My kind of town, Frank!

Hello from Chicago,
Well actually I'm back from the windy city, location of the Nato summit, and now reimmersed in sweltering humid Washington. They say that Chicago in the winter is like Kabul. For those of you who haven't tasted the delights of Kabul in winter I can tell you it's mighty cold. But Chicago in May is warm, and it's a pretty city. The only time I visited Chicago before was way back when Tony Blair was PM and I flew with him to Chicago before going on to the Washington Nato summit. You see, I'm a real Nato summit afficiniado. Truth be told, I've covered nearly every summit since 19..! Blair, in his usual fashion, delivered a speech - for ever known as the Chicago speech - in which he pontificated about the need for the alliance to intervene around the world, especially Africa, wherever the need arose. Wow, that was some vision, and obviously beyond the capacity of the alliance then or now. Still, Mr Blair bless him had such wonderful visions, none of them quite reaching fulfillment. Anyway, I digress. This time the Nato summit was all about Afghanistan of course and I won't bother you with the details, but here are a few idol observations and incidents that kept me from going mad while trying to write the same story each day.

The summit coincided with the European Championship final between Chelsea and Bayern Munich. I kept an eager ear open and was then glued to my laptop when it reached the penalty shoot-out. A phenominal result, even for a QPR fan. Back in the hotel later that afternoon, I stepped into the lift all aglow with Chelsea's amazing achievement and was greeted by a couple who said: "Hi." Sounded distinctly English, so, still brimming with enthusiasm, I said: "So, Chelsea beat the Germans then!!" The woman turned to her husband and said: "Ich bin oulenzy zveniart donna und blizten." Or words to that effect. I don't speak German, so sorry to you clever German-speakers. But you get the idea. Hilarious. Straight out of Faulty Towers. Needless to say, the couple didn't talk to me for the journey upwards.

Another Faulty Towers scene: To get to the Media Centre to cover the Nato summit, you had to go through an elaborate security process at the hotel, involving alsations sniffing your laptop bag, while you had to exit the room with the dogs and go somewhere else to be personally examined before being reunited with your dog-approved laptop bag; and then entering a coach which drove down a back route alongside a railway line, guarded all the way by police until we arrived at the centre. That was fine, and quite sensible to do the security checks at the hotel and not at the media centre. But on the last day of the summit, I had a plane booked to return to Washington in the evening - a bit of a squeeze, but it would save The Times another hotel night. So I took my luggage down as well as my laptop bag.

Big beefy bloke: "No luggage."
"But I need to bring my luggage because I'm going straight from the media centre to the airport."
"No luggage."
"But..."
"The dogs don't do luggage."
"But if they can do my laptop, why can't they do luggage?"
"You have to leave your luggage with the concierge."
But I couldn't leave my laptop while I went off with my luggage.
I couldn't think straight. My only plan was to somehow bring my luggage and my laptop to the media centre at the same time. Perhaps they could security-check my luggage at the media centre. I went upstairs with my luggage and laptop bag, three escalators. I left the luggage temporarily with the concierge and returned downstairs - three escalators. I retrieved my now woof woof-approved laptop bag and went back upstairs to collect my luggage, brought both back down again and met the same beefy bloke.

 "Ok," I said,"my laptop's been done."
"No luggage."
"But, can I get it checked at the media centre?"
"We can't security-check your luggage here or anywhere."
"But...."
"I'm just the messenger."
"So I have to take my luggage upstairs again and leave it there? I have to come back to the hotel before I can go to the airport?"
"I'm just the messenger."
I set off back up the three escalators with my woof woof-approved laptop bag and my luggage, placed the luggage back with the concierge and returned, anger boiling up, to the beefy bloke.
"So can I go through to the coach, you've done my bag."
"Have you been upstairs with it?"
"Yes, but..."
"You've got to go through it all again."
"But... ok ok I know you're just the messenger."
The alsation said: "I've sniffed this one already, sunshine, what's the story?"
A shaggy dog story with a very annoying end.

Despite Obama waffling on endlessly at his mid-afternoon press conference, I managed to write a new second edition piece and head back to the hotel before finding a taxi for the airport, making the flight with 22 minutes to spare.
Woof woof! I'm still out of breath.

SHHH Big Pants Boys About

First a file from Guantanamo Bay, my third visit to the Caribbean detention centre, three eighteen-hour a day days to record the pre-trial hearing of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and four others, all accused of helping the orchestrate the 9/11 attacks. Seeing them walk into the courtroom - with one notable exception who was brought in strapped to a "restraining chair" - made you think, these are the human beings accused of masterminding the most horrific terrorist attack in history. For most of the time, they sat in their chairs saying and doing nothing, but during the recess time they smiled and chatted and passed verbal messages down the row of chairs as if they didn't have a care in the world. How is it possible that people who allegedly believe in a supreme being can conjure up such hatred for others. They plotted to kill 2,976 people and brought down two symbolic skyscrapers - well allegedly, I supposed one should say. Anyway I was there to  record all the colour and drama for The Times which for those of you who are sensible enough to read the best newspaper in the world, will be already familiar, although as the hearing itself was on a Saturday, it meant my 1,500 words on what happened appeared Online, not in the paper. Such a shame, especially as I was the only British newspaper reporter who not only got a seat on the Pentagon plane to Guantanamo Bay - 60 out of more than 200 applicants - but then had my name drawn out of the hat for the 10 places inside the courtroom. It was a day to remember.

 Only one bit of the hearing was blotted out when the security officer in charge of such things thought one of the defense counsel said something which was deemed to be classified. Because there's a 40-second delay for the audio feed to reach those of us sitting in the public gallery behind a glass panel at the back of the court, we didn't hear The Great Secret, just a splurge of white noise. But after due thought by the Pentagon and co, it was decided that the blotted-out bit could be released after all. One of the defending lawyers said his client, the shifty one brought in in the restraining chair, couldn't hear what was going on in court because he didn't want to wear the headphones supplied by the court. This was because headphones had been used "by the big pants boys at the CIA" to torture him during interrogation. The words in quotes were the actual words of the lawyer. I wrote a blog for The Times about it and said that "the big pants boys at the Pentagon" had decided that these words were not classified. HO HO HO! So goodbye Guantanamo, until the next time. I'm now a veteran of the place. But unlike the inmates - 169 are still there - at least I get to leave. I can't see them ever being released, but if Obama gets reelected - definitely not guaranteed - he's going to have to turn his mind to Guantanamo. What to do with it, what to do with the detainees etc. I don't suppose Mitt Romney will give it a second thought, if he wins the White House. Just keep them, charged or uncharged.

Talking of politics, went to see the delightful Magic Exotic Marigold Hotel the other day, but first had to witness a strange incident which can only happen in the US of A. One of the ushers, an overweight shy boy, went to the front of the screen and started to speak. There were three people at the back of the front section and a huge number higher up behind them, none of whom could hear anything. The Fat Boy raised his voice a touch after being told to speak up, and then explained why he was happy for everyone to be there and thanked us that they had chosen this cinema to watch this film and that rival cinemas didn't have this film and that they chose rubbish films to show their customers, and he then said he wanted us all to get on. A clever spark shouted: "You should run for Congress". Everyone laughed into their popcorn. Fat Boy retreated.

Took a suit which I had bought for nothing in a charity shop - ok ok, but times are hard - to a repair shop to have it relined and the trousers taken out - well, come on, this is America, I've been on a burger,chips and everything with sugar diet!  Every dry cleaner and repair shop in Washington is run by Chinese. I asked the lady how much it would cost to take the trousers out an inch to make room for more burgers. The following conversation took place:

"..awty dollars."

"Forty dollars?!"

"..awty dollars."

"Forty dollars!!!"

"...awty dollars."

"Fourteen dollars?"

"..wenty dollars."

"Twenty dollars?"

"..wenty dollars."

"So, twenty dollars?"

"..wenty dollars."

I have no idea whether I misheard in the first place or whether we had engaged in a wonderful bargaining ritual. If the latter I did so in all innocence. But ..wenty dollars it was!

The race for the White House is now truly tedious. With all the potential rivals out of the way, Romney, the man whose wife has two Cadillacs and whose home has a car elevator, is not far behind Obama  who tells us how he has improved America's national security by sending in The Boys to do his dirty work, but then gets his sidekicks to leak all the operational details to the Los Angeles Times, New York Post, Washington Post and Miami Women's Journal etc, and then pretend he's aghast when the papers run amazing drama stories. I always remember Michael Portillo when he was Conservative Defence Secretary under Thatcher boasting at the annual Tory Party conference that he would send for the SAS if he wanted anything sorted. It didn't do his political standing any good and the SAS was thoroughly miffed at being exploited for political reasons. Obama should watch out. Anyway the US presidential campaign still has the rest of May, June, July, August, September, October and November to run, so it's going to be a long yawn, unless there is drama overseas. I'm off to the windy city - Chicago - for the Nato summit about Afghanistan where I'm sure Obama will declare that US troops are being pulled out "responsibly" after the thrashing of the Taleban. Mr Pootin, reinstated at the Kremlin, will be laughing. His lot - 150,000 Russian troops - left Afghanistan after thrashing everyone and no one, a total victorious defeat. Oooh, I'm getting over-cynical. I blame the burger diet.

Miami Nice

Hello from Miami!
Miami is about cars. Ocean Drive is the hotspot place to be seen in Miami South Beach, especially if you have a car, sorry a CAR.  If you're a dude with a dude car in Miami you need to park it in Ocean Drive outside the most popular restaurants. In fact if you have a very very special car like an old-style Cadillac with leather upholstery, open-top and wheels the size of the London Eye, owners of restaurants actually employ guys to flag them down and offer them a valet parking slot as a way of attracting customers. The coolest dude of all sits the whole evening in his black Buick outside one of the most favoured eating-places with a hat perched nonchalantly on his head, bending forward as if he's preparing at any moment to climb out and acknowledge the admirers. But the dude turns out to be a wax dummy. How cool is that?

The fanciest parking spot of all is outside Brown's Hotel up one end of Ocean Drive which is always massively crowded with diners and onlookers. Me included.  First night, the following cars were parked all together - and all of them shining white. It was definitely white car night, because the following night similar cars were all black. Anyway on this night, one side of the street were a Lamborgini and an Aston Martin, not Lamborgini or Aston Martin like you might recognise in the King's Road, Chelsea, but custom-built and seemingly impossible to climb into they were so low down and groovy and tight-fitting. You needed snake-hips, a bendy back, slim bottom and dainty feet. Perhaps the owners were also wax models. I never saw anyone ease his way into the driver's seats. Across the road, right outside Brown's was a Maserati and a chunky chunky smack-in-the-face, powerhouse Rolls Royce with a chrome front grill the size of Buckingham Palace gates. Grrrrrrrrr!!! You couldn't take your eyes off the cars. Four owners were presumably inside Brown's stuffing themselves with steaks as big as bullocks. Further down the road was a very red sports car with gull-wing doors, both up as far as they could go like a seagull coming into land. This fancy job DID have an owner, well a serious dude with regulation snake hips was calmly sitting sideways in the passenger seat with his feet perched on the pavement. Gold earings in each ear and a smile that was saying," Dis my car, man, bet you ain't gotta a car like dis, dis my car, man." He had a body as thin as straw and trousers (pants in the US of A) that were fashionably slipped well below the posterior. Not a fashion I have taken to I admit, but this guy was seriously cool and could be forgiven.

On one night, four huge, low-slung Cadillacs, all in immaculate condition and with the front wheels bigger than the rear wheels, so giving the impression of a car about to take off, cruised back and forth down Ocean Drive. One of them was mauve, or "mov" as the Americans say. You have to be a pretty special dude to go into a showroom and say: "Hey. man, I wanna Cadillac and I want it in mov". The four Cads spent the whole evening roaring up and down, keeping close together. Restaurant valet parking employees tried their best to persuade them to come alongside their eateries but there was no way you could park four 18ft-long Cads outside without ordering customers with lesser cars to get the hell out of there. So they kept cruising! But dudes with cars like that don't ever park, they just step on the gas.

For those not interested in cars, sorry about the above adulation, but being the owner of a pretty cool classic WHITE 1984 Jaguar Sovereign I think I'm entitled to a little bit of drooling.

Apart from cars, Miami is full of very loud Cubans, especially on the beach, where they gather in large numbers, the men wearing gold necklaces with crosses, flash sunglasses and baseball caps, and the women in skimpy bikinis which reveal 99 per cent of their bottoms. They walk around like strutting peakcocks while their men talk, sorry, shout, all at the same time. For us more modest Brits, it's a strain on the ears and on the eyes!!

After five days in Miami I can now watch CSI Miami, my favourite TV show, with a smile on my face....cars, cocktails and cool cool, well everything.

Language innit!

Language continues to play a fun part of my life here. Try this one, recently at Trader Joe's, the upper supermarket where all the staff are always overjoyed to see you and to wish you every happiness in your shopping, it's kinda shmaltzy but you get used to it and generally feel a sort of warm glow as you buy your nut clusters, your peanut butter cups (oooh yummy), your onions the size of water melons and sip the latest wine sample from the Napa Valley.

"Excuse me, do you have any prawns?"

"Prunes?"

"No, prawns."

Total mystery on the part of the Trader Joe employee. She turned to a colleague. "Jou get that?"

"He means praaans."

"You mean praaans?" she asked me.

Slight hesitation.

"Eh, yes, praaans. Do you have any praaans?"

"No."

"Thanks."

Actually they had plenty of shrimps on another counter, and back in UK those shrimps I think would be selling as praaans, sorry, prawns. Anyway they tasted ok.

In my favourite local restaurant in Alexandria.

"What's the soup today?"

"Tomato and bayzel."

"You mean basil?"

"No, bayzel. we say bayzel.

"OK we'll have two tomato and bayzel."

At the Pentagon.

"The main rowte into Afghanistan has been closed."

"How long will the ROUTE be closed for?" I asked.

Ho ho ho, general laughter.

"He says route, we say rowte."

I am not technically able unfortunately. I had intended to share with you a picture of my companion on the Metro the other day. I took a picture with her/his/its permission. It was a giant, and I mean giant, rabbit, not a real one obviously but a big cuddly made-in-China rabbit (EVERYTHING is made in China, even local novelty tourist specialities, like hand-crafted Red Indian dolls or mini leather wigwams, honestly it's true). The rabbit sat/perched next to me, as good as gold. I didn't hear a psss, or whatever rabbits say, the whole journey but it was kinda cute in a sort of very American way. The girl who belonged to it told me her sister had made it. Yeah right, in her flat in Beijing.

The last few weeks have all been about big big Pentagon defence cuts, the kinda cuts which if carried out by almost any country other than the US of A would reduce its armed forces to a bunch of Boy Scouts on bicycles.  But, as is the way with adroit politicians like Mr Leon Panetta, the US Defence Secretary, the cuts are being dressed up as a turning point for the nation when the armed forces can be transformed into a more agile, more adaptable, more resilient fighting machine capable of still waging at least two wars at once. Fewer troops, fewer fighter aircraft, fewer ships but hey small is beautiful, haven't you heard! Much more focus will now be on the US Navy Seals and pregnant women. Sorry, that probably sounds a non-sequiter but it gives me an opportunity to describe the latest wheeze from the US army chiefs who, bless them, have become very worried that in these days of political correctness, they might not have been giving enough attention to pregnant soldiers training with their non-pregnant male counterparts. The chiefs feared there might not be enough empathy from the sergeant-majors shouting their orders in the gymnasium. So training instructors, all of whom will have served at some point in Iraq and/or Afghanistan, have been ordered to wear, wait for it, fake breasts and fake swollen bellies - contained within a natty piece of clothing made in Shanghai (I expect) - for at least three hours to understand the difficulties pregnant soldiers might have in bending down to touch their toes. Big beefy chaps used to wearing flak jackets have not taken kindly to the new orders and photographs of them doing press-ups with - see above - have produced a heep of belly laughs. The US Army chiefs wouldn't be seen dead in the Shanghai outfits.

I expect you're all bored to tears with the US presidential election campaign but there are some great moments amongst the Republican candidates as they attempt to out-argue each other to win the nomination to take on Obama. Half the nation, spurred on by insinuating remarks from the Republicans believe that Obama is a closet Muslim and that the nation's security in his hands is in serious danger. In fact the other way around is true. The nation in the hands of Newt Gingrich would, it seems, bomb pretty well everyone, and under Romney or Santorum it's almost equally scary. Mind you, both being Mormons means that each of them wears magic underpants. No, I haven't a clue what it means but the Washington Post and New York Times tell me that Mormons wear magic underpants. I've asked in every haberdashery for a pair but no one seems to know what they are, what they can do, and where to buy them. I may have to go to Mormon-populated Utah. Did you know, by the way, that the CIA recruits more of its intelligence officers from Utah than anywhere else in the US of A. Mormons are ok CIA material apparently, partly I have no doubt because of the magic underpants, but also because as part of their thing every member of the religion has to be a missionary for two years in some weird part of the world, so they come back speaking fluent Flemish, Norwegian or Tasmanian. Languages are crucial for a career in the CIA, but I bet covert intelligence officers still say praaans, bayzel and rowte.

Shoot first, no questions afterwards

It's only January, 10 months away from the US of A presidential election, but the Republicans are still scrapping like hyenas over the Conservative corpse, turning against each and growling. The sillly thing is that once the candidate is eventually chosen, then the other would-be presidents will all hunker round and support him (That's one thing we do know,it will be a Him not a Her. The Hers all fell by the way side a long time back). This is what happened in the Obama versus Hillary Clinton bout in the last presidential election campaign when the Democrats were trying to choose their candidate. Hillary, sweet-natured lady that she is, tore into Obama, describing him as a no-good, inexperienced jumped-up Senator who hadn't a clue about Big Time politics. But as soon as she had lost out to Obama, and after a period of mourning, grinding of teeth and screaming at the wall, she and Bill came out into the sunshine and said they would give their all for Obama and that he was The Chosen One who would be a great President. We don't know yet, and Hillary isn't telling, whether Obama is or will be or might be a great president. Four years of hassle hassle hassle hasn't made it possible to make an historic judgment as yet. Mind you, I'm just a Brit interloper, what do I know? What I do know - because I was standing a few feet from her not that long ago and asking her a question about Iraq, as you do - Hillary is looking absolutely exhausted. She claims she doesn't want another four-year term as Sec of State if Obama wins and I believe her. She's pooked and fancies a quiet life is my thinking. Meanwhile, the last four Republican candidates left in the race, Newt Gingrich, Rick Santorum, Ron Paul and Mitt Romney, are steadily getting louder, more insulting, more belligerent and less and less presidential and they haven't started on Obama properly yet. I still think Romney will win because he looks more the part than Gingrich, and Gingrich thinks he's another Churchill which he ain't. Word of warning, don't read up about Mormonism if you want to feel comfortable with having Romney in the White House. Apart from the taxi driver who launched the religion, there's something about a spaceship involved somewhere which I find slightly disturbing, although it may account for some of Romney's weird, somewhat unhuman mannerisms. Beneath that Hollywood veneer there's a little green man bursting to get out. I'm surprised Newt hasn't brought this up. After all, in the early days, Republican candidates were scoffing at Obama's birthplace, saying he wasn't born in Hawaii but in a shack in Indonesia. Someone should ask Romney whether he was born in the US of A or on the moon.

Two fashionable ladies sitting in a posh restaurant in Boston and drinking Chardonnay are chatting quite loudly about guns and stuff. One turns to the other and says: "Well darling, the most important thing is if you're going to shoot someone make sure you kill him, otherwise he'll sue you." This little gem was overheard by a Times reporter while on a visit to Boston the other day. It could only happen in America. And this ain't the deep south, this is clam chowder Boston, very upmarket. While on the subject of shooting, and forgive me those of a delicate nature, but the following story in one of the US papers is, I think, worth recording: "Headless body found in topless bar." This requires no further comment.

I have at last managed to break through the biggest obstacle in being a Brit here in Washington, being recognised as someone worthy of asking a question at a press conference. As I have mentioned before, whether it's Obama or Leon Panetta or Hillary or whoever, the same old routine is always followed. It's the big boys and girls from the broadcasting organisations plus the New York Times, Washington Post etc and Associated Press who get to ask the questions, and to be honest, most of the questions are pretty mundane and often stupid, ie we all know the answer already so why ask it! Well, I got my question to Hillary, but that had been pre-arranged. The press conference was for the visit of William Hague to see Hillary. I was told I could ask the Brit question and someone from the US o A would ask the American question. But last week Panetta, esteemed Defence Secretary and former CIA director, was giving a press conference at the Pentagon about the defence cuts - a staggering $487 billion's worth (about 487 times bigger than Belgium's annual defence spending!!). I was sitting at the back of a room packed with about 100 journalists. All the questions were blaa blaa blaa and the answers were blaa blaa blaa. It was falling asleep time. I popped up my hand and caught the eye of the Assistant Defence Secretary (public affairs), and to my astonishment, he said: "This is the last question. Mike?" In my frightfully Brit accent which made everyone turn around - 99 pairs of eyes - I asked Panetta, in terms of security challenges and threats, what was worrying him most, particularly looking ahead the next 12 months. He hesitated and then replied, with a chuckle: "This is a set-up." Everyone in the room laughed. Good old Brit, he's done it again, changed the sleepy atmosphere. Panetta, unfortunately, didn't give the reply I wanted which was: "What keeps me awake at night is that man Ahmadinejad and his nuclear weapons programme." But he gave a reasonably good answer which did mention Iran. Anyway, the other reporters thought it was a good question because they were furiously writing down the answer and came and said so afterwards. Quite satisfying really.

Good Hair Guide

I have decided after much intellectual thought that the choice of President of the United States of America finally comes down to one crucial thing - hair. A guy or gal has just got to have a good head of hair to stand a chance of entering the White House as Chief Resident. And by good head of hair I don't mean lots of it, I mean styled in a way that smacks of Hollywood or breeding. Which is why I don't yet eliminate Rick Perry from my personal list of potential "Most Powerful Man in the World" candidates. He has a lovely sort of hmmm my hair is so well looked after, so shampooed, so well... beautiful, and along with the rather craggy looks and instant smile, he could pass muster as a lead character in a TV or film blockbuster. The American voting public likes a looker and Perry is a looker. Trouble is, every time he opens his mouth wide enough to emit a few chosen words, he generally finds the part of his body which is furthest from his lips (foot) gets firmly stuck between his teeth. The Washington newspaper boys and broadcasting know-alls don't give an inch. Never mind his hairdo, if he says he's going to shoot every illegal immigrant who comes across the Mexican border - hurray, says a lot of rednecks - or that he'd bomb Iran the first moment he has to summon the generals to the Situation Room, then the wiseguys, especially from the liberal press, are going to hammer him. So Mr Perry, I've got a piece of advice for you. Just show off your hair, keep smiling but saying NOTHING. You'll win! 

There's no one else really in the hair stakes who can match up to his shampoo. Newt Gingrich - excuse me, with a name like that you can only be a guardian of reptiles at the Washington Zoo - has hair but like the rest of him it doesn't look as if he has given it sufficient care and attention. Mitt Romney's hair looks like one of those fancy barber numbers. You know the ones. You walk past a hairdresser's and in the window are a bunch of pictures of previously satisfied clients. The haircuts are all what I would call "police inspector" style. Slightly pouffy, not a hair out of place and never moves in the wind. Well we know enough about Mitt or is it Mutt Romney by now to know that he will be the most boring president since Gerald Ford or Jimmy Carter, although at least the latter had his peanut farms. The two women who have either entered the race or not entered the race, ie Michele Bachmann and Sarah Palin, both have nice locks (I said locks not looks) but Michele is too small and Sarah who would have absolutely wowed both Nicholas Sarkozy and Vladimir Putin (can you imagine President Putin meeting President Palin for the first time, he'd be stripped to the waist and riding his stallion before you could say Pass ze Vodka Darrrleeng), decided that after failing to find anyone who wanted to be her Vice-President she might as well pull out and stick to showbiz. 

Re hairstyles, I don't need to mention Donald Stretchover Trump. You can't be President of the USA with such unreliable hair. Standing in a howling wind reviewing the guard of honour, every photographer would have a field day. Now John Huntsman, the former ambassador in Beijing, has quite nice hair, but it doesn't look as if he knows how to project this asset. Put your fingers through it nonchalently before you do your next 60 Minutes interview, Mr Huntsman. The women will love it. 

The great presidents have all had distinctive hair: Kennedy of course, enviably thick and brown and eminently suited to his boyish good looks, Reagan, well not exactly I must have his hair type of hair, somewhat rigid and strangely coloured and immovable, but nevertheless sort of Clark Gableish lacquered and ready to go. Big Bill Clinton has pretty pretty hair and until he grew a radish on the end of his nose looked pretty good too. Enough said of Our Bill. Eisenhower had very boring hair but there are those, particularly in these oh so much smarter days,who believe that he wasn't a great president anyway. He won the war - excuse me, it was Churchill and Monty who won the war! - and rescued Private Ryan but as a president he was no George Washington. In fact Mr Washington, who formerly fought on the side of the British in the Indian/French war of the 1880s, turned out to be an even better general too. Sorry Ike. I'm not going to even bother remind you of the hairstyles of Richard Nixon, LBJ and aforementioned Jimmy Carter. But none of them was great presidents, so I think I have proved my point to a degree.

Today, a decent hairstyle is crucial to enter the White House. Obama looks pretty damned cool wherever he goes, and has always gone for the short crop. Always wears dark clothes, too, I notice. Hollywood has definitely got into his bones. So on the basis of what I have been arguing, in a rather historic manner if I may say so, Obama has got his rivals by their short and curlies. He wins by having the cutest hair. Rick Perry's hair will take him far but not far enough. So it's Romney's Chief Inspector look or Gingrich's mess. I'll go for Chief Inspector Romney against Denzil (Washington) Obama. The only chance Romney has of winning will be if he asks his hairdresser for a Number One and go for the Marine look. But John McCain tried that - well he didn't try, he was a tough nut anyway - and it didn't do him much good after he decided to ask Sarah Palin to be his vice-presidential running mate. Whoops, both feet right down the gullet!

On a less serious note, I have discovered over the years that generals who get anywhere being generals are the ones who are the most media-savvy. One trick is to find out as quickly as possible the first name of the reporter/broadcaster you're talking to and then drop his/her name into the interview as often as possible. It makes the interviewer feel good and the interviewee feel smug.  A classic warning, though, please make sure you have got the name right before you repeat it several times. A frightfully important general in a video briefing from Baghdad to the Pentagon Press Corps last week was a prime example of this dangerous pitfall. Admittedly, he did have the excuse of trying to pick up our names from a rather faint and crackly line. Amazing really, 21st Century communications and yet at times it was like that wonderful sketch in Blackadder when Captain Blackadder claims not to be able to hear the orders from his general to charge the German trenches: "Bzzzz psssst vooip vooip, oops, sorry the line is gone kaput!" Well, here's a smattering of the exchanges between the US general in Baghdad and the Pentagon Boys and Girls in the media briefing room.

"Hi General. Justin Fishel with Fox News blaa blaa blaa...."

"Yeah, Jeff, thanks for the question.........As you well know, Jeff, there are blaa blaa blaa."

"General, Nathan Hodge at the Wall Street Journal....blaa blaaa blaa."

"Yeah, Marvin, that's a great question...blaa blaa blaa."

"Hi General, it's Courtney Kube from NBC News....blaa blaa."

"Yeah, Coral.... blaaa blaaa."

By now we're all in hysterics, including the Pentagon Press Secretary. It doesn't matter whether the general declares world war or announces he's joining the insurgents, we ain't listening. We're just dying to hear the next whoops moment. The next questioner is Viola Gienger from Bloomberg News. I think someone must have whispered into the general's ear because he made no attempt to repeat her first name, let alone her surname. But he did say: "That's a very very good question". Which was followed by the blandest answer which didn't address Ms Gienger's question but at least he didn't call her Burt or George. For the record, when Mike Evans of the London Times asked the general a question, he replied: "Well, number one, Mike, thanks for that question blaa blaa blaa." Hurray, Mr General, you've done it. All that media-savvy work has paid off!!! After it was all over some of us gathered round George Little, the Press Secretary, to discuss something very serious until I asked him: "Jim, can you tell us blaa blaa blaa?" A burst of laughter from all assembled, including George/Jim Little. 

GTMO!

Last week I took the same route as hundreds of terrorists/enemy combatants en route to Guantanamo Bay detention centre, what used to be called Camp X-Ray and is now renamed Camp Delta - flight into Guantanamo Bay US Naval Station, bus to the ferry, onto the ferry and a 25-minute ride across the water to the windward side of Guantanamo and voila, there it is, the most famous/infamous detention centre in the universe. No orange jumpsuit for me fortunately (orange just doesn't suit me my dears) but a warm welcome from Rear Admiral David Woods, commander of Joint Task Force Guantanamo, the Big Cheese boss of the camp. When I say warm, I doubt he's naturally a warm soul. You don't get to run a prison camp for the most dangerous human beings on the planet by being a nice soul. He was a fairly typical toothbrush-haired American commander with a smile but absolutely no intention of telling us anything. 

But first of all, just to put The Guardian's headline story last week into some perspective. The headline said "Guantanamo Torture Centre". Well, between you and me and all the readers of The Guardian, the paper did not have a representative on the small party of journalists who went to Guantanamo this week, and I can tell you that the torture days - under President GW - are over. I went into Camp 6 where 80 per cent of the detainees are held and although every moment of their lives is watched over by guards they live a weird communal, albeit twilight, world where they can wander around, unshackled, unfettered, read books, watch endless television, paint etc etc. It's not Alexandria or East Sheen but it ain't waterboarding for breakfast, Mr and Mrs Guardian readers. They look pretty healthy, too. Abd al-Rahim Nashiri, the mastermind (alleged) of the suicide boat bomb attack on USS Cole in 2000 which killed 17 sailors, and numerous other al-Qaeda operations - and the reason I was in Guantanamo, to witness his first appearance before a Military Commission tribunal -swaggered into court looking positively bursting with health, almost pudgy. The only previous photo of him, used by every newspaper since his arrest in 2002 was of a thin-faced very Saudi-looking Saudi with a neat beard and turban. The guy in court looked nothing like him. He was round of face, unbearded, with a layer of stubble and oiled hair. Apparently he had a moustache but I couldn't see that from where I was sitting - at the back of the hugely secure courtroom behind a glass screen. Normally it's the dangerous defendant who sits behind a screen or in a cage. In this case it was us lot!!! 

There was much questioning of his civilian lawyer afterwards about whether Nashiri was fat, sturdy, stocky or muscular. The lawyer, quite rotund of stomach, replied: "I'm fat, he's muscly." The fact is, muscly or fat, this gentleman is never going to leave Guantanamo or at least he's never going to be released because even if he's acquitted - he's facing a death penalty if convicted - no US Government of whatever persuasion is going to free a terrorist (alleged) who was reputed to have been the leader of al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (a grand title for such a horrendous terrorist network). Tricky one for Obama! By the way Nashiri is kept in Camp 7 which is so secret that no one, except those in charge of that particular facility, knows anything about it. There are 15 inhabitants, the most dangerous of the most dangerous, including Sheikh Mohammad Khaled, the 9/11 architect, Certainly we weren't allowed anywhere near it. There are six centres within Camp Delta: Camp 5 for Camp 6 detainees who have breached discipline where the regime is much less congenial and they wear the Guantanamo orange designer uniform to let everyone know they are "non-compliant", Camp 6 for the vast majority, Camp 7 for Nashiri and co, Camp Iguana, Camp Echo and the hospital. Allegedly Camp Echo is for the snitches, the detainees who have spilled the beans. I'm not sure about Camp Iguana. Everything is so hush hush at Guantanamo Bay, you don't often get a straight answer to a straight question. Except for : "Do you torture the detainees?" "NO." 

Nashiri's main lawyer who has been involved in 35 US federal death sentence trials, was upset when we said his client had swaggered into court. He said he didn't swagger,he just walked like he normally does. Then, whoops, he revealed he had never actually seen him walk before and he had been coming to Guantanamo Bay to see him for three years!!! Wow. how about that? At Camp 6, the easygo of sorts camp where the detainees don't wear shackles of any kind, they can make requests which are often granted. "Can I get off this island and go home please?" NO, sorry. "Can I have some sweets for trick and treat for Halloween night?" Of course you can, provided you share them around. "It's coming up for the Muslim Eid festival, we normally sacrifice a sheep, any chance....?" Does that involve using a knife to cut the throat? "Eh, yes." Then , no way, we might think about the sheep, but no knife.  Actually, that was one of the questions posed by the woman reporter from the Miami Herald when Eid came up as an issue. The Camp 6 commander showing us around said just that, although I assume he was kidding. "No they couldn't sacrifice a sheep with a knife, but we might have considered giving them a sheep."

Now,don't get me wrong, I am not saying, after one visit to Guantanamo, that the detainees are living a jolly life by the sea, although technically they are by the sea, or at least the bay. They are cooped up in a heavily barbed wire encampment with no family visits, and most of them will never get to visit Disneyland. But remember who these people are? The problem for Obama is that at some stage they should be presented to a court, either federal or military, and charged. But it's going to be a long business. I am reliably informed - actually by the US military's chief prosecutor himself, a tall incredibly intelligent general and total dude extraordinaire who was first in his class at West Point, a Rhodes scholar and a Harvard lawyer - that just for the Nashiri case alone there are likely to be half a million pages of documents, none of which have yet been handed over to the defence team because they are so steeped in top secret stuff that the authorities want to make sure that nothing smelling of CIA could ever get out into the hands of the public (via WikiLeaks!!). The defence lawyers have been security cleared to above top secret but even they have got to wait before they can see anything of the prosecution's case. I asked the defence lawyers what Nashiri had told them about his incarceration and the reply was: "I'm afraid I'm not allowed to tell you. Everything that comes out of his mouth has to remain top secret. Why? Because he was in the hands of the CIA for four years, so whatever he says is top secret."

Anyway, a great experience. I came away with a mass of notes, two stories in the paper and a statue of a nodding Castro! I said to  the woman from some television station in Chicago.  "Well that was three days of 16 hours on the trot." "Oh, I love that, on the trot, I don't know what it means but it sounds so English. I'm going to tweet that." And she did.

On an even lighter note, I was sitting having breakfast in one of the American cafeterias, along with two American journalists and the National Guard female driver who had taken us there. I was tucking into bacon and sausages - no ration packs at Guantanamo (but no hotels either, we all slept in tents) - when the National Guardswoman asked: "You gart any jokes?" Sorry? "Jokes, you gart any jokes?" It was 7am!! She then said: "What jou get if you throw a piaaano down a mineshaft?" I don't know, what do you get? "A flat minor". Ho ho ho. But then, wait for it, one of my distinguished American colleagues, intervened with: "Or you could get two flat miners." Er no Mr American, that's not a joke, you see on a piano you can play a tune in A flat.......oh forget it.

Back to civilisation. Meanwhile 171 Guantanamo Bay detainees continue their life in the Caribbean. I expect Bush has forgotten all about them.