Hungover after a hard night on the tiles in Tel Aviv, it has become a habit of mine to walk down the beach, past the high-rise shoebox hotels, the pseudo Miami Beach with its roller-skaters, sand dudes, kite surfers and demi-monde of fashionable lefty/don’t-give-a-damn Israel, to Jaffa.

Here, the soothing stone of the old Ottoman port calms the mind. The finger of the minaret of the mosque by the sea is a reminder of the old dispensation, of the time before April 1948 when Jaffa was a city of 100,000 Palestinian Arabs. Only a few thousand remain.

Jul 2006

Aftershocks

Damned Rebels

Prisoners of Pyongyang

Kimnapped

Tyranny and Treachery

The Shipping News

The Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth

Narco-Millions

Poison Pentax

Laughing all the Way to the Money-Launderers

Atrocity Uncut

Middle East Mayhem

Harrowing Dispatches

Three Fruitcakes

Uday’s All Stars

Eating People Is Normal

Lawyers, Guns and Money

At War with Ceausescu

Through A Pint Glass, Darkly

‘As British as Suet Pudding’

Hello, Mr President

Bad Neighbours

Snakes in the Jungle

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