The Songstone

Off again to Mubarak's for dinner, bearing a dozen bottles of the finest Scottish mineral water. He picks me up himself and en route we stop off at an Exchange shop from where he sends money to his Filipina friend in Bahrain. I express surprise that he should have to travel to Bahrain, given the availability of Filipina friends in Doha. We then have a jolly five minutes discussing Arabic equivalents of the phrase 'never shit on your own doorstep'. "We're having fucker for dinner, Mr. Simon." "Pardon?" "Fucker, it's very good. My cousin found a good amount in the desert last year." The light dawns. He is talking about faq'h , the desert truffle, which we had discussed in class a few weeks before, and which grows only where lightning strikes... Voiceless uvular plosive, not velar. We sit in the مجلس sipping the mineral water. Mubarak's son is going to France this morning for a football tournament, and I discuss the delights of...

A certain lady poet has declared that chavs can't vote, because we're too impaired: distracted by the 'Sun', by beer n fights to know the difference 'tween 'trician n 'phile 'Bollocks!' I say, they're paedos, n it's right to treat 'em all as though they're fuckin' vile. We see that votes from crumbly citizens put in the Tories, time and time again, thereby denying us a decent future through education, art, museums, culture. So wild we are, n beastly chippy too, don't give a fuck, n quite determined to crush, to the best of our ability, snaggletoothed legions of senility.

Another oldie, this time from about 2007 and the infamous Paddy Field, Guangzhou: 'Nnnerrr,' said Roger, like old Wilfrid Bramble 'Grammar schools, nnnerrr, hanging. South Africa used to be great, that’s where I would ramble when the ni-nnnerrr were down, in the sixties. Pah! It’s no good today, crime and disorder. Nnnerrr, I was apprenticed, kids now no plan. Even the beer don’t taste like it oughta...' 'G’night,' I said quickly, and fled from the man

Funny thing happened the other day. I was on Skype and the ex was wittering on about something while my son sat there, sighing. Suddenly he put out his hand and clapped it over her mouth. 'Shut up, mummy; my turn now!' She was furious!  'How dare you!' she rasped, while my son blinked, demure and innocent. 'Are you going to do it again?'  He shook his head and she flounced off. 'Now, dad, tell me more about Odysseus.' I had to protest, a little, 'Harry, are you being naughty?' He stuck his tongue into his cheek and grinned, 'Odysseus, dad.' I'll give him one thing. He managed to keep her quiet for five seconds, which is more than I managed to do in five years. Kids these days...

I wrote this the day after seeing 'Antichrist', about 18 months ago, and read it at the Poet's Café in Reading that night. Let us say the applause was more 'Thank God he's finished!' than 'Encore!'. I publish it now as an appropriate beginning to Holy Week. for Lars von Trier   The maenad cuts Her clit with scissors, pulls  blood from His prick. Tiresias nods and laughs  at agony in woody places, full  of nothing new. The gynocide is crafted  by three beggars, and Satan’s church is nature.  Grief is a Deer, her stillbirth hanging aft.  Pain is a Fox that gnaws its belly – state  of chaos. Despair’s a Crow that never ends  until the maenads climb a lonely hill to rend

I've been invited to Mubarak's house for lunch on Friday. He will send his driver to collect me and I am to admire his date trees and meet his family. I know this is unusual in Qatar, where male guests usually stay in the مجلس, and do not see the women of the house. I am in a quandary though: what do I take? A bottle of wine is obviously out of the question, and flowers for the lady of the house almost certainly unacceptable. I am told that to bring sweets could be insulting, meaning that I did not think my host's hospitality would be sufficient, but just to turn up with nothing seems wrong; if anyone has any suggestions I'd be glad to hear them. Mubarak clearly has plans for me. He was horrified to learn that I do not have my own vehicle, and has offered to give me one: "I have six, Mr. Simon, and my favourite is the BMW 528, though my wife likes the Land Cruiser." He also wants to take me to Morocco: "The best girls in the world - Arab looks and Frenc...

The Indian barber takes great care to snip and clip my scanty hair. He stares amazed at my blue eyes, chats to his neighbour, who's surprised. 'I've made a bet they're real. Oh, sir, don't disappoint!' I don't demur: afraid to risk his mood being uglier, with cutthroat razor at my jugular.

The memoir of Sir Edmund Trelawney Backhouse, 2nd Bt. (Backhouse /bækˈʌs/, which is appropriate) will be published this week , and a cracking good read it looks, even if it is a load of old cobblers. I wouldn't be so sure though. Reading the review I was reminded of my own time in China; if I published a memoir of life in Guangzhou in the mid-noughties no-one would believe it. I could tell of the divorcée who invited me to move in and offered to sweeten the deal by installing a concubine or two. The girlfriend who came over one night with her 17 year old, uninitiated, eager cousin. The unspeakably depraved practices of Mystic Meg from Hiroshima. T he policewoman who, upon discovering the effects of black resin on the male member, ensured that there was always a ready supply on the bedside table. T he millionaire's daughter who drove me to a nightclu b with one hand on the wheel of the Merc and the other not, at every traffic light her head bobbing down for a quick... As I s...