It all began in December 2015.
I had embarked upon a Vice and Buzzfeed binge and decided to grow a beard.
I grieved in the first few months as I bore what was closer to assorted pubic hair than anything else.
And on the 7th month 'LET THERE BE BEARD'.
And I rested.
And I sought the closest mirror to admire my work
With renewed belief in myself, inspired by my fierce face-locks, I decided to quit my job as a telemarketer, and pursue my passion as a DJ.
I'd never been a DJ before but had once fiddled around on Garage Band.
Anyways, it's art not science. It comes from the soul. From the profound abysses of our subconscious qualia.
Or so I read in a Vice column.
I applied to the local bingo hall and asked if they needed a DJ.
Unfortunately, they didn't, and it was at that moment that it struck me.
If I were to become a successful DJ, I would have to leave the UK. The scene was too crowded.
So I harassed my mother for a few weeks until she spared the necessary £200 for my flight to Syria - a modest ask.
Oh, and the other £11,000 for rent and stuff.
I arrived in Damascus in April 2016.
After a week or so of getting swindled by taxi drivers, and roadside merchants, I began to feel somewhat at home.
Indeed, the women were particularly fond of me.
I assumed because of my sharp wit, and my English manner.
I mean, I did tell them that I was a British noble - but money can't buy affection.
After 3 weeks, I'd burned through about 1/4 of the £11,000 my mother had given me, and thought that I should probably start looking for a DJ job.
I posted adverts across Damascus, from the local butcheries to the walls of abandoned houses drug dealers traded in.
Until one day, I received a phone call from a peculiar man:
"Are you - uhm - Al-britaniki? DJ - friki-friki - Huh?" he asked.
"Yep! That's me!" I responded with singular glee.
"We need DJ - for mixing song - in Apostate execution movie."
Did he say Apostate execution? I thought.
Meh. Perhaps it's a Syrian film genre.
"No problem. Execution, whatever. I've done it all, and will do it all again!" I assured him.
"Great. Come tomorrow to Ahmed's Butchery. Ask for Ali-the-Hammer. Mashallah brother."
"Mahatma you too?" I fumbled, "Oh and how mu-" he abruptly hung up.
That's not very nice. I frowned.
Alas, manners are dying like 90s shows reruns...
I woke up early the following day, sporting my favourite 'Je suis Christopher Hitchens' T-shirt, and some short-shorts.
As I headed towards Ahmed's Butchery I was met with headshakes, facepalms, teeth-kissing and spitballs.
But I had a great opportunity lined up and nothing could hamper my joy.
As I entered the Butchery, an impressively-bearded, muscular man stood up.
Before I could greet him, he rushed towards me, picked me up and hugged me:
"I am Ali. Hammer-time Ali! Ha-Ha! You Apostate execution movie DJ?? I always love frika-frika. I wanted always to be Doctor Dre, and Snoop Doggy when child! I am big Paul Newman fan! Now, I get to meet real DJ! So Excite!"
He exclaimed.
Oh, how I love their culture! So warm!
No British employer had ever welcomed me so. I reflected.
Though there was something off about his all-black attire, and the Glock-17 holstered on his crocodile belt.
I just couldn't quite put my finger on it.
For a fleeting moment, I considered whether...perhaps...nooo. Surely not?
