So let's get this straight - for decades our leaders have been allowing all sorts of unsavoury deals go on for Middle East oil. Trading with despots... even trading them arms and riot control equipment. Now all of a sudden we are expected to do a mental flip and become aware of how vicious these murdering bastards were all along. And our cherubic-faced Prime Minister (on an arms sales drive to the Middle East - you couldn't make it up) bangs on about freedom and the will of the people.
Cameron - the will of the people can be battered to shreds with the gear you politicos okayed to be sent out there and the Sandhurst training you give to the children of the elite.
Location: Sandhurst Military Academy.
At the time I was a reservist infantry NCO, being mobilised for Bosnia - a posting I'd volunteered for because I wanted to do my bit. Not part of any career ladder, Milliband you pencil-necked geek, nothing to do with a path to the top, Cameron you chinless, soapy-faced fuck... but because I gave a shit. Because I cared, Mr Balls. You fat smirking bastard. (Jesus I hate listening to that sanctimonious tosspot castigate the new government - the last people to preach and throw brick-bats should be the insane, grasping shadow-'Labour' who screwed us up to start with. Binmen on £50,000+ salaries. What can possibly go wrong? It all has to be paid for by the private sector, you dumb 'Labour' clowns.) Digressing. Back to Sandhurst 1996.
We were doing a pre-tour package. Rifle ranges, medical and dental check, combat first aid, specific theatre induction (Bosnia - don't step off the hard-standing). Despite it being Sandhurst the regime was slack. We weren't would-be officers, and we'd stepped forward of our own accord. They respected that, so left us alone. Us - a mish-mash of RLC drivers, infantry, paras and SF (Nick), bottle washers and clerks, drawn from the length of Britain. Soon the infantry colour sergeants in charge of us loosened up, especially around the infantry types. And then one of them told us a story about the playboy son of a Middle East gangster-leader.
'So as we hit the woodline where we'd be bivouacing for the night, I spotted him. 'Where's your GPMG (General Purpose Machine Gun), Sir?'
'It was too heavy, Colour Sergeant. They make these things far too heavy. So I buried it.'
'You did fucking WHAT?!'
'I buried it. It is not a problem. I buy you a new one, and I buy you a nice new car. See - no problem. You are my friend. Now... I wish to sleep.'
And we do business with them. And whilst all that happens, whilst the political prisoners are tossed out of helicopters into the sea, are forced to eat crap and snot to the laughter of thugs in police and army uniform, whilst kids starve to death and women are gang-raped by aids-infected drug-crazed guerillas... the UN, the media and Western governments do nothing. Disinterest, too, is a war crime. Now over to Eamonn Holmes with hot news on Cheryl Cole's latest outfit, and a whacky squirrel who's learnt to raid a bird-table...