Bakri’s Dirty Dozen

“GOT anything for me, son?” asks Omar Bakri, his sun-bleached beard bristling in the warm breeze, his lavender-tinted glasses catching the ray’s of the early morning sun as it rises over the ancient Levant coastline.

Abdul Raham Fostok laughs. “Well, pop, you know that £13,000 I had in cash, the money in an envelope marked ‘Daddy’?”

Bakri nods. “Well, I got to Heathrow and yadda yadda yadda I don’t have it any more.”

Bakri laughs a little harder. “No matter,” he says. “Money is the root of all evil. Who needs it? My only hope is that you spent it on hard drugs and loose women. Let’s get some cake.”

Of course, the reality of the situation may be far removed from this scene.

But until the Sun catches up with the mad mullah, we can only make an educated guess at what passed between him and his son, who has made the journey from London to Beirut to be with his dear old dad.

What we do know is that on passing through Heathrow Airport, Fostok was questioned by the authorities.

The police found the money. They saw the label marked “Daddy”. They took notes. They may have exchanged knowing glances and deep meaningful looks. They put two and two together. They came up with some kind of answer, which they will now check with their superiors.

And the Home Office will, as the Sun says, ask for a formal High Court Seizure order.

As a police source says: “We’re sure this money was intended for Bakri. We will be looking at where it came from.”

And while the police turn over the envelope and take careful note of the word “Manila”, Bakri and his boy sip on cocktails and watch the girls go by…

Posted: 25th, October 2006 | In: Broadsheets Comment | TrackBack | Permalink