Najeeb Al-Anbarri: Chairman Arafat, with nowhere to go and literally only these four (well, maybe three) walls between you and the Army of the Jewish, what is there left for you to do?

Yasser Arafat: My dear friend Mr. Rabin, he loved the peace of the braveass. But Mr. Sharon? No! No! No! Look at the provocations!

[…]

Oh forget it.

I can’t do this any more.

Listen matey, when I’m done signin’ these chuffin’ future pardons for orphans ‘oo might cop parkin’ tickets later in their lives, then let’s sit dahn and ‘av a chat, raaht?

‘Ave a look, I’m bloody well from Souff London, right, is it? I’m bloody well not an Egyptian at all, right? I were found in a box in Victoria Station by a couple of Arabs on the way hammer and tack from a shoppin’ trip ter Harrods, Gawd bless the queen mum.

So they adopted me and brought me up as their own in Cairo until I realised I could make some brass out of this ‘oole Palestinian melarky.

Me name’s Barney McCormish. Ah’m a geezer descended from the Arish in Balganny, raaht?

But I’ve ‘ad it wiv this nonsense. Have yer ‘ave a look outside, eh? Them are Merkava tanks, raaht? Big tanks, raaht, with big bleedin’ guns, driven by angry Israelis. Are you gettin’ it, mate?

I mean right, have yer ‘ave a looked outside, then, eh, squire? It’s a bleedin’ wasteland. Barney Rubble and lats aff it. What’s left for them to do? Do you think they’re gonna come back next time and paint these last four walls an ugly green color, then?

Will they bollox matey!

They’ll ‘ave me bits stapled ter bloomin’ Damascus Gate them crazy Forbies! Struth! I want ter go hammer and tack and cop a shwarma from Streaffam Kebab ‘ouse on the chuffin’ High Street.

Sayonara to this Ramallah place. Cheerio.