RICHARD LITTLEJOHN: Welcome to the Hotel Intifada
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-2838653/RICHARD-LITTLEJOHN-Welcome-Hotel-Intifada.html
The
exclusive Bermondsey Square Hotel, in South London, has been taken over
by a Middle Eastern businessman who intends to run it ‘in accordance
with Sharia law’.
Hours
after he assumed ownership, guests were shocked to find all alcohol and
dishes containing pork were banned, including even beer-battered onion
rings and rum-flavoured ice cream.
He
is, of course, perfectly entitled to run the hotel in line with his
religious beliefs. Britain has a long tradition of temperance hotels and
I’m sure the new owner of the Bermondsey Square isn’t trying to offend
or provoke anyone.
But imagine what might happen if this catches on and extremist elements decide to follow suit?
Hundreds
of young British jihadists have been fighting alongside Isis in Syria
and many have already returned home, determined to impose their
fanatical brand of Sharia law here. What if they open their own hotel?
Who knows what horrors lie ahead for unsuspecting travellers looking for a place to stay off the Old Kent Road?
With apologies to the Eagles, welcome to the Hotel Intifada...
On a South London ring road,
Diesel fumes in my hair,
Warm smell of samosas,
Rising up through the air.
Up ahead by the Poundshop,
I saw a flickering light,
Completely knackered and I needed a drink.
Thought I’d stop for the night.
As I entered the doorway,
Something’s wrong, I could tell,
The young man at reception said:
‘We’ve been expecting you, infidel.’
Then he pulled out a pistol,
And showed me to my cell.
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them yell:
Welcome to the Hotel Intifada,
Such a nasty place,
Such a nasty place,
Cover up your face.
Plenty of room at the Hotel Intifada.
Any time of year,
Any time of year,
We can make you disappear.
His mind was definitely twisted,
They called him Jihadi John,
He’s got a lot of pretty stupid boys,
Hell-bent on martyrdom.
Cleaning guns in the courtyard,
Black masks soaked in sweat,
Some full of adventure,
Some filled with regret.
So I called up my captor,
Please bring me my wine.
He said: ‘We don’t have any vino here,
Not even lager and lime.’
And still those voices were calling,
From far away,
Screaming out in the middle of the night,
In a blood-curdling way:
Welcome to the Hotel Intifada,
Such a nasty place,
Such a nasty place,
For the Master Race.
It’s a living hell at the
Hotel Intifada,
Get me out of here,
Get me out of here,
I just want a beer.
Shackles on the ceiling,
Bed sheets full of lice.
And he said: ‘We are all just prisoners here,
On our way to Paradise.’
I just want a Full English, a soft bed for the night.
So put away your steely knife,
I could murder a nice pint.
Last thing I remember,
I was flying through the door.
The place was smashed to kingdom come,
By American shock and awe.
‘Relax,’ said the madman, ‘Don’t look so relieved.
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave...’
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment