Saddam Hussein And Reality's Last Gasp (1/2) By Joe Hakim

(1/2), (2/2).

I managed to contract some sort of stomach bug over Christmas, so I spent the majority of it alternating between puking my guts up and shivering under a blanket. My dreams were populated by images of dead friends being devoured by giant skeletal insects in the ruins of Hull's new bus station, and I became convinced that my neighbour was plotting to drive me insane by stamping about in his flat upstairs. Eventually I began to feel better, but my appetite remained diminished. I continued to live on a diet of dry toast and gin and tonic with freshly squeezed lime for over two weeks.

It was on one of these blank days that Saddam Hussein was finally executed. I was crashed out on my sofa, sedated by the images and events on the television, which over the festive season had blurred into one continuous vulgar mess.

Only the passing of James Brown had provoked any kind of human response, and that was to simply get up and play a live version of Cold Sweat continuously for over an hour, while holding a glass aloft and shouting I got soul and I'm super-bad towards the heavens, which also had the side-effect of intensifying my neighbour's hate campaign against me. Guess some people just ain't got the funk... And then came the news that Saddam Hussein had been executed, accompanied by grainy digital footage that depicted his journey to the gallows. It appeared as though it had been filmed on a mobile phone camera, giving it the appearance of some kind of snuff 'happy slapping' video.

I was immediately jolted out of my reverie and focused on the event that was unfolding before me. Surrounded by anonymous men wearing balaclavas, Saddam wore the serene expression of a man crushed by impending destiny. The trademark petulant scowl of defiance that had defined him during his shambolic trial had evaporated, leaving a scared old man in its wake.

I reached over and turned the volume down, not wanting the scene to be tarnished by the banal patter of the newsreader. Outside, Hull continued to drink itself into a stupor in preparation for the New Year, while thousands of miles away the man who had come to represent everything our government believed to be wrong with the world was being put to death. As the Balaclava Men placed the noose around his neck, his lips fluttered as he uttered his final words. Or maybe it was just an involuntary facial tic brought on by fear. At that point the film abruptly ended. I sat up, feeling conned.

I had just witnessed one of the most appalling things I had ever seen, but at the last minute the 'powers that be' suddenly seemed to bottle it and have a massive attack of conscience. It was a complete contradiction; if the purpose of the film was to give closure to the Saddam saga by proving he had been suitably punished, then where was the payoff? Shit, if you're going to show that much, then why not show the whole thing?

Close-up on Saddam's face as the blood-vessels in his eyes begin burst, his eyes turning red and bulging out. Cut to his waist as the Balaclava Men hastily pull down his trousers, freeing his cock from his underwear so we can witness his last ejaculation as his neck snaps. Camera pans round so we can see the shit and piss rolling down his twitching legs as he empties his bowels. In the background, the Balaclava Men hastily scrape his semen and shit into jars so it can be sold on Ebay to the highest bidder.

(Interesting side note - the highest bidder subsequently turns out to be an American guy called Clive who works in finance and wants the jizz so he show it off at the parties he throws for his family and friends: Hey, you'll never guess what I got me a-hold of folks, one-hundred per cent pure gen-u-wine evil dictator cum, he says, holding the jar of milky fluid up to the light. Just imagine; we could spawn an entire nation of Saddams with just this one jar...)

Continued .... Next Page (2/2)

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