<< DICK LOVES DAVE ~ MAIN ~ ENDORSEMENTORAMA >>
FISK REVIEWS FISK
In a case that recalls the prank entry of Michael Leunig’s work in an Iranian Holocaust cartoon contest, Robert Fisk discovers he’s the best-selling author of a book he didn’t write:
It arrived for me in Beirut under plain cover, a brown envelope containing a small, glossy paperback in Arabic, accompanied by a note from an Egyptian friend. “Robert!” it began. “Did you really write this?”
The front cover bore a photograph of Saddam Hussein in the dock in Baghdad, the left side of his head in colour, the right side bleached out, wearing a black sports jacket but with no tie, holding a Koran in his right hand. “Saddam Hussein,” the cover said in huge letters. “From Birth to Martyrdom.” And then there was the author’s name – in beautiful, calligraphic typeface and in gold in the top, right-hand corner. “By Robert Fisk.”
His identity stolen, Fisk is furious:
Needless to say, I noticed one or two problems with this book. It took a very lenient view of the brutality of Saddam, it didn’t seem to care much about the gassed civilians of Halabja – and it was full of the kind of purple passages which I loathe. “After the American rejection of the Iraqi weapons report to the UN,” ‘Robert Fisk’ wrote, “the beating of war drums turned into a cacophony…”
Dare I suggest to readers that this kind of cliche doesn’t sound like Robert Fisk?
Not exactly, Bob; it’s a little more restrained than usual, and possibly isn’t completely inaccurate. Read on as Fisk hunts down his ghostwriter.
Hmmm… does anyone know what Peter Arnett’s been up to lately? Perhaps he thought it was necessary to destroy Fisk’s reputation in order to save it.
Posted by Steve Skubinna on 2008 02 04 at 11:37 AM • permalinkAnd it was clearly the moment for Detective Inspector Fisk to hunt down “The Mystery of the Cairo Forger”. Elementary, my dear reader, which is why I boarded Middle East Airlines flight ME304 from Beirut to my least favourite Arab capital, the bureaucratic, traffic-snarled, bankrupt, wonderful, lawless, irredeemable, spectacular Cairo.
I had called an Egyptian journalist friend, Saef Nasrawi, to be my Dr Watson and – a few metres from the front door of the Marriott Gezira Hotel – we found our faithful driver, Yasser Hassan. “Make sure you put my family name in your newspaper,” he announced. I have now done so.
I would have to ask, dear Robert, after late night dinners with Australian generals, lauding the Afghani youths who stoned you, describing a lovely, peaceful Middle East no one else has ever seen, and fancying yourself a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, can you really, honestly be sure you didn’t write this book?
It was probably another “Robert Fisk”. The one who wrote the book is completely different. He’s a little shit of a man, entirely craven, yet effete, and is anti-American and anti-Western on all things. When he doesn’t have his head up his ass, he usually has it up the ass of some Arab leader.
Completely different.
Posted by wronwright on 2008 02 04 at 11:47 AM • permalinkFisk is probably upset that someone else is getting the royalty check, not that someone using his name kissed Saddam’s dead ass .
Posted by The_Real_JeffS on 2008 02 04 at 12:01 PM • permalinkOh, and:
“It’s always been my theory that a taxi driver – especially in Cairo – will be more helpful, more friendly and altogether more enthusiastic if he knows why you’re in the back of his cab.”
DUH.
A great many taxi drivers have extremely good local knowledge. In Sydney, I jumped into a taxi with an Egyptian (?) driver, and asked him to take me somewhere with two inch thick rib eye steaks that isn’t owned by a family member, and boy, did he deliver! (drools in memory)
Agreed, Gajim (at #12). An enjoyable piece by Fisk, and he acquits himself well, with much less hysteria than Michael Leunig did in similar circumstances.
‘Course, Fisk would have done well to avoid a couple of other cliches, ie:
<i><b>We arrived at the Ministry of Culture, a bleak Stalinist office block next door to which we found “House of Books”.</b> On the first floor was an emporium – I hesitate to call it an office – of books, a vast atrium of volumes and manuscripts. They lay feet high on desks, metre high on shelves and – so it seemed – miles high from the floor. Hundreds, nay thousands, of books were stacked in Dickensian rows, floor to ceiling, bodice-rippers and Arabic fiction and treatises on Islamic jurisprudence and physics textbooks. Two veiled ladies and two bearded men sat at a desk amid this forest of literature, one of them – there is always a miracle in Cairo – in front of a grimy, faded-yellow desktop computer.</b>
I asked if my favourite volume had been approved by the Egyptian government for sale. “By Robert Fisk?” the man asked.
“The very one!” I shouted.
“Yes, it was registered with us on 30 May 2007.”
“Is there a name for the man who wanted to register it?”
“No, only an address. 13 Hassan Ramadan Street in Dokki.”
Within seconds, <b>Detective Inspector Fisk was bounding down the stairs, his faithful Dr Saef Watson on his heels. “To Dokki!” we demanded of the delighted Yasser. Now, surely, we were hot on the trail of the Forger of Cairo. A chance at last to confront Mr Magdi.</i>
Exotic imagery, exaggerated descriptions of Egyptian poverty (love the ‘grimy’ computer), and Fisk casting himself and his taxi driver into a master/servant relationship. A tad patronising, no?
I refused to read the rest of the article because the irony temporarily blew out my brain circuitry. Did Inspector Fisk get his man?
Posted by Tungsten Monk on 2008 02 04 at 08:34 PM • permalinkFisk frisked by frisky R. R my hearties.
Posted by stackja1945 on 2008 02 04 at 10:09 PM • permalink#15 “bodice-rippers”
Surely you mean burkha-rippers?
Posted by carpefraise on 2008 02 05 at 06:17 AM • permalink
Page 1 of 1 pages
Members:
Login | Register
| Member List
At least Detective Paco solves his mysteries. Inspector Fisk’s adventure was amusing, but he didn’t “get his man.” And where’s the femme fatale?