We began by asking how the assault was going.
"Not too bad," replied the veteran journalist, his voice slurred
by his constant battle to stay awake — or possibly by the brandy
he is forced to clean his teeth with since the water ran out.
"Last nights push appears to have triggered a wave of resistance
in the hotel receptionist who is holding out for eight pairs of tights
and a second-hand X-box."
"Sorry?" we asked.
"Bugger!" exclaimed the embattled newshound. "I thought
you meant Shumilla. I've been trying to get my leg over that saucy Kuwaiti
sexpot for three weeks. Ah — the assault, er, well, um, militants
in Tikrit attacked two American marines with rolled up copies of Playboy
last night and a suicide bomber blew his hat off outside a topless lap
dancing club in Baghdad in protest over the reduction of Happy Hour
to ten minutes."
"I think our readers are more interested in the situation in Fallujah."
"Ah, right you are. Well, huge, ah, positively massive US forces
are battling against fierce opposition from an old bloke and his one-legged
nephew who've barricaded the main bridge into the city with two pushchairs,
a Coca-Cola dispenser and five oil drums. Frankly it doesn't look good
from where I'm sitting."
"Why's that?" we asked.
"I've just seen Shumilla getting into a 4x4 with that arse from
NBC and the fat bastard had his hand in her knickers!"
"We meant the bridge into Fallujah."
"Ah - sorry, well that doesn't look much better. An AH-1W Super
Cobra helicopter gunship has just hoved into view and is raking the
bridge with machine-gun fire, while two tanks are manouevering into
position to shell it from the northwest. At least I think they're
tanks, they could be armoured trucks delivering wholewheat baps to the
local McDonalds for all I know. Did you know that a detachment of US
marines seized a halal sandwich bar this morning?"
"Er, no," we replied. "What did they do?"
"Confiscated several copies of Fahrenheit 9/11, shot a few old
men begging for food and hauled five teenage girls away for questioning."
"Did the girls resist?"
"Only until the price went above $10. Those sluts in Fallujah would
blow a camel for ten bucks, a can of coke and a packet
of Marlboro lights, or so Shumilla says."
"Can we skip your sexual frustration and get back to the war?
What's it like inside the city?"
"Fucking awful. Masked carpet salesmen roam the empty streets with
assault fly whisks and hand-propelled oranges clutched in their hands
while US warplanes bomb the sandcastles their children have built on
the edge of the city. Grown men weep as they bury tins of Heinz soup,
some of it still not past it's sell-by date. This morning the Americans
were using inflatable dolls
looted from a sex shop to try to cross the river but came under heavy
fire from children hurling rotten fruit at them."
"Has there been a lot of shelling?"
"Not, not really, the peas ran out last week. Oh — you mean
bombs? Well, the main market square drew some of the heaviest fire
as the crushing air and artillery bombardment rose to a climax, with
US jets dropping bombs around the clock and big guns pounding the fruit
and vegetable stalls with high-explosive shells. This afternoon two
blokes in a Volkswagen were—Fuck! Now Shumilla's stuffing a roll
of ten dollar bills into her blouse!" At that moment our satellite
uplink suddenly un-uplinked itself and we were cut off from our correspondent.
Utterpants will bring you further reports just as soon as
we re-establish contact with Baghdad.
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Story © 2004 utterpants.co.uk