On joining the wrong terrorist organisation
I've already started writing another book. It's a work of fiction and has rather less swears. Look! I done this, and nary a poo or a vomit in sight.
Toby's worried about a friend...
Dave, one of my oldest and dimmest friends, bored with his day job, has decided to moonlight as an international terrorist, and I fear he may not be long for this world. Determined to prove how serious he is about his impending martyrdom, which he believes is something to do with going down the corner shop for twenty Bensons and a copy of Razzle, he bought himself a pair of dark glasses from the pound shop and has been talking to his "Al-Qaeda cell commander" on MSN. His name is Brian, and he lives with his mum in Biggleswade.
Why, for Cliff's sake, would Dave want to get involved with Al-Qaeda in the first place? He lives in a bungalow, drives a Nissan Micra and had a pretty good career in the warehouse at Argos, who are, as usual, completely out of thermo-nuclear warheads. He's even got a Suffolk Punch lawnmower, the type that puts stripes on your lawn, and diligently composts all his kitchen waste to "give me a nice mulch for next year's garden". This is hardly the talk of a desperate freedom fighter.
And as far as I know, Dave is Church of England, something I am certain would have come out in the job interview.
"Are you willing to lay down your life in the name of God in the battle for Al Quds? Are you willing to die a glorious martyr's death in the battle against the western crusaders who defile our homeland with their murderous Zionist allies? A martyr's death that would see you in paradise with forty-two virgins at your side…"
"...they wouldn't stay virgins for long, I can tell you…"
And: "Is there a pension plan?"
Dave, if you're asking me, is not entirely cut out for a career taking on the excesses of western capitalism's military-industrial complex, armed only with an Eagle-eye Action Man, a former girlfriend's Rampant Rabbit (batteries not included) and a copy of 'The Junior Jihadi Handbook'. This can only end in woe. Pound-you-in-the-backside Guantanamo woe.
Come to think of it, there's not a great deal of scope for a pasty-faced newcomer to this Holy War business these days. Not in Falmouth, when all the action is, frankly, somewhere far more interesting. But that's where poor, soon-to-be-doing-a-fifteen-to-twenty-stretch-in-Dartmoor Dave's tragically misplaced confidence lies.
"Hit the Zionist bastards where they least expect it."
And: "The virgins, guy! Think of the virgins!"
He's going to be letting the tyres down on Tesco delivery lorries and blocking the chemical toilets at the holiday park again. All this on top of his ASBO, an' all.