Good evening my friends, and welcome back to the wonderful world of Syrian President and your
new best mate – me, Bashar al-Assad!
I hope you all had nice Christmases and did not suffer the indignity of western press printing a
poor photograph of yourself. In spite of what you may have seen, I do not have a weak fucking
chin. It is merely a temporary, stress-related medical condition. There is so much important work
to do here, often with little administrative support.
Then there are the bloody UN inspectors. Always bothering me, saying they must “make sure” all “chemical stockpiles” have been “destroyed”. I tell
you my friends, they are pests. Even when I am one thousand per cent compliant with such idiocy and say so in very plausible manner, still they
buzz around in their silly helmets asking “is anything in there Bashar?” or “what is that strange smell Bashar?” or “where are those blood-chilling
As 2013 end I get my own back. The UN go through military bases all day 31st December while I arrange for
massive firework display to celebrate coming New Year. There were many great flashes and loud bangs and
the inspectors did not like it at all. You should have seen their faces. I was laughing like the fucking drain.
Then I get on social media to round up friends for biggest night of year. Unfortunately my pal Vlad Putin is out taming wilderness
and overpowering bears in hand to hand combat. Others are not so keen either, saying: “I wash my hair” or “where you are
proposing has no fire exits” or “there is good chance I will die in shooting if I go outside front door”. Well, I tweet them back to say
stop being such pussies. If you don’t join me and Asma and kiddies in big fun-time NYE party, the next time we meet you will get punch in throat. After that I hear
nothing. Their wi-fi must have gone off.
No matter, I call all office and household staff into lead-lined study to ask one by one if they will join us. Funnily
enough, everyone standing before me with eyes on floor can make it. Great!
So, on 31st December, myself, fragrant wife and two youngest children take armoured taxi to Aleppo’s hottest
nitespot (Hafez, my eldest, was otherwise engaged; out with friends looking to mutilate those disloyal to the regime).
On arrival we discover ‘Muralhadeen’s’ remains intact; a wonderful, garish establishment in exclusive, and still
standing, eastern district of city. We are ushered in by efficient, if somewhat twitchy, manager Juan.
Well, despite all the balloons and loud-playing ‘Piano House’
(which I love) the club appear to have no customers except
those I bring. Juan say it is because Aleppo’s richest residents
are currently on long holidays. Really, really long holidays. He
cannot say when they return. Then Juan disappear into back-room mumbling something about “Allah, give me
strength”.
At bar I greet employees with warm embrace and ask if anyone want drink. Every one of them has really made
effort – clearly no one wish to begin 2014 getting tortured like I threaten! Smiley-face wink, wink! Even my gardener
resemble sophisticated society figure for once (at least, he does once I spit on handkerchief and wipe dirt from his
They all refuse kind offer, saying I have done enough for them. What they don’t know is that bar free for me, so I
order cocktail I invent myself. It is called ‘Kill the Infidel’ and contain mix of gin, Jagermeister, half a fruit salad,
sprinkle of dried yak’s blood and one roman candle to taste. The kids get Fanta.
We nod along to hot DJ sounds then take to dance floor, which has been reserved for us. I show off sophisticated
moves I see Hairy Biker do on your Strictly to deafening round of applause, every time. I am in such good mood, on
visiting bathroom, I take lollipop from toilet attendant and do not have his eyeballs gouged out when he ask me for
But on return from facilities what do I fucking see but Asma at bar, ignoring Zein and little Karim who run around
yelping because of all the e-numbers. Asma is staring into hunky barman’s eyes, demanding he give her ‘Screaming Orgasm’ immediately.
Well, what can Bashar do but walk across and join in with their laughter and flirtation before having cocktail waiter
removed, locked up and soundly beaten with twigs. The kids remain out of control and so, as clock strike midnight,
Asma and I in argument about whether she allowed to talk to men who aren’t me. To stop fragrant wife going
complete batshit I halt our bulletproof vehicle on way home to buy her large chicken shish.
The number one doner meat vendor in Syria is well known to me so, when I come through door to greet old friend
Jerry Istanbul, he break into big smile and all colour drain from his face.
What I don’t know is that stolen military truck has followed us here to
Aleppo’s ‘Planet of Kebab’. Someone must have told those rebels the
al-Assads were out on the town! But fear not my friends; Bashar and
fragrant wife escape unharmed. When gunfire start Asma dive on me for
protection and we fall to floor, glass and garlic sauce and that horrible red cabbage shit no one like flying everywhere as
elephant leg come off rotating pole and roll around on floor with unpleasant squelching sound.
I will not bore loyal readers with detail of how Bashar escape sticky spot and bad men no doubt affiliated with al-Qaeda, or
whether I ever get cheese on my chips. Enough to say, old pal Jerry Istanbul lay down life for leader, covering our vitals as we
exit through toilets which really need to be inspected more frequently. Oh well, I suppose Jerry dead now so it doesn’t matter.
Quite a night, and when adrenalin wear off back home I realise I have not been this irritated since my moving Facebook tribute to personal inspiration Nelson Mandela was misinterpreted by your fucking western media. Or when they accuse me of “authorising war crimes at the highest level”. Of course I authorise things at "the highest level” - that is where I reside! I would say to spouting lackeys; one man’s war crime is another man’s complicated piece of work to project manage. Your hacks would do well to remember this.
I digress. Everyone get away safe, aside from a number of minor people who I didn’t know and we need not concern
ourselves with here. After failing in mission, Bashar’s enemies go on to take pissant village of Maaloula under their
control which they can keep as far as I’m concerned. It’s a shithole.
Such hair-raising escapades just a normal night out in thrilling world of Bashar al-Assad. You wusses over in England
(aside from Tommy Robinson, who is legend) must forget so-called ‘extreme sports’ and holidays off beaten track,
places where the worst threat is dysentery or poisonous little snakey. Come to Aleppo on vacation instead, and feel
the hot kiss of life-or-death struggle every single day, you jaded fucks. We welcome paying visitors with open arms.
You know, I even stop with the barrel bombing for now, while saying repeatedly that I also destroy chemical weapons,
so why stay away? We have wonderful nightclub and will give you memorable bloody evening. Also, with enough
warning, I can get you on the guest list.
