Christmas rolled through Egypt

like a scrap-cart full of high sulphur coal pulled by half a dozen hungry reindeer. A fat guy in a gold braid hat on top cracking the whip. “On Ahmed, on Mohamed. On Magdy, on Michael.” Then came the New Year and the killing began. Children paddling in cow blood, smearing it on their faces and sucking their thumbs. Which would be all very well, if the animal hadn’t bled to death in the gutter, shitting itself, legs flapping like the paddles on a blender amongst the discarded candy wrappers and thrown away nappies, whipping the mess into a frothy bacterial borsch of the merriest sort.

Can’t remember what’s halal there and what’s not.

Here at Nation of Pearls, the holidays were a time of quiet contemplation. We piled into the Caddy and hit the Palm Club out in Saqqara for a couple of days. Wrapped in blankets, huddled around shishas by that kidney shaped pool. Only Snatch—who was ridiculously high on some Afghan weed he bought from a Saudi prostitute at the Marriot—went in for a paddle. He was blue in minutes and made Terence give him CPR. That wasn’t a pretty sight at all.

Thank God it’s over, though I for one would have thanked Him more if it had never begun, but there we are. Respect for tradition and so on.

Come on kids. Time to go home and wash up.