, Vlad the Bad (or ‘Puta’ as I call him) has intervened to bring fists of steel and balls like ice cubes. Puta took personal charge of slapping down Turks and bringing about what’s sure to 
be long and lasting ceasefire over here. Fragrant wife horribly cynical about this, she say: “How can Puta organise ceasefire when his planes do all the bombing?” Admittedly, this after Russian 
plane destroy another of our health clinics but still, wife not know what she talk about. This proved when Asma sneer: “You might have got Palmyra back from ISIS Bashar, but you can’t 
superglue those ancient monuments back together. I bet some other group of murderous idiots kick your army out within a month or two”. Ridiculous! Intricacies of complex geo-political 
                                                                manoeuvres beyond simple female brain. Asma only understand shoes and Party Down South docu-soap.

                                                                “I will have you know I possess first class degree in computer science from King’s College!” Wife shoot back, before locking herself in marble 
                                                                bathroom to sulk, meaning I have to shout witty comeback through door. “And what exactly have you done with that ‘first class degree’ love of my 
                                                                life?” I ask, “apart from work out best way to spend Bashar money?!” She does not respond and this turns out to be least of my worries. Our 
                                                                youngest, Karim, is at that ‘difficult age’ when he old enough to hospitalise housemaid without warning and daughter Zein so moody, she start to 
                                                                take after her bloody mother. Zein complain we have no malls in Syria where she can go to meet boys, just piles of rubble. Teenagers you meet in 
                                                                rubble not future husband material I say, to which Zein shoot back she never get asked out anyway. Bodyguards I put on her day and night cramp 
                                                                my style Zein say, and dirty, spunk-covered boys afraid to ask for date because of father’s reputation for “torture and murder”. 

                                                                Well, I give that young lady a big piece of my mind. I say, if Bashar wasn’t working hard to provide for family she would live in Calais ditch right now with other monkey inhabitants of jungle. When Zein grow up and lose youthful idealism she will understand parents have to do things they do not want, just to pay mortgage. This is life. If it wasn’t me besieging villages and barrel-bombing the locals, someone else would, that is for sure.

Zein storm off crying, saying I am horrible and her only real friend is someone called ‘Zoella’ who I do not know but she better bloody well not be Shia, I tell you that much. I don’t know 
what to do about these kids, they do not respond to threats and even complain about being home-schooled. Apparently tutors’ hands shake in distracting manner through all lessons and 
employees always tell children they right when, Karim, for example, clearly knows fuck all about geometry. I ask what Karim expect with no schools left standing for fifty kilometres and 
                                                                    after he blinded last teacher on a whim but the boy not understand. He is not the brightest tracer round in the firefight.

                                                                    So I look to my older son, Hafez, to restore Bashar faith in next generation. Eldest grow into fine man with strong, prominent chin, just 
                                                                    like his father. Unfortunately Hafez also go through adolescent obsession with massacring enemies and he long ago lost interest in 
                                                                    water-boarding rebels not captured by himself. Only yesterday Hafez storm in wearing home-made Rambo artillery belt, demanding to go outside and shoot some moderates.
                                                                    I do not know how many times his mother and I have to explain that al-Assad dynasty was born to rule, not get hands dirty on battlefield. But Hafez cannot hear over flow 
                                                                    of testosterone through his ears and Bashar feel like he need to take drastic action, to get progeny back on-side.

                                                                    To tell the truth my chums, I was feeling a bit claustrophobic, being cooped up in 34-room palace for days on end. That is when 
I remember what Asma say about Hafez – “I can see the signs Bashy, if he doesn’t let off steam soon, we’ll all be in trouble.” So I decide to take Hafez out into field to show 
him how war is really conducted, according to supreme master of all troops (me). 

                                                                I ask trusted Commander Munther where fighting is currently worst and he give me long list I don’t have time to read. Instead we 
                                                                head to random cluster of villages outside Aleppo and, in order not to look like pussy before son, I wear absolute minimum body 
                                                                armour situation require. Hafez love it out in world and he bloody keyed-up, screaming: “Get ready to eat hot fucking lead 
                                                                motherfuckers!” as we transported in armed convoy. He remind me so much of myself at that age.

                                                                Unfortunately when we arrive at ‘mission control’ son’s face fall like town surrounded by rebels. This is reality of war today - fighting is not like it used to be, with no 
                                                                hand-to-hand combat or enthusiastic bayoneting in face. We arrive at small room of electronic displays, crackly screens and machines that go ‘beep’ or ‘ping’ for 
                                                                Commander Munther to give us brief run-down. He explain some dots on monitor represent troops loyal to Bashar (not many, because every time we call up new recruits they 
                                                                run off to Jordan – bloody annoying). The others are naughty rebels, some friendly Hezbollah, some Daesh, some the fucking al-Nusra front (I really can’t stand those 
                                                                see-you-next-cunts), some pals from Iran who help us out, some Ahrar al-Shah who I really, really hate and some civilians we assume to be hostile (or fairly annoyed anyway).

Hafez look confused, saying he just want to “kill the bad guys”. I smile and turn Munther’s attention to those villages he is taking back for me this week. Munther say our plan to starve out locals 
working well and now it is time to release poison gas! Well, Hafez’s eyes light up then and my son ask if he can press button to release deadly toxic cloud. It is true my friends, I am unable to 
refuse fruit-of-Bashar-loins anything so I tell him okay. Munther away at this point having a piss and besides, I don’t need permission – I am Syria’s President, charged with saving my country 
                                by any means necessary. Bashar can do what he wants.

                                So Hafez push button, on-screen life-signs disappear, we high-five and Munther come back to ask what we are doing. Oh dear. A load of his men had been in the area on 
                                recon and we accidentally deaded hundreds of our own troops. Before things get awkward I am interrupted by minion who hands me a phone. It is best pal Vladimir! Puta 
                                say he has seen me “near field of battle”. How Russian BFF find out I am there Bashar not know, but I long ago learned to accept Puta has eyes everywhere so I do not 
                                ask. Instead I deny all knowledge and say Bashar is home having nice long bath while listening to Michael Bolton. Then I ask about Puta’s family.

                                As soon as conversation over it is time for us to go home. That take a while because I cannot move quickly in all the armour and Hafez look at me strangely as I clank around, like he did during
                                phone call. After that first-born go quiet and I suppose it is traumatic, your initial introduction to the fog of war. There will be many more horrors for you to come my son – a man cannot be complicit 
                                in the deaths of half a million without making a few human omelettes. But this is what I must do, to retake the country for those honourable Syrians 
out there, the ones we never see or hear about – good people who love their President. Victory will be ours and Bashar ensure his children have wonderful future of beach 
holidays and endless luxury goods, like wife used to enjoy before things got sticky and she end up trapped in palace with rest of us, complaining. 

Yes, that is the endgame my friends, to have Bashar go down in history as the man who saved Syria. Join me next time to find out how I’m getting on.

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