Libya: Fear and Loathing in the Old Empire

So much for a more open Libya now that Gaddafi's gone: New government say Lockerbie case is closed

‘British police had been due to reopen inquiries in Libya into the bomb on Pan Am flight 103 over Scotland in 1988 that killed 270 people. The American government was also said to be interested in looking again. But the Libyan deputy justice minister Hameda al-Magery told the Telegraph: “Britain and America are asking us to reopen this file. But this is something of the past. This is over. We want to move forward to build a new future and not to look back at Gaddafi's black history. This case was closed and both UK and US governments agreed to this. They had their compensation.”’

Independent, 28^th February 2013

Well, we live in strange times. Things have been strange for my whole life, it seems. That’s about a generation of weirdness now: Maggie to Cameron, vinyl to MP3, Communist to militant Islamist, analogue to digital, Reagan to Obama, print journalism to Reddit, Jean Paul II to…

But receiving personal emails from strangers? From Raoul Duke, no less? Surely that’s a whole new level of peculiar. What’s he doing in England? How did he get my email? What am I to him? Wasn’t he all washed up after Hunter S. Thompson sucked on a bullet? So many questions. But what the hell. I get weird emails every day, and weird news from the Internet. Just add this one to the pile.

Duke sent me the following document, claiming it to be important and demanding that I put it ‘out there.’ I don’t know why he should think that I hold any sway, or what he thinks this swill of his is good for. Oh well. Deep breaths, folks.

Memo from the National Affairs Desk: Fear and Loathing in the Old Empire

England, February 2013. I met Muammar Gaddafi the other day. He came scrambling into an old country pub I was drinking in. It was the kind of pub where the daytime locals barely follow the news, much less understand that leaders of other countries can be famous or notorious enough for us to recognise them here–except for the President of the USA, of course. This is probably for the best. How would a cherished local business in an English county deal, exactly, with a criminal ex-leader of a terrorist country, long-assumed/proven dead, suddenly staggering in with a mischievous grin and a glint in his eyes, bringing in serious hygiene issues but with enough money to still count as a punter?

Gaddafi was indeed smiling a sickening smile as he dumped a battered holdall on the empty stool next to me and barked for a drink. ‘You know me! You thought I was dead?’

I carried on drinking. I did know him, but I had no intention of getting into conversation with a man who had so savagely fallen out of favour.

‘You really thought that bloodied, rubbery heap with a gaping mouth they found in a sewer was me?! Ha! Westerners… I had a latex doll bought from a joke shop. It cost five dollars and looked more like a Hillary Clinton sex doll until we got the uniform on it. But it was meant to be me. My people were laughing at me. But I will have the last laugh.’

Gaddafi knocked his drink back and slammed the glass down on the bar. He belched loudly and smiled as the landlady clicked her tongue and gave him a look of utterly prejudiced repulsion. She appeared to be more-or-less convinced that he was a disgusting old fart who’d drifted in from some rancid caravan or outbuilding nearby… something that smelled as badly of urine and shit as he did. He was clearly Bad News. This was a pub for city workers who came home to slick barn conversions. It had gastropub eatery pretensions and a well designed website and well connected regulars. They had just about tolerated me because it was the quiet midday period and it looked like I would move on soon enough, but this man had the dangerous look of someone who would Settle, get blind drunk and holler obscenities at everyone. He would ultimately have to be forced off the premises, and that was something this place hadn’t needed to be equipped for in a long time.

‘People are fool enough to take a giant latex doll for me… that oversize head with no eyes, the face was even shiny!’ Gaddafi was saying. ‘No one looks close enough in the West; that’s the root of all your problems. You think you are Right and we are Wrong. We’re all just Arabs, scheming little hustlers who want a devastating combination of your Western money and your Western blood, depending on who’s in charge at the time and the mood of the people. We burn your flags wearing Nikes, we sell you oil to make tablet computers with and then blow up your shopping malls before you can get to the Apple store to buy them. Am I right?’

‘Nonsense’ I said. ‘We didn’t give a hoot in hell if you were alive or dead, or who shot you or why you never made it to trial. You were Gone. We were Happy. Life goes on, even in a recession. And you always looked like a man in a mask, that’s why we fell for your ruse. Your face has been rubbery and hanging off you for years. Perhaps in shame.’

‘Ha HA!’ He slapped me on the shoulder hard. ‘Damn! You son of a bitch. I knew I’d find good people here.’ The landlady was looking at me now, wondering if she’d made a mistake. She took a food order from a well-dressed young couple who were hugging each other and giggling at us and then hurried out the back to the telephone.

I thought I’d handled the situation pretty well, all things considered. I just wanted a quiet drink, and if this murderous fruit bat wanted to make a scene at the next stool along… well, he was welcome to it. The police would sort him out soon enough, I thought. Yes, and that’s how it would have gone down… if Gaddafi hadn’t then turned to me and, with deadly accuracy, said the only thing in the world that could have got to me at that moment.

‘So… your government has Lockerbie all figured out now, I suppose. My people are now co-operating with your people, giving your police access to all the paperwork, giving them a guided tour of the jails, pointing fingers.’

He was playing with me, in the sanctity of an English pub with a decent clientele. Pushing my buttons. He was mocking me. ‘You rotten bastard!’ I screamed. ‘Your country’s doomed. It is full of ingrates. They think they can take our aid, use our firepower to grind their hated leader down and then just spit in our faces afterwards. Fuck these people. They will tell us everything we need to know about Lockerbie, or else. They’ll hand over SOMEONE for it, they must. Whoever it is better be healthy enough to live to die in jail, too. Otherwise I’ll put you back in charge myself. Let you torture the treacherous bastards. They might know the cost of freedom, but they haven’t yet learned the price.’

Gaddafi looked oddly thoughtful at this. ‘Which one of us did they betray, Mr English. Or was it both?’

‘Look, Bubba, our game was to get you out of the way… finito, after all these years. We’d get ourselves in favour with your country by doing it, too. It was perfect; we could have trade allies and resources in strategic places. Peace in our time, or at least in our neck of the woods, and whatever might happen in your neck of the woods would be contained. And to top it all we would have the heads of those bastards who blew up that plane over Scotland and killed hundreds of innocent civilians and, eventually, you, Mr Gaddafi, sir. That Pan Am 747 was the end of you, even if it took a little time for you to reap.’ I was breathing heavily now, full of pride and admiration for our national game plan. ‘We are users, not used. We didn’t nearly vote in a Conservative government in this country to get served. Not by Arabs, not by anyone.’

Gaddafi nodded solemnly. ‘I would have thought you Brits had learned to lose, by now.’

I put down my drink quite slowly. Gaddafi was completely off guard as I flicked my right arm at him. The momentum made my forearm and hand swing out with a force that surprised me. Back of the hand… four white knuckles to the mouth, dislodging teeth and forcing the nose upwards painfully, a crunch of bones, bloody pulp and splinters. Gaddafi yelped and fell off the stool, whimpering on his knees as he hugged his chair leg. ‘Never in hell,’ I said. ‘We never apologise, we never explain… not our people, not our politicians.’

As I finished my drink sirens were wailing in the distance, approaching from the nearest town. I stepped outside and walked back to my car in the rain.