Andy Flower: Nazi tactics 'did not work'

England cricket captain Andy Flower has admitted that his team’s attempts to put off Pakistan with Nazi salutes were ‘unsuccessful’ as they were twice bowled out for under 200. He added that England’s bums were still ‘sore’ from the utter spanking they received over the past few days at the International Cricket Stadium in Dubai.

Flower assured cricket fans that the team would instead focus on ‘hitting the little read ball away from the sticks in the ground with the little sticks sitting  on top of them, hopefully not into the hands of wicket keeper’.

England in training last week

In other news, Beirut Beat promised that after 3 articles mentioning Hitler and or the Nazis in as many months that they would now focus on other fascist regimes as well.

Beirut Beat’s creative director Jean Paul Catre told reporters ‘We have a musical about the recently deceased North Korean leader’s demise entitled ‘Kim Jong Really Ill’ and then a four part documentary about Pol Pot’s collection of jazz funk records.’

Watch this space!

Highway robbery

As was the usual affair at this time in the evening, the streets of Gemmezeh were lined full of cars, packed in like sardines outside the glowing bars that go on for miles into the night. These parking spaces were officially free for any old fellow to sneak into, but unofficially there was a different set of rules.

For as the sun went down the valet boys would carve up this road between them, monopolizing each piece of turf and demanding money to leave your vehicle in what very much was a public street. It was a crude sort of racket, run by men whose dead, white shark eyes bore back into their heads, to a time where they could kill freely.

Crabby loved the nudist beach

And it was as she stared into a set of this black holes that Emma decided for once she would not be handing over a fist full of change for the privilege of not having her window broken or wing mirror torn off. It was true that if she was to join her friends in the restaurant across the street that one or both of these things would happen. But to give this man money, or move so he could demand it from somebody else was simply not on the cards. She would at least waste as much of his time as possible. She didn’t feel like going to the restaurant anyway.

Smoking cigarettes as she played with her phone, Emma occasionally glanced up at the old killer and smiled, hoping to see signs of frustration in his face. But looking at him was like staring into a stagnant pond, a pool of dead, grey water where even algae and reeds would not grow. It was fine though, she wasn’t yet ready to leave. And neither was he.

The electricity bill must be enormous.

When eventually she did get bored, Emma casually pulled on her seatbelt, looked for her keys despite knowing where they were, tried out a few radio stations and even changed her sweater before starting the car. She was hungry now, attempting to bore this valet to death requiring more energy than one might think. Her belly was rumbling for Chinese food and this meant a trip to Hamra.

With the light of the blue mosque fading out of view, her car descended into the tunnel. Ahead of her a battered moped was carrying two young men in dirty clothes, with a stack of plastic chairs tied to the back. If this kind of motoring was not common practice in this city, and indeed if they had not looked so hilarious as they both tried to hang on for dear life, it would have been worrying to watch these men swaying from side to side, the one at the back occasionally being wacked by the chairs as they went over every bump in the concrete. They had almost certainly stolen the furniture from outside a shop in Ashrafieh, a pair of comedian thieves from the age of silent movies.

You will want to read this story again in about an hour.

Emma pulled up outside Chopsticks. The street that the Chinese restaurant occupied was conspicuously free of valets on this particular evening. You won’t be getting my money tonight, thought Emma. She went inside, heading straight for her favorite seats upstairs, barely noticing that the restaurant was completely deserted.

Upstairs this fact began to dawn on her. There was usually a woman who would take you to a table and a man mixing drinks behind the bar. The lights were on and music was playing loudly. Every single table in the place had been set up with starter plates. Emma wanted to leave, but knew this was ridiculous. Why would they leave the restaurant open and go home?  Slowly she walked around towards the kitchen.

The only thing moving in the entire room were the live crabs in the fish tank. For a moment feeling as though they might be able to explain what was going on, Emma went over to the tank and stared though the glass. Through the bubbling water she could see something moving. But this shape was not inside the aquarium but behind it.

Tuesdays is no shirt night in Chopsticks

Emma screamed as the man in the mask jumped out towards her. Yet suddenly the room was full of people surrounding her with their faces obscured.

SURPRISE!!! They called out in unison.

For a few seconds everyone stood in silence, until the door swung open and the girl whose secret birthday party it was walked in.

An aging waitress who either did not know or care what had happened swung through the kitchen doors with a sullen face and a plate in one hand. She held the plate in the air.

‘Spring rolls?’

Ed Sheeran's début album has 400 Brit Award nominations

My prediction for 2012 is that things will happen. Pop singers will gyrate their toned bodies on television screens, films featuring Adam Sandler tripping over things will play on trans-Atlantic flights, books will be written by Dan Brown. Other things will happen too, all of them bad. Huge cultural turds will wash into your eyes and ears and people who work in the media will tell you why you should swallow them up like hungry bears.

There are two main ways with which you can approach this problem. Firstly, you could lay awake at night, with the naive but optimistic hope that somehow the entire western entertainment industry will be wiped out by the genetically enhanced virus that Beirut Beat is culturing in the test tubes of our mind.

But in the meantime, you can look to the past and smile as you think of a more peaceful time, when the currency of fame was dealt in talent.

Here are a list of things that will NOT be big in 2012…

Under Milk Wood will NOT be drama of the year.

This 90 minute, sprawling lyrical master peace may well be the best script that has ever been written. The deliciously dark story of the residents of the fictional Welsh town of Llareggub (read it backwards) was written as a radio play, later adapted for the stage, capturing both the cynical nosiness, bitter hatred and tender affections that people in rural village communities feel for one another. It doesn’t have Daniel Ratcliff in it either.

‘Come now, drift up the dark. Come up the drifting sea dark street now, in the dark night see-sawing like the sea…’

Buy it here for under 2 pounds.

‘Exile On Main Street’ will NOT be album of the year.

In 2011, Adele had the biggest selling album of the year, closely followed by Michael Buble’s Christmas toss rag and another piece of electronic scat from Lady Gaga. Exile on Main Street by the Rolling Stones was not number one in 2011. But neither was it the number album in 1972, the year of its birth. That was because 1972 was also the year that Harvest by Neil Young, Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie and Paul Simon’s debut solo album were released. Does that make you feel sick? Well unless your name is Adele, it should.

Buy Exile on Main Street here, it is probably the best rock album of all time.

‘It was a good day’ will NOT be hip hop track of the year.

I shouldn’t really be including this, not after the way in which Mr Cube has slipped into the sewage of mainstream American family comedies. Perhaps he spent all his money on bandanas and couldn’t afford to pay the swimming pool cleaning bill? Who can tell. Apart from the glorious ‘Footsteps in the dark’ sample, the catchy beat and plodding bass, what I really enjoy about this track is the uneventful storyline.

First of all, Ice Cube apparently lives with his Mum, who presumably shouts at him for leaving AK-47s all over his bedroom when she is hoovering up. His perfect day involves playing basketball, having sex with a skank, getting pissed and going to Fat Burger. Plus there is a dirty bit at 2.55 that makes me giggle. Because I am a child. He also not appears to have understood the concept of irony. Great tune.

‘It’s ironic, I had the brew she had the chronic, the Lakers beat the Supersonics..’

‘Rocket from the tombs’ will NOT headline summer festivals.

I don’t know how I came across this filth. Rocket from the Tombs existed as a group for barely a year in the mid 1970s, their lead singer Peter Laghner dead aged 24 two years later. Although most of the lyrics are impossible to decipher, the sheer energy, anger and force of these tracks actually make The Stooges look like Coldplay. This track features one of the most disgustingly fine guitar solos in history, with sounds that must surely have been created by electrifying one, if not several, live cats.

Buy the dirtiest record in the world here.

I must leave you now to continue digging Ed Sheeran’s grave, but any suggestions for a continuation of this article are welcome.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

Came the noise from the phone that sits before me. Has it been hours, or days or months since it began? Four hard walls, a desk and nothing more in this dungeon, it has been decided that I can do without even a chair. The Chief prefers me to stand.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

As it calls I grip the pencil with which I am to record my orders, yet the page in my book contains not a word. For I fear what the voice on the line will ask for, and though I beg only for silence, I cannot reach for that phone.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

Beads of sweat stain the page like tears on a love letter. The heat from the next room where great fires do burn. And inside men in blue uniforms are busy with actions. Red stains mark their clothing as they work with sharp knives.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

From the corner of the room a camera is recording. For my safety, they told me when I first walked through that door. Someone is watching, on a screen or computer, as I pace round in circles, leaving trails on the floor.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

 I try to remember a time before all this torture, but somehow my memory has washed into a blur. There is nothing in my mind but this constant bell ringing, and the faint smell of burning that seeps in from the next room.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

Now the handle on the door is twisting and turning, and I know he is coming, for I have been bad. As it swings open the door brings with it illumination, not daylight but strip lights that blind my tired eyes.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

Standing before me, and as angry as I predicted, The Chief, his uniform perfect and pristine. His face is like a gravestone that reads my own epitaph, in one hand a bag of money, in the other some keys. We stare at each, for seconds or hours, until silence is broken by the sound of a phone.

‘Ring ring, ring ring’

I do not dare say a word, for I know what is coming. He wants me to do it, but without being asked. Perhaps if I refuse, he will put me out of my misery. But he wants me, no, needs me to sit in this room. With a sigh and a smile he whispers with venom. ‘Answer. The. Phone.’

Ring ring, ring ring’

 My quivering fingers slide onto the receiver, slippery with sweat and fear and despair. The terrible process is about to begin again. But there is still a chance for it to wail one last time.

‘Ring ring, ring ri…’

With a deep breath I am ready to take down instructions. But first, there is something I am required to say. I close both my eyes and my lips begin moving. Down on both knees I silently pray.

‘Hello, Dominoes Pizza. Can I take your order?’

The trees outside the pub were straining in their roots against a powerful wind that was blowing in from the sea. The old walls of the building stood firm, but the windows shook and whistled with air trying to escape from the filthiness of the Welsh winter night. The well dressed diners clinked the last of their wine and toasted to television programs and a lone stranger stood patiently at the bar.

The man, still in his thick coat despite the warmth of the room, asked for a good pale ale. He stood watching the bar staff as the pint settled in his hand before taking a brief walk around the two dining rooms. There was barely a dozen people in the entire place. He took a seat in the corner and listened in to the people talking at the table next to him.

A ruddy faced man in a pastel jumper was leading the conversation. A friend of his had moved to Italy. Someone else had met a famous cross-country cyclist. His guests congratulated these achievements and gave their opinions and the stranger sat silently and stared at his drink.

As he eavesdropped, the stranger discreetly slipped a hand into his jacket and checked on something hidden inside the pocket. A woman changed the subject on the next table, something about computers, and the stranger made his way to the bathroom.

The toilet walls were lined with reproductions of 19th Century drawings, neatly hidden behind attractive frames. As the stranger unzipped his trousers, he looked at the poster in front of him depicting a doctor and nurse staring at each other with an absurd passion. An unconscious patient lay on an operating table between them, the word SHAME emblazoned in red lettering at the top of the picture.

The stranger looked around for the unfavorable cartoons of black firefighters that once must have been hilarious but now would be considered incredibly racist. He wondered whether somebody had complained about them, or perhaps, after years of proudly presenting them on the toilet wall, the owner of the bar had one day looked at them and thought ‘You know what…’

After re-zipping his trousers, the stranger slipped his hand into his coat pocket and began to remove something, stuffing it back in anxiously as he heard the toilet door swing open. It was the ruddy faced man with the friend who had moved to Italy. ‘Hello!’ he bellowed before struggling with the buttons of his chinos.

The stranger knew it would not be wise to let this fellow get a good look at him, but the awkwardness of an Englishman alone in a toilet with another man would see to that. As tomato face nervously cradled his penis like it was an injured bird, the stranger slipped out clutching his coat pocket.

It was not until after he had finished another pint did he feel it was safe to go back to the bathroom. Once inside he wasted no time, removing the bin from its place and behind it carefully placing the small package from his coat pocket. He moved the bin back to its original position and left the toilet, then the pub, without a single word.

Several glasses later, his face now glowing with wine, the final customer stumbled out of the bar towards his Audi. How he managed to get home without crashing into a tree is as much of a mystery as anything else that happened that night.

Within an hour the pub was quiet. Floors had been swept and lights had been switched off and the landlord and his wife were tucked up in bed, snoring harmoniously and dreaming of very different things. The only sound that could be heard aside from the howling winds and the tick tocking of the old clock above the bar was a rustling, scratching, nibbling sound from behind the bin in the male toilets.

Something was in that little package that had been concealed inside the pocket of the stranger. Something that now was tearing a hole through the paper with tiny claws and chewing through the string with sharp teeth. Through the hole in the package a tiny face was emerging. The face of a mouse.

Ignoring the rat traps in the corner and the little crumbs of pretentiously flavored crisps by the door, Bambi the mouse scurried through the pub as if he had been across those floors a thousand times. He did not stop to check his reflection in the highly polished sideboards or pay any attention to the lazy, fat cat who slept on the stairs. Bambi knew exactly where he was headed and he did not care for wasting time.

Inside the bedroom the landlord’s foot was poking out from the side of the bed. He lay still, now in silent slumber as his wife called out in her sleep the name of pig farmer from Brussels she had secretly met in an online chat room.

Bambi watched her for some moments, and, after he was certain she was asleep, crawled across the crumpled mess of her clothes that lay on the floor. Very carefully, as not to damage them, he picked up the underwear she had been wearing that day in his teeth and hurried back out of the room.

Outside the wind had died down, but this did not stop the underwear blowing around in the air like some sordid flag as he held them tightly in his jaws. He headed across the car park to the van with a foreign number plate that sat alone with its lights switched off. The door of the van slid open and a hand reached out to scoop up both Bambi and his prize.

The stranger inspected the underwear. Despite their journey, they were still warm. He opened a briefcase he had stashed under the back seat and placed the treasure in a special compartment along with other pairs of a similar color. He waited for Bambi to clamber up his jacket and into his pocket, then reached for the ignition and started the car.

Bill has withered

Scientists in New Orleans have identified a new form of erectile dysfunction which selectively occurs in aging black soul singers.

The disease, known as Bill Withers, is thought to be the greatest threat to African American music since Will Smith.

A sufferer of the disorder, who wished to remain anonymous, explained to Beirut Beat how the problem had all but ruined his love life.

‘Well when I got ma laydee and its just the two of us, she asks to lean on me or says she wants me to use me and I just go soft as if the thang is being held in ma grandma’s hands, maaan.’

The discovery comes at a bad time for the soul community, who had only just begun to recover from a virulent strain of pre-mature ejaculation known as Stevie One Minute Wonder.

Kat Moss: Loves Babycham

This is an urgent appeal.

Beirut Beat’s Creative Director in Chief Jean Paul Catre has been imprisoned!

The notorious transgender gangster Kat Moss is suspected of the abduction.

The word on Twitter is that Kat  Moss will torture Jean Paul Catre by playing Enya records and then, when his spirit is broken, will force him to sell roses outside Dany’s in Hamra.

Donations towards his ongoing rescue operation can be made here.

Jean Paul Catre: Invented the iPad.

This is a swastika. It is right outside my house in Ashrafieh. It is not the only one. Ten minutes’ walk away in Mar Mikhael there is a 10 foot memorial of a soldier throwing a Nazi salute. I would have taken a photo of that too, but it is right outside my ex-girlfriend’s house, and I promised the judge I would stop hanging around there with a camera.

If you were wandering around Beirut and happened to see one of these things you could be forgiven for thinking that you were about to wander into a very confused (Arab) white supremacist district. That is unless you had learned a few things about Beirut’s recent history. Gather round children, Beirut Beat is about to tell you a little story…

Pierre Gemayel: An artist's impression.

Once upon a time, in 1936, a young pharmacist by the name of Pierre Gemayel travelled Berlin to watch the Olympics as the captain the Lebanese football team. Gemayel, a man of grand political ambition, was truly impressed by the order and discipline of the blossoming authoritarian regime. In an interview with the superb Robert Fisk, Gemayel explained how he thought fascism was exactly what Lebanon needed.

‘I was the captain of the Lebanese football team and the president of the Lebanese Football federation. We went to the Olympic Games of 1936 in Berlin. And I saw then this discipline and order. And I said to myself: “Why can’t we do the same thing in Lebanon?” So when we came back to Lebanon, we created this youth movement. When I was in Berlin then, Nazism did not have the reputation which it has now. Nazism? In every system in the world, you can find something good. But Nazism was not Nazism at all. The word came afterwards. In their system, I saw discipline. And we in the Middle East, we need discipline more than anything else.’    

Fisk, R. (1990). Pity the Nation, the abduction of Lebanon.

Kataeb party logo in Ashrafieh

After returning from the games (the Gold medal for football being awarded to Italy in case you were wondering) Gemayel and four of his chums (namely Charles Helou, Shafic Nassif, Emile Yared and Georges Naccache) founded the Kataeb Party, sometimes known as the Phalangist Party, with the goal of bringing order and achieving an independent and sovereign Lebanon free of all foreign influence.

Whilst the party never had the same fascist intentions as the Nazi’s, they borrowed the brown uniforms, one arm salute and use of swastika as their unofficial symbol. The rest, as they say, is history but now is not the time to continue with that story.

Instead I will let you wonder what on Earth Hitler would have made of Beirut’s dubstep music scene…

Hitler prefers emo to dubstep.

INGREDIENTS 

1 Beirut Street Cat (small)

1kg Zaatar

25 years of THE WAR

A never ending text message conversation with a Lebanese girl

3 Wastas

1 Hezbollah T-shirt

The entire Fairuz back catalog on CD

More Zaatar. Much more.

INSTRUCTIONS

For the Beirut Beat Street Cat Soup we always use free range kittens, which are easy enough to source as they are ranging free all over the city. I usually pick a few up on my way back from Spinneys Supermarket. Just smother your fingers in anchovy oil and they practically jump into your arms. The fools.

To get started, sprinkle a bit of Zaatar in the pan and get the heat going. Pop on your Hezbollah T shirt and throw in a bit more Zaatar. Then add some Zaatar and we are ready to go.

After you have added a bit more Zaatar, you realise that your gas has run out. Time to call up one of your Wastas and get some delivered. Check your phone and realise you have 16 messages from a Lebanese girl who stands you up every time you arrange a date. Continue this pointless dialogue and add a bit more Zaatar.

Whilst kitty is bubbling away, play the Fairuz albums, skipping to the weird tracks where she is singing about how she went home with some guy to get a glass of water or some Zaatar and the guy turns off the lights in the room and she is really creeped out. The subtle melodies really give the Street Cat a misogynistic tenderness.

Fairuz: In the dark.

Check your phone and reply to one of the 78 text messages from the girl who will almost certainly stand you up again tonight. BUT SHIT! Her Dad has found out and is on his way over chop your meatballs off! Use your second Wasta to ensure you can still pee without a tube in the morning.

Add a bit more Zaatar and look out of your kitchen window at the bullet holes in the wall and remember THE WAR, THE WAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRR!

Bullet holes in Beirut: This is actually outside my house.

Check to see if your Street Cat is done,  invite the girl over to share the soup, get turned down because she is on a date with someone else. Call up your final Wasta and invite him over instead. Wastas love soup.

Tastes best served with a little sprinkle of Zaatar.

ENJOY!

(NB: NO BLOGGERS WERE HARMED MAKING THIS POST)

His name is Jean Paul Catre

They never saw me coming...

I love supermarkets. Yes, I said it. But I am not alone.

You love the supermarket too. It’s okay, you can admit it. You may occasionally indulge in conversations about how you only buy ‘local’ and ‘organic’ produce from some ‘independent’ cheese boutique.

But deep down in your little consumer heart, you love to roll along those aisles and drool at the heaving walls of breakfast cereals and tins of anchovies and shoe polish and little cakes with hilarious names.

Under those bright lights you gleefully toss the packages into the shopping trolley, your mind in a celestial haze far away from the grinding boredom of real life. You feel safe there. You feel good.

You may think you visit the Supermarket to buy food, but it is you in fact who is being eaten. Not products but vicious beasts prowl those shelves, hungry for the green paper in your wallets. You may believe you choose which items end up in your basket, but it is the items that choose you.

People don’t like to think they are being sold too. It makes them feel cheated, tricked. Enlightened souls try to educate us about the evils of ‘consumerism’ and how advertising and branding actually force you to get up off your greasy sofas and buy ‘things you don’t need’.

It's not consumerism if you don't pay for it.

Relentless in their fight against ‘The Man’ these erudite beings  use their smartphones to discuss ‘consumerism’ as wander round those same supermarket aisles, picking up their Fairtrade oatcakes and vegan wine. I know this because I have seen them. I hide between the stacks of extra value toilet roll and watch them muse away. And I have seen you too.

Those bleak orbs glowing from inside a mountain of cheesy flavoured puffs? The whispering from within the columns of bleach? The messages written in condensation against a chiller cabinet full chicken kievs? That is me. Lurking. Watching. Waiting.

You may not have time to really scrutinize over which little carton of cream is best for that recipe you are making tonight. Unlike myself, you probably have somewhere important to be.

Instead you reach out with a quivering hand and grab something off the shelf. But unknown forces are at work.  As you leaned towards that bottle of shrew’s milk you actually took in consideration the brand names, the colours, the logos, the prices, the special offers…

I'm not there.

You are too busy to really care what it says on the label anyway. ‘Pah, I have a life!’ you say.

I am different. I want to be sold to.

I spend hours staring at a row of products which are obviously all exactly the same and ask the question.

‘Why? Why should I buy YOU? Why? Why? Why?’

I used to actually ask this question out loud to the packets of bacon miss-shapes until my therapist explained it was one of the reasons I kept getting arrested (thanks Paula).

Today my mission was simple. I needed a bottle of squirty kitchen cleaner stuff to try to remove a layer of grime from my camping stove. An easy choice you might think.

Staring at me from the shelf at eye level (a position that brands pay big money to occupy) was a motley crew of poisonous water guns, each one emblazoned with its own little message of hope and lies.

First up we have ‘AJAX Cuisine’ with the absurd claim of ‘100% Brilliance’. How on Earth the boys in the lab come up with that statistic I will never know.

Things you don't need: Bacon Misshapes

Paling by comparison, ‘SCOTCH BRIGHT’ could merely claim it cleaned surfaces ‘Easily’. To me, this sounds like pure laziness, the empty threat of a brand of neon bleach that had never seen the post-apocalyptic horrors of my kitchen.

With a quiet dignity, ‘DETTOL Kitchen’ took me through a series of benefits that was nicely summed up by suggesting it could kill ’99.9% of germs’. A fine set of credentials I am sure you will agree.

Until, that is, you notice ‘AJAX Super’ claiming a second spot in the top 4 for the AJAX overlord. In a display of gratuitous arrogance, the Manchester City of cleaning products claims to outdo DETTOL by killing ’99.99% of germs!’ How could I resist?

Just as I am muttering a final decision to myself, the familiar strong arm of the security guard grips my shoulder in that loving way and leads me away somewhere. My consumer experience for today is about to end. But there is always tomorrow.

‘Paula, yeah, he’s here again…’

The Security Guard says he used to be in a band.

At night, the streets of Hamra and Gemmeyzeh are lined with expensive cars. People of all ages can enjoy alcoholic beverages in bars playing the latest R n B musical ‘songs’. These streets are also occupied by young children trying to sell flowers and chewing gum.

At first,I found the contrast between smooth rolling Mercedes and glimmering iPhones next to 10 year old kids trying to sell roses to be disturbing. In fact it still disturbs me. And so it should.

I developed an interesting bond with some of these young fellows after I started taking my guitar out into the street to perform. I never do it for the cash, I just like playing the guitar. The flower seller kids usually gather round, try to encourage passers-by to give me money and generally seem to enjoy that someone else is trying to whore themselves out for public enjoyment.

There is one kid who thinks he is 50 Cent and likes to rap over my guitar playing. He is about 14. After one particularly successful jam session (think Jimmy page meets Puff Daddy meets several bottles of Famous Grouse whisky) I tried to give little Busta Rhymes the money we had made (about 20,000LL). He refused to take it.

No idea who this kid is. Found the pic on google.

I don’t think anyone is under the impression that these children are actually ‘homeless’ and sleep in dark alleyways. But I at least had never given much thought as to who they actually work for. Until last Friday that is.

On a one man mission to prove that Bob Dylan is better than Lady Gaga, I was belting out the tunes accompanied by my usual flower selling chums. 50 Cent kid shows up, walking with a golf umbrella like a cane. Total pimp.  I must have looked like the Fagin of the iPod generation.

As one of the kids was trying to explain (in Arabic) that I should push the guitar case further into the street to get more money, a strange character walked past.

Me on a Friday night.

He was built like the terminator, biceps bigger than my thighs, hair scraped back into a ponytail. He grunted an order at the flower boys. The kids  jumped up, literally terrified of him, and ran off to their previous positions with their roses.

Muscle head looked me in the eyes, smiled, put his hands together as if saying a prayer then strutted off down the street.

Perhaps he was their Dad?

Perhaps not.

‘You don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows.’

Bob Dylan

I miss Glasgow today, so I am posting a poem I wrote some time ago after consuming a vast quantity of a local beverage known as ‘whisky’, which is enjoyed beside raging open fires and in rainy bus stops all over the country.

The poem is a short one, about the day I quit my job at the Mental Health Unit in Govan. It’s called ‘Last day on the job’.

‘Last day on the job’

The River Clyde is a big dirty snake and you are riding its back, somehow.

It slithers along, through the town and then down,

But you are not going that way, not now.Just over the bridge, to the other side,

Where glass like confetti is sprinkled around.

Past the houses and car parks and pubs all still sleeping.

Cross the road where the men from the council are sweeping.Past the underground station.

Past a barking Alsation.

Past remains of last night’s auto cremation.Just pull up you scarf son,

Bow your head and be patient.

It’s your last day on the job…

x

Aaaaaaaaaaand sit back down.

So CNN have been here and apparently got it all wrong. All fucking wrong.

A coveted Lebanese blogger, Our Man in Beirut, wrote a post this week discussing and despairing over this clip from a rational and reasoned perspective.

But if you have ever been on this site before (and if you haven’t then welcome) you will know that ‘rational’ and ‘reasoned’ are words that have been scratched out of our dictionary with a bloodied unicorn’s hoof.

Apart from the incongruous geographical comparisons (‘Before the war, Lebanon was considered the Switzerland of the Middle East’) and the fact that half the people interviewed seem unable to deliver a line without stuttering and getting confused, this piece of PR presents what I believe to be some very inaccurate and possibly damaging press for Lebanon.

Q: Why is it inaccurate?

Oh, thanks for asking. When watching CNN’s little clip I began to worry that people in other parts of the world might think that Beirut (and possibly Lebanon as a whole) is a nation of juvenile, neon idiots, pissing absurd amounts of money they didn’t earn off gratuitous rooftop nightclubs, waving their iPhones at waiters carrying trays of cocktails and downloading personality upgrades from their nearest pre-pay hotspot.

These excuses for human beings do unfortunately reside in, or at least visit annually, this otherwise great country, but it would be a travesty for anyone, even people who watch CNN, to think that this is the norm.

Q: Why is it damaging?

For the sole reason that more of the idiots described above might flock here from other countries. This could be very dangerous. If too many soulless turds were to flock to Beirut then we may face ‘Idiot Mass’.

This is a critical condition where a combination of bottomless bank accounts, vacuous girls in miniskirts, guys who look like they have just come out of ovens and meaningless high-fives create a vortex that will envelope the whole country and suck it away to the sort of horrific Soviet Russian labour camp that Ivan Denisovich had nightmares about.

Q: Oh no! What can we do?

A: Carry on NOT being a prick.

Whether you follow the local music scene, play 5-a-side football, compete with your friends at network gaming in internet cafe’s, design bespoke clothing or furniture, are involved in poetry or martial arts… keep doing it.

This city is much more than a series of expensive, glow in the dark twat-traps.

And if CCN have a problem with that. They can kiss my Skybar.

Now I know I have developed a small reputation, fighting with cab drivers, sticking my arm down toilets and posting incongruous sex listings on Craigslist, but I have to level with you and be honest. As much as I want to check this place out, I have never been into G Bar.

Reason? I am too scared.

I popped my head in the door once. Sitting on the bar was an enormously obese woman with surgically enhanced lips that looked like sausage skin filled with too much miscellaneous meat. She stared at me like a sea creature I had discovered under a rock. I didn’t even get a look around the place, I just ran away.

I want to go back though, but not to have sex with rancid sea creatures. My plan is to go in, dressed up like a tourist, with a map and money bag, and ask to see the wine list. Of course I will never do this, I don’t want to end up chained to a radiator with a manoushe stuffed in my mouth.

But someone, somewhere must have been in there.

Anyone care to enlighten me?

I won’t tell your mothers. Honestly…

I told the driver I wanted a ‘service’ (short distance rate taxi, about $1.50) to Spinneys (a supermarket about 5 minutes drive from where I was standing). The driver pulled off the main street and took a turn. This was not unusual, most Taxi drivers know some backstreet route that they think will help them avoid the traffic. Then my phone buzzed with a text message.

Replying to the message I realised there were several other texts that I had not seen that also needed responding to. This meant that I spent the next 5 minutes playing about with my phone and not paying attention to where we were going. When I finished with the phone I looked up and didn’t have a clue where I was.

For about a minute I tried to look out for familiar buildings. I lived in the same area as the supermarket and it became obvious that we were not anywhere close. Then I saw the highway out of town.

‘Mate, where the fuck are you going?’ The driver ignored me at first. ‘Mate, this is not the way to Spinneys’. He looked at me in the mirror.

‘Spinneys this way’ he said pointing at the highway.

‘No, Spinneys is in Ashrafieh, close to where you picked me up. Pull over, now!’ He pulled the cab over at a roundabout.

We argued for some minutes about where Spinneys was. The driver was convinced there was no Spinneys in Ashrafieh, only one out on the highway. I told him he was wrong and that he should take me back there and I would show him. He was having none of it.

‘You pay me now. How much you pay me?’ He had turned around in his seat, an overweight man in his 40s. I said I was not going to pay him anything until he took me to Ashrafieh.

‘OK, I call Police.’

What we both knew, but he presumably did not think I knew, was that first of all the Police would never come if you were to ‘call’ them. They probably wouldn’t even come if someone had been murdered. Secondly, if the Police were to come they would almost certainly side with me in this situation. Nobody in Lebanon wants to project the image that foreigners get ripped off by everyone. This fact is probably what saved me, as we shall see. I looked him in the eye. ‘Call the Police.’

Knowing he had nothing else to bargain with a viscous rage engulfed the driver. Shouting wildly in Arabic he leaned into the back of the car and slowly pushed his fist into my face. I jumped out of the cab and so did he.

Now if we were in another part of town I could have just walked off. I was only 6.45 and there were plenty of people around. But we were parked next a very busy roundabout, crossing it would not be easy and I didn’t have a clue where I was. And the fat man was coming towards me.

I tried to rationalize the situation. Perhaps he really didn’t know where the supermarket was. Perhaps he thinks I am trying to rip him off. Perhaps I have been acting harshly. Then he stepped towards me and grabbed my throat.

In a reflex I bent his arm and pushed him off me and jumped back. Instant thought. Can I beat him in a fight. Answer? Yes, definitely. Second thought. Do I want to beat up a middle-aged Taxi driver in broad daylight in the middle of a busy roundabout? Answer. Definitely not.

As I pushed him away he had grasped again and caught hold of the headphones around my neck, big old-fashioned over-ear things. He had ripped one of the ear pieces right off and held it his hand and looked at it for a minute, before tossing it in the road and coming at me again.

I swung a warning punch at his face, not making any contact, and cocked my right arm dramatically ready to land a real one. He kept coming at me and I kept throwing jabs at him. By this point I had started screaming from the bottom of my lungs.

‘IMGONNAKILLYOUYOUFUCKINGCUNTIFYOUDARETRYTOTOUCHMEAGAINDONTTHINKIAMFUCKINGAROUNDYOUHAVENOIDEAHOWFARIWILLGOJUSTYOUFUCKINGTRYMEEEEEEEE!!!!!’

After a few more lunges he stepped back and started laughing. He had not expected this. Before he could try again a passing mob of young guys on mopeds had stopped and joined us on the roundabout. They left their bikes in the middle of the road, blocking traffic, which brought more people, getting out of cars joining the fun. The mob separated us and about 6 guys were holding me back.

At this point I realised I was in a bit of trouble. No one could speak English and unlike the Taxi driver, who was now calmly explaining away some bullshit to the mob, I cannot speak Arabic. Humans are human but a mob is animal. Another car pulled up wanting to get past the mass of vehicles blocking the road. Fortunately for me he could speak English.

Still guarded by two of the guys that had arrived on mopeds, I explained my situation, that the Taxi driver had taken me to wrong place then shoved a fist in mouth and tried to throttle me when I refused to pay unless he took me back. He relayed this information to the mob.

Within seconds then had surrounded the driver and pushed him back towards his cab. He was still protesting vociferously as they pushed him inside and told him to fuck off.

When he was gone the rounded me, asking if I was alright. One of the guys offered to take me back into town on the back of his moped. When I declined he offered me 5000LL to get another taxi. A young German-Lebanese guy emerged from the crowd and said he was going my way, we could share a cab together. The mob got back on their mopeds and we walked off down the hill together.

After walking down the hill a Taxi pulled up. ‘Hey boys, want a lift? Asharfieh? 10000LL?’ I don’t need to tell you who it was.

Two mopeds pulled up beside the cab and the mob boys from earlier jumped off and started screaming at the driver. I thought for a minute they would pull him through his window. He drove quickly off and they gave us a nod before driving off after him.