Days 974-984: Conspiracy Nut Cornflakes

01.09.11-11.09.11: I was a kid in the eighties. I grew up with the distinct possibility that at any moment the Russians might take a dislike to the latest Madness single or something and destroy the entire world. Films like Red Dawn and When The Wind Blows didn’t help. My brother Alex and I would waste entire summers digging fallout shelters (which invariably ended up as two foot deep puddles of mud) and learning to fend for ourselves in the field across the road, seeing if we could live off ‘rations’ of sugar and ketchup sachets stolen from Little Chef, you know: just in case. And then one night, suddenly and unexpectedly, the Berlin Wall collapsed. All that fear, all the paranoia and all the neuroses that the Cold War had instilled in my and my parents' generation had gone. The sword of Damocles that had dangled…

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Day 394: Chav and Chav-Nots

29.01.10: You know what though – all these dangerous places I've been to, I haven't seen one gang of horrible teenage lads hanging around on a street corner with their hoods up threatening passers-by for no better reason than they're too stupid to think of anything else to do. (Plus nobody stops them.) When I lived in Orrell Park in Liverpool, I wouldn't let them interfere with my wish to go to the shops at night, but even I had to admit that their presence made me much more anxious (in terms of fearing of injury or death) than my time in Lagos, Kinshasa, Johannesburg, Nairobi and Iraq put together. So next time somebody tells you not to go to such-and-such dangerous place, might I suggest you take them by the arm and go for a stroll to your go see your friendly neighbourhood scallies hanging…

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Day 393: The Morning After

28.01.10: </object I woke up in the morning wearing all my clothes, with hardly any recollection of the night before and Mike Tyson's pet tiger in the room with me. After returning the tiger to Mr. Tyson, I tried to find out from Felia what the hell happened last night. I won't go into details, but I'm quite astounded that my new friends didn't stuff me in a taxi to Mosul wearing a sandwich board that read “I'm American & Mohammed Sucks”. Sam popped around later and Londa came home for a bit of sheesha for lunch. It was nice to know that everyone feeling just as seedy as me. I didn't think I should head off just yet, my body would have protested too much, and what's an extra day in the grand scheme of things? Londa's landlord would be coming around for an inspection…

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Day 392: Drunk… with an AK-47

27.01.10: Londa hails from a place called Colorado in a little out-of-the-way country called America not far from Comoros, Sao Tome and Djibouti. She's been living in Iraq now for more than six months and seems to quite like the place. I guess it makes a change from fast food, big fat fatty fat fats and weird ball games that nobody else in the world plays. She's working in the school here in German Village, as (seemingly) are most of the people who live in these apartments. Funnily enough, I'm not Londa's only CouchSurfer; she's also hosting a lovely girl from Amsterdam named Felia, who is interviewing ethnic Kurds for a ‘Uni’ project. Today, I went out for a walk around the town, got my beard trimmed and stuffed my face with kebab (the only food seemingly available round these parts). If I can just make…

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Day 391: The Invasion of Iraq

26.01.10: I blame Lonely Planet. The nearest town to the border of Iraq according to my guide book is a place called Sirnak, the real closest town is called Silopi. If I had known this in advance, I could have got off my bus in Silopi instead of foolishly staying on it until Sirnak. This meant I had to backtrack somewhat. Yesterday when I asked for a ticket to Sirnak, a Turkish man said to me “why do you want to go there? It's very dangerous... [gestures firing a machine gun] Best you go to Cappadocia.” Cappadocia's fairy-chimney charms aside, this remark annoyed me more than scared me – it's no secret that the Turks aren't particularly enamoured with the Kurdish people that live in the border regions of Turkey, Iraq and Iran. Irritating buggers who have their own fancy language and customs – how dare…

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