the way we were

(This is not the Saddam Hussein story. Not even the way he told it. This is the way it was.)
*****

Scholars agree that at some time in the early twenty first century, collossal brainbox James Healy was writing a humour column for a now defunct provincial newspaper. They remain divided however as to whether his column was truly a masterpiece of sublime artistic resonance, or merely a series of rehashed jokes lifted from old episodes of Fawlty Towers. The recent discovery of a document which some claim is a genuine Heelers column circa the year 2002, has sent shockwaves through the hallowed halls of Academe. The whole Heelers as genius/Heelers as looball debate has been reignited with an increasing polarisation of opinion forcing even the moderates in liberal arts faculties at universities across Europe to choose a side. The present document was reputedly discovered under a cushion in a Starbucks Cafe in Budapest. Its age is in doubt although it appears to have been written prior to the western intervention in Iraq. Is it genuinely the work of James Healy? Or is it a cheap forgery dreamed up by CIA spooks determined to discredit him? You the readers must decide.

SADDAM COMES CLEAN
by James Healy

Saddam Hussein let out a long low sigh of contentment.
He was sitting in a gold plated bath in a sea of bubbles with his favourite rubber duck floating nearby.
From the window he could see his Republican Guard drilling in the courtyard below. Occasionally the sound of an Islamic marching song drifted up to his ears.
It was Thursday morning in Iraq.
The great dictator had just been handed the latest copy of the Leinster Lootheramawn, freshly delivered on a gold plated tray, by a member of his palace staff who quickly withdrew.
A little known fact about Saddam is that part of his Thursday morning ritual is to sit alone in his bath reading the aforementioned periodical while smoking a big cigar.
It's the only time he truly relaxes.
As we join him he is chuckling throatily to himself and occasionally emitting little exclamations of approval.
"Ho, ho, ho, that Uncle Scutch," he says. "What a guy, him and his one liners, ho, ho, ho. And the Mammy even I wouldn't mess with her. Ha, ha, ha. I wonder will Paddy Pup be in this week's episode. He is such a scamp. Ah life is good."
Saddam's reveries might have continued thusly for quite some time if he had been left undisturbed.
But there came a sudden commotion from the corridor outside.
A shrill voice shouted "Weapons Inspectors."
Next minute the door burst open.
A group of civil servant types, sporting grey western three piece suits and clutching important looking note pads, flooded into Saddam's bathroom.
They began to peer into various nooks and crannies: the sink, the medicine cabinet, the loo.
The great dictator looked briefly aghast.
"By the beard of the prophet," he exclaimed. "I'm having a bath."
The weapons inspectors were being led by an American called Larry Boobenstein.
Larry is most notable (and this bit is true by the way) for having been a founder member of the California Sado Masochist and Leather Pleasure Society.
He is not the sort of guy you normally expect Saddam to be entertaining in his bathroom.
Larry looked at Saddam.
Saddam looked at Larry.
"Is this absolutely necessary?" growled the leader of Iraq, and you might have detected a threatening note in his voice as he said it.
"The UN resolutions entitle us to look everywhere," sniffed Larry primly sounding a bit like Benny Hill.
The weapons inspectors clustered around the bath while Saddam began to look increasingly uneasy.
"Is that a cruise missile in those suds or are you just pleased to see us?" quipped Larry mischievously.
Saddam to his lasting credit found himself quite incapable of speech.
The dictator of Iraq is a genuine macho man but like many ex Newbridge College students he's also mildly homophobic.
Larry's innuendos were pushing him to the limit.
Suddenly Saddam remembered the pearl handled assassin's dagger which he keeps concealed beneath his left testicle for use in emergencies.
This was an emergency if ever there was one.
He reached for the dagger but decided against.
Whatever about wiping out whole villages in Kurdistan with poison gas while the world looks on, there might be complications if he despatched a team of weapons inspectors in his own bathroom.
Some dead bodies can't be swept under the carpet.
The moment passed.
The UN team departed from the bathroom.
Somewhat sheepishly it must be said, and clearly disappointed to have found nothing more deadly than a rubber duck. (They didn't realise the duck contained Saddam's personal stash of enriched uranium.)
The supreme ruler prepared to return to his newspaper.
A gold plated phone beside the bath trilled insistently.
The great dictator answered it.
An agitated panicky voice instantly assailed his eardrums.
It was Kareem Abdul Jabber, commander of an anti aircraft radar installation in the northern no fly zone.
"Greetings excellency," babbled Jabber. "The American and British imperialists have just bombed us again."
"What happened this time?" sighed Saddam.
"Well," said Jabber, "I put on the kettle to make a cup of tea. The American and British imperialists were flying overhead and detected it. They thought we had switched on our radar to target their planes. When the smoke cleared I found myself sitting in a kitchen without any roof or walls. The electricity is gone as well. I can't even boil the bloody kettle."
Saddam did his best to soothe the nerves of his shattered commander, promising him a medal for bravery and whatnot.
Then he hung up and returned to his newspaper.
He was just starting to relax again when something drew his attention to the window.
He could still hear the Republican Guardsmen singing but the words no longer sounded like an Islamic marching song.
From his bath Saddam peered over the window ledge.
The cigar fell out of his mouth.
Larry Boobenstein was dancing with the Republican Guards in a semi circle.
The dance involved lots of body twisting and high kicks sort of like a Can Can.
They were singing a song that had been first released a decade earlier by those British imperialist actors Patrick McNee and Diana Rigg from the old Avengers television series.
Saddam could scarcely believe his ears.
The Republican Guard were singing: "All we've got are kinky boots, kinky boots, kinky boots."
As Saddam watched, Larry climbed to his feet and strolled towards the stables where at that moment Prime Minister Tariq Aziz (Who he? Ed) was trying to conceal an atomic bomb under some horse manure.
The great dictator could hear the conversation clearly.
"You can't go in there," said Tariq.
"Why not?" said Larry.
"Er, the horses have anthrax, I mean botulism, I mean, er, the flu," blustered Tariq with a note of desperation in his voice.
Larry slapped him playfully on the shoulder. (Very much the way the old British imperialist comedian Dick Emery used to slap people in his TV show.) The slap sent the Iraqi PM flying backwards into the manure heap.
"You are awful," said Larry. "But I like you."
From his vantage point at the window Saddam groaned in disbelief and sank back into the bath.
He reached for his gold plated phone.
A moment's feverish dialling and he was through to his old pal Colonel Muammar Quaddaffi.
"Howya Muammar, it's Saddam here," he said. "Have you read this week's Heelers column yet?"
Colonel Quaddaffi thought for a second.
"Is it the one where he contacts the girl in the Evening Herald lonely hearts ad and she turns out to be a prostitute?" he wondered.
"No, no, no, this week's," expostulated Saddam impatiently.
Colonel Quaddaffi admitted that he hadn't read it.
"I only get the Leader for the sports pages," he said apologetically.
Saddam got to the point.
"The axis of evil has a bad image," he declared. "But we can change that. We need to get Heelers to put us in his column and to portray us as funny quirky guys. If we get the public to like us, we can take some of the heat out of these insufferable weapons inspections."
There was a moment's silence.
"But how could we arrange such a thing?" murmured Muammar. "Heelers is a known imperialist sympathiser. They call him the CIA's man in Kildare. He is said to be incorruptible."
Saddam almost crowed with delight.
"I'm way ahead of you," he enthused. "I will despatch ten of my trained female agents to Ireland. My daughters of the golden dawn. They are the most seductive and deadly women in Iraq. I'm telling you Muammar what they can't do in a Burka isn't worth doing. They will make Heelers an offer he cannot refuse. And if he does refuse they'll kill him."
Colonel Quadaffi immediately assented to the plan and it was barely two hours later that Saddam found himself at Baghdad airport bidding farewell to the Daughters of the Golden Dawn as they set out on their latest mission.
"Go my daughters of darkness," he told them. "Seduce this Heeler the Peeler. Lure him with sensual delights so that he puts Muammar and me in his humour column and makes us seem like funny guys. Turn Heeler the Peeler into your slave. Nyah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, hee, hee!"