The views contained in this jolly little article are my own and are based on my own firsthand experiences. If you find them disturbing or upsetting then I apologise in advance – it's just the way I am.

From my diary:

As I write I am sitting on the back of a clapped out bus stuck in the nightmarish swirl of late-night Cairo traffic wondering if I will ever reach downtown Cairo. The seat, like the bus, is so ancient that it was probably last upholstered when Moses and his boys passed through with the 10 commandments. Perhaps if I stick my hand far enough down the back (assuming that I don't loose it in the many folds of flesh of the corpulent guy sitting next to me, who could sweat for Egypt, I might find another five commandments:

11. Thou shall not miss Liverpool home games
12. Thou shall not disturb thy man on Sunday afternoon when he is with beer and newspaper
13. Thou shall not arise on the Sabbath until the sun is directly over head
14. Women with fat thighs shall not wear ski pants
15. Thy woman shall not invite her family over during any major football tournament...

I had been stuck on this mobile scrap heap for a gruelling eight hours. The trip should have only taken fours hours (or so the ticket agent had told me), and I was beginning to get a little bit bored. In truth I had been bored out of my mind by the time we had reached North Africa's newest (and seediest) fleshpot of Sham el Sheik – and that had only been a 90-minute trip from my base in Dahab.

The scenery was stimulating enough and had clearly been designed by someone who had read the same Design Your Own Desert manual as I had: craggy rocks, shimmering roads melting into the sandy distance, the odd camel lolling across the arid wasteland and more make-do AK-47 bristling roadblocks than Liverpool on a Saturday night (well, almost). But I was desperate to get to Cairo and home. I had just found out I was going to be a father and wanted to be anywhere apart from Egypt. I was also desperate to talk to someone but apart from the chain-smoking Italians we picked up at Sham and the party of gormless-looking Koreans, whose English didn't seem to extend further than "Is this the station?" and "I love you. Can I have some potatoes?"

There were only locals, and they were hardly the most verbose bunch of people I had ever come across. So I had tried to read, I had tried to write, I had tried to sleep, and I had tried to think – but nothing came easy, and even the soporific effect of endless desert and eye-candy views didn't calm me.

After what seemed like a lifetime the hostess, a weird-looking girl with overly kohled eyes, who kept smiling flirtatiously at me, put on a video of End of Days. The coach crowd settled back in contentment. Nothing like ultra-violence and the end of the world to brighten up a long-distance coach trip.

The momentum of the film was broken by countless stops at police roadblocks. Every 20 minutes or so the bus would grind to a halt, a half-dressed unshaved militia man would climb aboard and demand to see our "pisspots". On the screen Arnie continued battling the devil, which all things being taken into consideration, seemed an easier proposition than crossing Egypt.

Time slowed down, then obviously went out for beers and a game of darts, as my watch ground to an agonising halt. I watched the sun bleed into the horizon and thought: I am so glad to be alive, this is magnificent. Then I thought: I am going home to be a father. But before the enormity of this could really hit me (and it still hasn't now) the hostess with the wandering eyes put on an Arabic film that blew my mind – well, what was left anyway – and I gave up trying to make sense of the last few weeks. The plot, as best I could tell, went something like this:

Guy meets girl in bazaar. Guy falls for girl in a big way. Girl, however, is a bit of a ropey old tart and sleeps with the whole of the bazaar. Guy thinks "bugger this for a game of soldiers" and has the local heavies throw girl down a well. Guy then (quite mysteriously – but I could have missed something important whilst I was showing my pisspot to the militia) joins a drug-running secret society and ends up as an event planner for them (nice little song and dance number here with all the heavies and their chicks getting down to the Barbie Song). Guy then picks a fight with circus strong man and then gets mowed down by a hit man with a huge handlebar moustache and an Uzi machine-pistol. Everyone then gets together for one last song and dance number.

Nice!

Whilst the hostess changed the tape we pulled to a halt outside a small café, and everyone piled off for a smoke or to use the toilet. I tried to chat to the Koreans, but they were all waddling around holding their intimate bits and looking for somewhere discrete to urinate as they were too afraid to use Egyptian toilets (I didn't like to point out that they were cleaner than most restaurants I had seen in Asia). The Italians, who possibly felt at home being surrounded by so many would-be thieves and pick-pockets, were busily smoking foot-long cigarettes and complaining loudly in Italian – well, I assume that was what they were doing. I don't actually speak any Italian, but I have never met an Italian who does anything else but moan.

Once back on the bus the hostess moved about distributing bills for drinks and snacks consumed (I had, for once, been sensible and bought my own). The Koreans, who had "SUCKERS" stamped all over them – matching bags and shades in fetching shades of pink – received a bill for about U$50 for three cokes and a biscuit from my doe-eyed friend. After some discussion they paid this and then sat looking out of the window glumly. Sitting opposite them I had seen the exchange of money and was trying not to laugh whereas the Italians, who hadn't had a smoke for about 20 minutes, and were feeling a little irritable, suddenly lunged at the Koreans and grabbed the receipt. After a rapid exchange in Italian the ringleader, who was so obese that he was oozing out into the aisle, grabbed my doe-eyed hostess chum and let rip in his finest English:

"You no charge them this, this extortion is. I am going to pay this not (it wasn't even his bill). I work hard for my money, I am no a thief, you are a shameless hussy and I am going to complain to the prime minister [he actually said this] and have your job."

The hostess looked on, bemused, as the Italian carried on venting his spleen in English: "...awful shithole... bad beds... crap food..."

Eventually I had had enough.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes?" "Would you mind berating this poor woman in Italian? Because you are really beginning to annoy me now. So the Koreans got ripped off, that's their problem. English people have enough trouble abroad as it is without people like you adding to our problems."

The Italian didn't like this too much and would have started round two of the argument, if the bus hadn't swerved across six lanes of traffic and deposited the hostess at a dreary-looking bus stop. I can't be totally sure, but I am reasonably confident that she gave the obese Italian the finger as we pulled away.

Questions?
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