You’re not gay are you he said. Nope I said. “Hmm” he replied. The trouble with you British he said (now the trouble with the British is a conversation that I have more frequently in the Middle East than you can possibly imagine or maybe you can) the trouble with you British is when you say you are not gay, you are not gay.
It was one of those balmy Beirut summer evenings, the smell of Nargila smoke mingling intoxicatingly with the car fumes along the corniche, I had strolled alone as I almost always do when visiting the dysfunctional Lebanese capital.
My evening amble had started in romantic enough fashion around the spot that, on Valentine’s Day 2007 the former Lebanese prime minister Rafic Hariri was blown to kingdom come in a truck bomb explosion that had left little to chance.Rafic had been known as Mr. Lebanon and not because he had won a pageant like beauty contest wearing skinny gold shorts, alas, but because he pretty much owned Lebanon, and, as is very well known, Lebanon cannot be owned by a Lebanese.
As is my good fortune I had also walked this very same route that year only a couple of weeks prior to the assassination and again shortly after, debris and…
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