Anorak | Bakri’s Dirty Dozen

Bakri’s Dirty Dozen

by | 25th, October 2006

“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

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Posted: 25th, October 2006 | In: Broadsheets Comment | Follow the Comments on our RSS feed: RSS 2.0 | TrackBack | Permalink