Hello my friends. I was chatting with the Russian President about interrogation techniques and gays the
other day, when Mr Putin mentioned his recent interview with Home Defence. Vlad wondered why I
didn’t get off my жопа and write another column to mark the tenth anniversary of everyone’s favourite
Paranoia and Lifestyle webzine. He claimed it was my chance to counteract the Western media’s evil
propaganda machine. Then we went abseiling and Putin tore out a bison’s throat.
As the Russian opposition know to their cost, what Puta says goes. Also, I need to get more of you
palefaces visiting my country on your holidays. Tourism is right fucking down.
I asked the Syrian government to extend the hand of friendship to the most important British politician
they could get hold of. It would be billed as a ‘fact-finding mission’, in which some public school bumgardener discovered everything our marvellous,
cosmopolitan capital of Damascus had to offer.
They come back and tell me someone has been found. I say, “fucking brilliant. Is it Diddy David Cameron?”
I say, is it Communist Party leader Edward Milliband.
Finally I ask, is it Nicholas Clegg?
At this point I tire of this exchange and threaten to push spiked metal implement into the man’s urethra.
“Who will be my guest?” I ask, one final time.
Nick Griffin, they say.
I must be honest; my first instinct was to behead everyone responsible. Then I look online and immediately see this man (who I give codename ‘The Pegasus’, as I am clever) could be very useful to me.
The web presence of the British National Party may make them appear numpties, but there is something deeper under this
pigshit-thick display. How else to account for Nick’s massive success in your country, or his regular appearance on much-loved
topical game show, Questions Time?
And so, The Pegasus flew to Damascus for the early part of summer. I was made aware of his arrival by one of our doctors who
expressed concern Mr Griffin had suffered a stroke on the journey out of Beirut. A second opinion confirmed Nick’s face always
like that, the fucking mongoloid (funny story: I had the first doctor executed).
Imagine my surprise when I discover your Mr Griffin is not a stupid man. No fucking way. We visit juice bar I open specially and Nick fall over himself to praise spotlessness of our Damascan streets.
I should bloody hope so too! We had to drag fucking lazy street cleaners out of morning prayers to tidy up all the rubble!
Next I turn on brilliant water feature and pose for pics over cups of kahwa. All the time my friends in official Syrian newspaper take
photographs and make cooing sounds.
That is when I hear The Pegasus say to me, he say: “You know Bashar, mate, we don’t hear ‘bout none of this good stuff back over in
Blighty. Our news goes on about seventy thousand dead, starving refugees, chemical weapons and you rolling in the blood of infidels for
a laugh, but there’s no mention of brilliant water features like this one.”
I laughed fucking hard, I did, harder than I have in long time. Not since those bloody rebels launch rocket attack at presidential motorcade
“But Bashar, me old mucker.” The Pegasus go on. “If everyone could see what a thriving, peaceful democracy you’ve built, with high class amenities surrounding us in this block, a block that clearly represents all of Syria, perhaps they wouldn’t be so hard on you. Perhaps then they'd withdraw support from those uppity jihadists who have risen up to overthrow your rightful rule.”
“Honestly,” Nick drone on. “If the Free Syria Army had their way, they would follow up the fight by taking over the whole Middle
East. Then they’d probably launch a wave of suicide attacks on Luton and Hounslow using their high-tech network of illegal
immigrants.”
“Mr Griffin,” I respond, when he finally finish. “You are smart man. Because you so fat I thought you’d be funnier, but never mind.
I can gas some children later if I want a laugh. Ha ha ha! Now, let me show you
Well, wasn’t The Pegasus impressed?! My fragrant wife Asma gave your Nick quite the welcome. She yammered on
about Hamleys and Harvey Nicks while he tour our modest home (which is a perfectly sealed environment, a bit like your
Centerparcs). Nick lingered over those touches Asma loves, like the eight foot bejewelled elephant carcass, or the
kitchen sink made entirely of gold. He could not believe his lazy eyes!
“Mr Griffin,” I say, as we approach dining area. “I am against Al-Qaida and those terrorists some would call rebels. That is
why the West must back me. The enemy of my enemy is my fucking friend, is that not so?”
He nodded, distracted by the sound of my eldest son, Hafez, beating the maid with a plank of wood. “Those terrorists are not ‘rebels’” I say.
“They are not leather-clad bad boys like your James Dean or Marlon Brando. They are stone killers and they ruin my last birthday.”
“It is pointless anyway.” I conclude. “Mother Russia will not allow anyone to be armed here except me. Putin’s my bessie. He go to war for
Bashar if needed. Everyone else I can think of love me too; Iran, Hezbollah, the EDL. Ha ha ha!”
I laugh some more and we sit down to eat. Nick land on whoopee cushion I craftily place on his chair and, as the sound of fake fart ring out, I
call him a "flatulent fuck”.
Asma and the kids laugh long and hard. Mr Griffin did not react however, he simply commenced eating the banquet prepared in his honour, and did not stop for many hours.
As for myself, I leave early. It was time to use sarin gas in our schools and hospitals, places where enemies of the state have
mobilised throughout year eleven and the cancer ward. They truly have no shame, the terrorists - many are not even clean shaven. The
last I heard your fat man was enjoying the lovely handmaidens Asma lay on for him. Then he fly home and tell everyone what a great
place Damascus is, and how all True Brits should go see it for themselves. Result.
To finish, I would ask my many readers to book early and take care. The world today is more fucked up than ever. And that’s mainly
Seriously though, do be careful. I wouldn’t want anything to happen.
Next time: Bashar reviews his favourite Syrian night spot, direct from the smoking ruins of Aleppo.
