"Mohammed," said the man from the government, "this is an opportunity. A truly wonderful opportunity. You will be paid generously for it, Allah be praised."

Allah can go take a jump, I thought. Allah has much to answer for.

But this would not have been good thing to say. Men have been hanged for less. And the government man had a point, really. This job is definitely better than a great deal of unpleasantness that could have befallen me had I refused it.

So now, I am Hanish. A statesman. A good man, Anwar assures me because he has seen him on the television.

England is cold. It is grey. It is only tolerable because of the VIP treatment I am being (rightly) granted and my brother-in-law's presence.

Anwar is also a good man. Efficient and loyal, even if he has put on a little weight since his retirement from our country's police, and mainly thanks to a slight weakness for my dear sister's date and honey pastries. And, of course, he accepted this job gladly once I had secured his valuable assistance and assured the man from the government of his talents and loyalty. It will be, as Anwar agreed, a welcome addition to his income as a salesman of fine imported household appliances (although he has been eternally grateful to me for procuring this employment for him).

A man must look after his family, even if certain members of my family have at times been a little harsh on me for my choice of career and… other things.

Ah. I am being presented to those in charge of my protection. The man from the government has assured me they are professionals.

Professionals? They look like hooligans. Speak like hooligans. One of them would be well advised to see a dental surgeon to get that chipped tooth replaced with a gold one, as is the custom among my people.

And how dare they call my keffiyeh a tea towel, thinking I do not understand them? Ignorant pigs. Truly, these cannot be security experts worthy of the name. Look at their dress! Does that one need to wear patched clothing? Clothing so tight?


The Rolls Royce, however, is pleasant. A wonderful opportunity indeed, I think to myself. What a shame Hanish does not consume alcohol, since there is a well-stocked bar cleverly integrated in the vehicle, or so these idiots are joking. Unlike the traditions of women remaining discreet, the Qu'ran's teachings on alcohol are, in my opinion, outdated but I do not, of course, share this reflection.

Gunfire! This is not pleasant. And running in ample robes is not an art I have mastered with sufficient skill, I realise, since I am more an adept of Western clothing myself – smart Western clothing with designer labels. Purchased in the better part of the souk. And a curse on those who claim that they are cheap copies made in Taiwan.

I must not stoop to being sick, but the sight of that blood nearly upset my stomach…

No, that's better. We are safe. Once more I have adopted the regal attitude of Hanish and a suitable amount of disdain in my very posture. A shame about the driver, perhaps, but he is, of course, extendable. Expendable?

And what, may I ask, does tinkle bell mean? Anwar looks equally confused: why do they call him that?

Oh, Tinkerbell. The patched-jeans wearer says it again and the other one mutters a strange comment about fairies not normally having moustaches. A fairy? Does that not mean a colloquial term for…

I had no idea that moustaches were an indication of one's preferences for men or women in England. How interesting! But since as Hanish, I do not officially understand English, I just store this information away, and vow to tell my sister of her husband's new knickers name.

Or was that the right word? I must purchase more foreign reading material with a view to international contracts. My treasured comics are now somewhat well-thumbed, and even the excellent James Bond paperback has seen better days. Sadly, our television is currently showing very little material in English, either, and my hopes of seeing James Bond in action have so far remained unfulfilled. Such an elegant-sounding man.

I dream of starring in a commercial where I am dressed in a dining suit, holding a gun, just like on the book's cover, although this would perhaps not be appropriate to sell household appliances?

More running. I am most definitely not fond of running and even less of being shot at.

If I believed in Allah I would praise him for ensuring that the bullets have, so far, avoided me. Perhaps I should offer up a brief prayer of thanks just in case.

Such an insolent young man at the wheel. And such tight jeans. These cannot be comfortable.

He is, however – and for a European – somewhat attractive. And uncomfortable though the jeans look, they have certain… merits.

For several moments, I am again in my own skin: that of an actor who enjoys the flesh of other men and who (until recently) had been able to conceal this from the ridiculous, self-righteous officials who enjoy humiliating others.

But no, I must be Hanish, who has a wife and many children, Anwar told me.

I am Hanish precisely because my country needs me, I remind myself in an attempt to be courageous in the face of danger, just as James Bond was. And even if this 'wonderful opportunity' is in fact what I am doing in exchange for a 'sightless eye' being turned by those idiots who threatened me with punishment for my 'sins'.

Or is that a blinding eye? Truly, English can be a tongue of the devil.

And speaking of devils, a curse on the evil dog who betrayed me upon finding me in the hammam with Mustafa! It was all the fault of those who hired him for that soft drinks commercial on the next set to mine. All long eyelashes and slim hips…and that mouth around the bottleneck…

Thoughts of all that were enough to make me fumble my lines when I set eyes on him. But no, I did not. I am a professional. Never has a commercial for a vacuum cleaner been so superb, if I say it myself. That first encounter – before the unfortunate one where we were discovered – was just what gives a man vigour.

I wonder what happened to Mustafa? Is he by now in prison? Well, he will at least make plenty of the inmates happy if he is.

I suppose he looked just a little like this so-called security agent. Or in body type at least, as there are few natives of my countries with such strange hair.

That patch on his jeans is… somewhat… interesting when he moves. He has a boom to die for. Or should that be arse?

Who is this wretched woman, however? What is a woman of our country doing in all this? Why isn't she at home, raising children and making food for her husband? Why is she not dressed with suitable discretion?

For the love of Allah! Why is the man engaging in courtship rituals with her? Should he not be performing his duties of protecting me?

More gunfire. This, I do not like. But at least he is concentrating on preserving our lives rather than on the woman again. I entreat Allah to sharpen his aim and to continue the good work so far. I even promise to go to the mosque upon my return if he does so.

Climbing out of a window? Oh, please.

At least the other security man (with less tight trousers) is back. The slim one – Doyull? – appears pleased about this although he is also angry about all the gunfire.

Anger suits him. His friend – Bo-Dee? – is clearly not pleased either. Anger has made them reveal their names: I am an observant man.

More running. More bullets. This is worse – oh, much worse – than repeated takes on a film set.

Anwar!

My poor sister. He will never eat her pastries ever again, I think as once more it is time to run.

A boat. I do not like boats and small ones in particular. Hanish may not suffer from seasickness, but I, Mohammed, do. Maintaining dignity could be a problem but I shall endeavour to overcome it, as always.

My heart breaks for Anwar, but I must still play my role. I am still a professional, just as I am in front of a camera. I just hope they will not consider that I am cowering in the backside of the boat. Or is that a sternum?

Stupid, stupid woman. Women are not put on this earth to fire guns. And more blood… but I shall not faint. I am…

Take your hands away from my face, woman! Just because you are injured and my stomach is somewhat unsettled on this wretched boat does not give you the right…

A curse on her! May she never bear children! May her pastries taste of dog excrement!

Angry, shocked faces look at me as she glares, as she calls me an impostor.

I am a professional. I am serving my country. And they must know this. Anwar has given his life for this. I may not be Hanish, but I have carried out my mission, and done it well. For the greater good of sparing our statesman's life.

I tell them this as the journey continues. I am sure they are impressed with my fluent English, and their surprise at hearing me speak their language is, in fact, rather enjoyable. They roll their eyes as I mention the greater good, however, but this is perhaps an English custom signifying agreement?

And he really does have quite extraordinary eyes, Doyull with the tight jeans, I decide as we reach our final destination. Although, sadly, he still appears rather too concerned about what is clearly only a scratch on the woman's arm.

If the opportunity arose, I would surely be able to seduce him, although I do wonder if he would react badly to the idea of pleasures of the flesh between two men – at least at first. Challenges, however, have never prevented me from achieving ambitions… and this would have been a challenge to be savoured.

Soon, however, I shall be on my homeward journey, safe in the knowledge that I shall no doubt be welcomed home as a hero. I only hope the crew are equipped with seasickness pills as I bid the two men farewell with statesmanlike dignity.

They stand there as the ship begins to move, and a little regret grasps my heart as I see them finally turn away.

Perhaps I should entertain the thought of purchasing tight jeans and having a tailor in the souk apply a patch? This is clearly some kind of symbol among these strange people: I mean, Bo-Dee is actually patting…

In truth, I am forced to admit, it appears to be simply an expression of relief, since Doyull still seems taken with that Leila harridan. What is more, I would not put it past his partner to go chasing that strident blonde woman with the boat and I would not put it past her to submit to his desires. I am a perceptive man – and British women are of course clearly shameless as is well known. At least the object of my admiration has the good sense to choose a woman from my country, loose as she clearly is.

What a loss, I think again, to distract my mind from thoughts of stupid, brazen European women. Anwar's death, and being deprived of the opportunity to become more intimately acquainted with such a man. He may be European, but he is… unique. It is hard to take my eyes off him or to think of other things.

I would even have been prepared to share the pleasures of Doyull's body: either with the Leila woman if he insisted, but ideally with his partner, who should really explore the advantages of tighter clothing. Perhaps without clothing he could be quite attractive?

These are things I shall mull over in my mind, at leisure, imagining the glorious image of Doyull crying out in passion, in release – and of course in gratitude for my skills. How, in Allah's name, could he prefer that… that whore to what a man like me could give him?

The thought of him thrusting into her, however, is not without its merits. She is a woman who needs to be taught a lesson, so to be ridden hard, roughly, by that wiry body yet deprived of completion would be a suitable punishment, I feel. Women need to be kept in line. They are also, I have found when resorting to gratification with the female sex, irritatingly long in reaching completion anyway. A complete waste of time and energy, which is why I rarely sacrifice myself these days unless circumstances – like that rather strange film in which I (naturally) starred – demand it.

The payment for servicing (what else could one call it) several rather stupid European women in front of a camera was mediocre anyway, although this was to some extent compensated for by the delightful young man – a local boy – who held the clapping board and who appreciated my skills most vociferantly behind the sound equipment after filming.

However, I decide, and as the saying goes, there are always more fish in the ocean and there is no point in crying over five o'clock tea. Other slim-hipped men will soon be begging for my attention, insh'allah. I am, as the clapping board boy confirmed, unresistable.

I shall retire to my quarters now, I think, and make some calculations. On my return home, I shall make sure that Anwar's portion of our fee will be paid. And, of course, I shall make sure a suitable sum is handed onto my sister although clearly it would be more appropriate for my good self to handle this, so I shall insist it is paid to me.

I am a generous man. Fortunately, my sister's needs are modest, for I am already imagining myself selecting a new wardrobe. Perhaps even to purchase a dining suit.

What did they mean by "generous payment", I wonder? A curse on myself for not establishing clear facts and figures, but no doubt it will be… generous. Of course it will.

Is that deck hand smiling at me as I pull the robe over my head and fling it overboard? The one with slim hips?

Perhaps he can console me a little. He would no doubt be an excellent alternative to seasickness medication, and will no doubt be flattered by the attention of a famous actor who has moreover accomplished a mission of vital importance for our beloved homeland.

Doyull, I decide, does not know what he is missing. But generous as I am, I hope he will find gratification in whatever form and with whoever he wishes.

Because in the end, he is also a professional, like myself.

And he would look superb in a keffiyeh…

… and nothing else.