The stewardess gave me a copy of the Daily Star, Lebanon's English language newspaper. Thrashing open the pages and making sure that they disturbed Mr Spiv's hairdo, I discovered that a skier had been shot on the slopes of Mount Lebanon by a bullet that had crossed the border from the uprising in Syria. The skier hadn't died but the accompanying photo showed him looking understandably pissed off in a hospital bed.
There was more about a son who had accidentally shot and killed his father at a wedding; two kidnapped Saudis had been released, having been lured to an apartment by a foxy chick then tortured by an Iraqi gang who ultimately failed to get a ransom; and Israel was busily putting up a 4-metre high wall along the southern border - if you can't blow them off the face of the earth, block them out!
Man, Lebanon is happening!
The pilot smashed the wheels down onto the runway at Rafic Hariri airport in one of the worst landings I've ever endured and before we had even stopped, Mr Spiv was up and prodding my arm, geeing me up to let him out.
"Where do you think I'm going to go?" I asked with as much sarcasm as I could muster and a nod to Mr Hippo, snoring off the vodka.
"Move!" He ordered.
"Move where?"
"Move!"
"Shut the fuck up."
If he 'd had a gun or knife he 'd have happily killed me, as would a guy I was to meet later.
A civil war raged in Lebanon between 1975 and 1990 but the violence still goes on, evidenced by huge numbers of gun-wielding troops on the streets and news reports of more bombs, random shootings and carnage on a sporadic yet regular basis.
You know an economy is fucked when more than one currency is in circulation. Beirut bank machines offer US dollars alongside Lebanese pounds, which also get referred to as Lebanese lira. If you look hard enough you may even find a Lebanese Euro. And things ain't cheap: $10 for a bowl of soup, $7 for a lemonade, $20 for a pizza, etc.
There was a pub in my hotel called the Duke of Wellington (the man who kicked Napoleon's arse) and I sat there one night drinking Guinness and chit-chatting to the barman and a Lebanese guy who was in construction. When he left, the barman came over to tell me that the construction guy was a billionaire who owned countless buildings throughout the Middle East. He came across as a regular bar-room drunk, which only shows that one must not judge on appearances.
I was also involved in a futile search for Red Leb - the country's native herb - and have to report that I failed to find any, despite making a down-payment with a taxi driver, who left me on a promise in the Drink & Sing karaoke bar where I was propositioned by two gay blokes and never saw the cabbie or my cash again.
Beirut is not an enjoyable place and, astonishingly, after three days I found myself looking forward to going back to Saudi! Propping up a bar with my final Scotch for the next few months (Saudi abstinence means I ain't the Hemmingwayesque drinker I once was) I somehow fell into conversation with a tall, thin bearded fellow whose final words to me were, "Believe me! You will not leave this city alive!"
Wondering what the hell we had been talking about, I did realise that I'd clearly annoyed him and when the waiter came over and said, "You have to go now. It's not safe for you here. Don't worry about the bill" I took his advice and left, but when my potential killer followed me out onto the street, shouting something, I couldn't resist giving him a middle finger before jumping into a cab and uttering the immortal line, "Get me the fuck out of here, pronto!" Two minutes later he 'd pulled up outside the hotel.
In conclusion, human life on planet earth may continue for a million more years and these guys will still be bvlowing the crap out of each other. Lebanon is the gateway to and a by-word for Middle east chaos.
The next day before my afternoon flight was not at all comfortable.