Douche roundup – an occasional series

Some people can be real ticks

1. Dr Medhat Abdel-Hady

I came across this individual, who advertises himself as a marriage counsellor, via my El-Nas channel subscription on Youtube.

El-Nas caters to conservative Muslims and anyone else who wants to watch programmes without morally corrupting elements such as music using musical instruments, and women. Its most high profile presenter is Khaled Abdallah, a shrill demagogue who looks Amish and is famous for his “ya wad ya mo2men” quip at ElBaradei. Ever the defender of the faith, he is one of the instigators of the anti-”Innocence of Muslims” film hysteria in Egypt.

The only good thing about El-Nas is Abo Ammar. Abo Ammar is the Barbara Streisand of the Salafi world. When he is not singing the theme song for Salafi party El-Nour he is constantly surprising the devout with unexpected a cappella song .

His moment of glory was when he invaded a studio wearing a silky purple galabeya while Amish Abdalla was live on air with Salafi figure Abdel-Meneim cover-the-faces-of-pharonic-statues-with-wax-for-they-are-sinful” El-Shehat.

If you have never seen a tender moment between robust bearded guys before that will change when you watch this video. Grinning Abdalla greets him with, “el wa7sh dakhal” and heroic El-Shehat has the look of a man trying to ignore a potentially violent drunk on a night bus while Abo Ammar points at him emphatically, eyes closed, and makes the controversial case that El-Shehat lost in the elections because he is a hero and not a douche, and that Alexandria’s discerning voters are the losers not him.

Back to El-Nas and Abdel-Hady. Abdel-Hady is a distinct aberration in the El-Nas presenter stable for he has nightclub written all over him, with his jaunty jumper over the shoulders and slip on shoes and let-me-love-you hair and decidedly non-Sunna chin follicle action.

In this particular episode Abdel-Hady treats the subject of child discipline. Responding to a question from one “Miro Ahmed” about how beating one’s child should differ according to the child’s gender, Abdel-Hady reaches for his white board and pen and brings on the antediluvian.

There are differences between men and women, he tells us, in the form of three principle elements: intelligence, emotion, and instinct and desire, the latter I think is El-Nas code for sexy time-wanting. When dealing with the intelligence category Abdel-Hady is quick to point out that he is NOT suggesting that women have less intelligence than men, simply that they resort to using this intelligence less than their male counterparts.

Abdel-Hady gives men three ticks while the fairer sex get one and a half before he turns to the camera and smiles, and precedes to reverse this distribution in the “emotion” category. Men and women are equal in their desire in the final category Abdel-Hady says, the desire for food and teeky-teek.

All this solid science is a prelude to Abdel-Hady’s assertion that girls should be hit less hard than boys. He urges parents to bear in mind his white board while beating the shit out of their offspring.

After this he draws a brain that looks like an arse and hosts a small child called Mohamed for approximately 20 minutes to no discernable end before hosting the child’s father in the studio and his Russian mother on the phone (obviously). The latter is forced to answer questions about her child-rearing techniques in terrible Arabic.

My main issue with Abdel-Hady and his intelligence theory is that at the beginning of his show he says “welcome to the fourth episode…We apologise but we haven’t had time to complete the titles nor the studio décor”. I became very emotional as I wondered how all these men with their big ticks haven’t got their shit sufficiently together by the fourth episode.

Shitizens

I had to renew my Egyptian passport last week, necessitating a visit to the local police station, a section of which is where bureaucratic matters are dealt with.

There is a system in place at my local police station whereby a solitary cop directs citizens to the correct section and dispenses application forms as relevant. It was he who, a month ago, gave me the devastating news that my ID card had expired and that I would have to renew it before I could renew my passport. Of course I did this on the day that the police station computer system was down, so went to a different police station with approximately 3,000 other citizens where I was summoned by a clerk who called me “Sarah Mary” because my middle name is Marea and since this is an alien word resort is sought to the closest word identifiable to Egyptian officialdom.

Back to the passport renewal. Once at the window a harried clerk took my application and looked through my passport where he discovered that in the notes section “nationality file” is written, indicating that I have committed the crime of acquiring Egyptian citizenship while originally possessing another nationality. He asked me whether I have my other passport on my person – I did not – so he started shouting out “nationality file” at his colleague Madame Fulana and demanded how to proceed with this pariah.

I was sent to an officer in the room at the end of the windows. His bookcase cabinet had tea and coffee and mugs in it and the officer himself, a man of around 50, was consuming a cheese sandwich while he stared indignantly at a clerk and said, “I’m VERY angry with you. VERY angry indeed”. After each full stop he paused and chewed for emphasis.

Then he turned to me and I showed him the nationality file thingie. He smiled and picked up the phone with a certain flourish and introduced himself to “Rushdy Beh”, lavishing lots of affandems on him as he rested his cheese sandwich on my passport. He read out the nationality file number, winking at me, and then as he waited for Rushdy Beh to do whatever the hell he does with that number he moved the receiver below his chin and said, “I always thought the English people were all fat,” while very decidedly looking at my chests.

I was slightly floored by this observation and also by the location of his gaze and afterwards thought of several responses such as “I always knew that police officers are always dicks” or just simply destroying his bookcase cabinet full of beverages on his head but at that moment the bloody man had the fate of my passport renewal quite literally between his hands and I stayed schtum.

After he had written copious and illegible notes in red pen on my application form I went back to the man at the window and presented the form to him and he again asked a million questions about my other nationality. He did not have a convincing answer as to why dual nationals have to be given the bureaucratic OK by Rushdy Bey and the perv eyeball by Mr cheese sandwich, but this is yet another price one must pay for being the product of an Egyptian woman with the temerity to marry another species.

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One Response to Douche roundup – an occasional series

  1. Ray says:

    Funny article!

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