Middle East hair peace

Unbeknownst to most of the world, over the last few weeks, secret talks have been taking place between the opposing parties in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. As usual, these haggles over land have been undertaken in the premises known as “Camp David’s’, a small but chi-chi barbers in New York’s Greenwich Village.

Present at the chinwags was none other than the ever-dashing Warren Peas. With his motto “Wherever there’s rubble, you’ll find Warren Peas”, the intrepid peacemaker was last seen rebuilding the shattered infrastructure of Gafturkeystan. Now, with one eye on famed memoir, Peas has kept a detailed journal of his biggest challenge yet: staying awake through Israeli-Palestinian negotiations.

Here, we offer an exclusive preview of his peace-table doodlings.

April 20th

Arrived at Camp David’s by the usual method – armed escort. I hadn’t seen the place for a long time, and my skull-mop was looking all the better for it. Camp David has always been a bit eager with the old electric razor, and before you can say, “Oh my God! I look like Stan Laurel,” he’ll have given you an undercut in the New Romantic tradition.

Our party was the first to arrive. The others, as ever, were fashionably too late. Word had it that their aides were frantically contacting each other, ensuring the two leaders didn’t wear the same outfit. At my side, looking intensely uncomfortable in full battle regalia, was US Secretary of State, Coolit Pall. He was nudging me.

“What d’you want now?” I inquired, respectfully.

“Please Peas, I need some advice,” he whined. “What shall I say?”

I offered my best shot. “How should I know?”

“You’re right,” he said. “We mustn’t look like pussies.”

I ditched my cat suit in the bin. “Look, just don’t mention ceasefires, suicide-bombings, incursions, or the settlements, and you’ll be fine.”

“Mmm,” he pondered, scratching my chin. “They don’t call you ‘The Janitor’ for nothing, I see.”

I had a flash of inspiration. “I know. How about, ‘Take a break from mindless massacre and enjoy a free short back and sides, oil charge only’?”

“Now that’s more like it!” Pall enthused, and began consulting with an apprehensive Camp David.

April 22nd

Hair today, gone tomorrow. If I hear another snip of the scissors, another buzz of a razor, or another “So you little cutie, where you goin’ for your holidays?” I’m gonna kill somebody. We still await the arrival of our guests, who seem a tad unenthusiastic about the prospect of peace.

In fact, one side took the trouble of faxing us with a sign of things to come: “Keep your noses, and whatever else, out of what you don’t understand, you imperialist scum. P.S. Need another billion dollars.”

Not to be outdone, five minutes later the other side faxed. It was the same message, except they mis-spelt “scum”. Prospects are bleak, and Camp David, hoping for a perm. agreement, is eager for custom.

April 23rd

At last, they’ve arrived! In the traditions of good diplomacy, both squads arrived at exactly the same time. As the cameras snapped, there was a rush to the door: forty-four men struggled to squeeze through the narrow frame first. “These men would kill for peace!” I gasped, enthusiastically.

And how right I was. Immediately, to determine who was most peace-loving, a fight broke out. The bell on the shop door signalled the start and end of each round. As the casualties of war lay on the sidewalk, it was difficult to pick a winner. The Israeli strategy involved sitting on the Palestinians, who would respond by placing painful surprise jabs into strategic areas. Both claimed victory.

Finally, Camp David’s till-boy, Jennifer, dragged those still alive into the barbers. Camp David, excited by such a display of machismo, gave them a quick once-over while no-one was looking.

Four hours later, after securing exactly the same number of Palestinian nibbles as Israeli, talks began. Yousir Arefat, Palestinian chief, kicked off.

“You sir, are fat,” he said to Unreal Shalom, the Israeli PM.

“Shalom,” replied Shalom, gloomily. “We met before. The circumstances were slightly different: I was holding an anti-tank rocket launcher on my shoulder, and you were holding an anti-tank rocket launcher on your shoulder. Mine was bigger.”

“That’s right sir,” said Arefat. “Shaking hands was impossible.”

“Good. I should have finished you off when I had the chance.”

“So should I.”

Coolit Pall leapt in, having popped out for a burger.

“Man, I asked for no relish. What d’they go and give me relish for?”

I stood up, alerting Pall to proceedings.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, a look of shock filling his face.

“I’m always at these things,” I reminded him.

“Not you, them,” he said, pointing with two fingers. “What are they doing here?”

“You invited them,” I informed the one-time potential President.

“For sure. But we didn’t actually expect them to show up. Blast it, what do I know about the Middle East?”

“You fought a war there,” Arefat reminded him.

Pall scratched his scalp. “I did? Whose side was I on?”

A lengthy reminder was given to the combat veteran, as Gulf War Syndrome was treated by one of Camp David’s hair-setters. Progress had been made. We all retired, eager to begin bright and early the next afternoon.

April 24th

Toupee, three get off scott-free. Following a slap-on Brylcreem job by Camp David, us men of peace congregated around a round table. Coolit Pall had some news.

“Gentlemen, if that’s not an abuse of the term, we got another peace proposal.”

“Who now?” Shalom scoffed.

“Nevermind,” Pall said, blushing.

Arefat climbed up to the table. “We cannot agree to anything…”

“Unless what?” Pall sighed.

“Unless nothing,” Arefat replied. “We just cannot agree to anything.”

“Fine,” growled Pall. “So what shall we do with ourselves?”

Silence fell.

“Poker?” I suggested.

Shalom wasn’t happy. “Who’s responsible for this peace proposal?” he queried, a giant napkin stuck to his perspiring forehead. “I’ll tear them limb from limb.”

“It’s the Iraqis,” Pall said, his voice wavering with false enthusiasm. “I think Saidi’m Inssein may have cracked it.”

“Ooohh, that Saidi’m,” Camp David sang excitedly. “Would I love to get my hands on that little cutie’s moustache.”

“Later, later,” Pall said, removing Camp David’s hands from Shalom’s thigh. “Iraq proposes that, now let me get this right, Palestine, no, Israel should give up the West Bank.”

The table flew across the room, Shalom’s swing showing a professionally coached follow-through. “Is the man insane?”

“Well…,” said everyone.

“He’s got an original suggestion,” Pall said. “Hear me out. He reckons that if you simply spoonerise the West Bank, no-one will ever want to live there anyway, and you can squabble over somewhere else.”

“Like Gaza!” Arefat said triumphantly.

“Er, no,” Pall interceded. “That’s gonna be the Gaza Strip Joint.”

We all slept on it, which was said to be good for the back, though many of us woke up as spineless as ever.

April 25th

With the Iraqi plan being used by Camp David as a highlight cap, it was time for drastic action. Arefat and Shalom were sulking and refusing to look at each other, the rest of us refused to look at either of them. Pall was fed up, the burger joint round the corner doing a roaring trade. I took my chances and threw forward a proposal.

“Now listen, you bunch of weasels,” I began, adopting the negotiation methods of Jimmy Carter, “I’ve had just about as much of this as I can take. It’s clear you lot are as interested in peace as I am in the debate ‘Is graffiti art – and vice-versa?’ In other words, you’re not. It’s risky I know, but desperate crimes call for desperate pleasures. I want to offer an outsider’s wisdom.”

I wrestled Camp David to the floor, and yanked a rolled up document out of his garter belt.

“Now, look what I’ve got here.”

“Oh, don’t,” Camp David said, all flushed. “I’ll just die.”

Shalom and Arefat pricked their ears up.

“These,” I said, “are the Camp David accords – a bunch of late-night scribbled non sequiturs from the pink fountain pen of our talentless barber here. He, in his everyman understanding of this delicate situation, suggests a redrawing of the map, based on an appalling hairstyle of which he is the one surviving practitioner. It will be known as the ‘Parting of the Marcel Waves’. Who’s with me?”

“Another partition? Forget it!” Arefat said, hopping on my foot.

“No, sugar,” said our new hero, upright again. “Don’t be a silly-billy. I’m not interested in this partition. I’m talking about a parting baby. Ooohh yeah, I can see it now, a parting so… so firm, that it’ll allow millions of people to safely pass through it, on their way to The Promised Land baby, The Promised Land! Come with me children!”

We dashed out of the hair salon, our faces dripping with tears as we followed Camp David’s lead. We reached ‘The Promised Land’ in thirty seconds flat. It was a Thai massage parlour across the street.

“This is the place,” Shalom said, falling to his knees.

“I’m with you there, brother,” said Arefat, climbing on Shalom’s shoulders as they entered The Promised Land, together.