There is no oil for the lamps.
“What is truth?” said Pilate; and then, like me, he pissed off quick for fear he got an answer. Well, I shall just tell you: Truth is a very grey area; very, very grey.
I mention Pilate because oftentimes at Cambridge, I would dream of the Roman goddess Levana and wonder when her bestowed gifts would kick in. It was my Jesuit schooling impinging you see. I am positive it would have totally buggered up a lesser man. Made him shifty and withdrawn perhaps. Not me. You see, by then I had developed a strategy to cope:drugs and cunning.
My panacea, my φαρμακον νηπενθες, * was and is, strong drink and the Jesuits taught me the cunning.
The upshot is, that by my clever deployment of what might be called "turning the cat in the pan", certain things have come to light; it turns out that I am not to blame after all for our local difficulties in Araby and am to be sent back like Gandalf the White, to finish off what weak men could only begin. I am sent back out to Saudi, v soon. Can’t wait. Before you know it, I’ll be in the compound rumpus room playing Islamic bingo.

We have a local bingo caller, (works for Mecca).

“Right guys and guys, eyes cast down for a full house…

Eye for an eye…number one,
Clicketty click…car-bomb timer,
All the ones…nine-eleven
Number eight…old enough
Seven and six…seventysix, strokes of the lash, was she worth it?
Four-oh…virgins in paradise
Number ten…British pig dog Satan
Number nine…Mullah’s orders
Eighty eight…two fat ladies, how can you tell?
Six and nine...sixty-nine…oral sex
Top of the house...ninety-nine...beard of the Prophet…”

* “drug banishing sorrow” pronounced pharmacon nehpenthes.

I am to be sent home in disgrace (medevac) for the good of the contract and company name. They sent out a director to give me the black spot. I thought I was to be promoted.
“I’m sending you home on leave without the option, before you really fuck up.” was how he put it.
He broke the news to me at that vile breakfast stroke lunch affair which exemplifies company life in overseas compounds.

That "I Hate Maroon" menu in full.

Brunche:
Waffle
Mixed Grilling:
I'm-For-The Chop
With Contract Bedevilled Kidneys
& Frazzled Liver.
or
Not-Bringing-Home-The Bacon
Served With Hash-Of-It Browns And Has Beans.

Eggs Interdict
Cheerios.

Plat Du Monde: Ciao Mein

Desserts Du Jour:
In A Jam Roly-Poly
Eton Mess Of It
Crepe

To Drink:
Aqua Miserable
Sack

Chef De Parti: Harry Vidercci.



* * *

I am sure you know the story of Vedran Smajlović, the Cellist of Sarajevo, who played 22 consecutive days in Peter’s Square under the murderous Serbian mortars. I am equally sure, that few of you will have heard of “The Bagpiper Of Dundee” who yesterday played 20 consecutive minutes at the Nethergate under the glass canopy until he had made enough for a bottle of Emva and a Gregg’s macaroni pie.

As part of the ongoing international effort in the former Yugoslavia, Unicef has twinned Sarajevo with other European towns one of which is our own City of Discovery.
In the nature of these things, the twinning committee toured the devastation in an open-topped bus. The Mexican delegate was particularly moved. Shaking his head sadly, his eyes filling with furious tears; “Serbian bastards!” he swore, his arm sweeping to encompass the whole of the Lochee housing estate.