Last Saturday The Guardian reported that a Mr Moammar Gadaffi of Tripoli had expressed an interest in buying an English football team, specifically Crystal Palace. By Monday, as both the club and his aides denied the rumours, he had subsided into a deep gloom.
”Viceroy,” said his Grand Vizier, ”the error was not yours.”
”It said ‘crystal palace’ in the classifieds,” said Gadaffi, peevishly ruminating on a prune. ”Not Crystal Palace.”
”It did, Brigadier-General. Both the Calligrapher Laureate and Optometrist Royal have confirmed it.”
”And if I told you I wanted to buy a crystal palace, would you assume I wanted some English soccer team, staffed with Nubians and financed by Jews?”
”Never, Air Marshall!”
”Wouldn’t you assume, as a logical man, that I wished to acquire a palace consisting largely of crystal?”
”Always, Grand Dragon!”
”Exactly. Why do the English vex me so? This prune has lost its flavour. Bring me some Quality Streets. Just the green ones. With coconut inside. If I find a praline I’m going to have you castrated.”
The Court Projectionist cleared his throat and bowed. ”Wing Commander, today I will be showing Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. It is the story of an English boy who …”
A great roar echoed through the pink quartz corridors, startling the Peacock of State into flight. ”Torment me not with pubescent English shamans! Put on Dirty Dancing again. Fast forward to the bit where Patrick Swayze sings She’s Like the Wind. That’s a good bit.”
He slumped on to a pouf, a present from Robert Mugabe, who was busily purging all poufs from Zimbabwe. He looked longingly at his empty appointment book.
”Perhaps I should buy Crystal Palace after all,” he said. ”Look what happened to Mohammed al-Fayed after he bought Harrods. They think he’s Winston Shakespeare over there. Ali G interviewed him. Why hasn’t Ali G interviewed me? Is it because I am African?”
But no, he knew, that wasn’t it. It was so unfair. The English liked you or they didn’t. The English and all their stupid little customs; the poached-eggs-before-wicket, banging sausages and mashed potato chips in newspaper, stiff upper chin, their stupid flag that they copied from those novelty underpants you could buy in Carnaby Street. And yet there was something about Hyde Park in summer …
”You’re a man, aren’t you?” he asked the Grand Vizier.
”Thanks to your continued saintly restraint, Holiness.”
”Well then, tell me what a man like Tony Blair is thinking. I called him — I know, I know, you’re not supposed to, but he wasn’t going to make the first move — and it was lovely. How’s the weather, how’s the tent, how’s Cherie, how are the court whippets, that sort of thing. And then he asks me about Lockerbie. I mean, why not just ask if I’ve got herpes?”
”The English are barbaric, Excellency.”
”Verily. So speak: Am I back in favour, enshrined once again in the mildewed English heart, or do I have to send flowers and small cash settlements? They say flowers say it best. I still think napalm and nerve gas say it best. Oh, it’s all so tricky! Maybe I should buy Manchester United also. And Wales. They say it looks a bit like Chad, but not quite so pretty in the spring. Perhaps a crystal palace in Wales. I could turn the first sod, and abolish the pound. We could call it the Islamic Welsh Emirate.”
”They will make you Lord Mayor of London-town,” said the Grand Vizier. ”Turn again, Moammar, thrice Mayor of London-town. It was Puss in Boots who said that. Al-Fayed will be sick with envy. You could ban the Harrods sale, and outlaw Liberty print fabric. You will be invited for dinner with David and Viqtorya Al-Beqam.” Get me the number of the Crystal Palace football club!” cried Gadaffi, too excited to notice that he had eaten a praline. ”And Andrew Lloyd-Webber: £2-million, opera, me, horses. Scarlett Johannson to star. Hugh Jackman to play me.”
”But what about Lockerbie, Effervescence?” asked the Grand Vizier.
”What about it? Those Scots love their football. I’ll buy that famous Scottish team — Celery Sticks. No, the other one. Hibernation. That’s it. You’ll see. Give them a smile and a football game, they’ll forgive most things.
”Besides, people forget everything, in the end. Now pass me the remote. Dr Phil’s on in five minutes.”