Notes

The middle east can be a dodgy place for a Brit. In the old days, you could own up to being a citizen of Her Majesty's and be met with only the harmless: "Mr Balfour!". "Yes, yes," I would say, "of course. I'm sorry." Then it was all smiles. The long-dead Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs who offered support for a Jewish homeland in Palestine – and doomed the Palestinians – would be forgotten.

But it was best to let the Arab immigration officer sort nationality out for himself. Almost invariably, the poor man would read English, like Arabic, from right to left. And, mercifully, the golden legend on the front of our passports announces: "United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland". So the man would pick on the last word. "Irish?" he would ask. "Irish!" I would exclaim, smiling – but without preceding this assertion with the simple lie: "I am".

While he was scribbling "Irlanda" in Arabic, I would receive a familiar refrain. "IRA very good! Bobby Sands." This was always a tough one. Since my dad once spent a few First World War months in British army uniform trying to shoot the men he called "Sinners" (Sinn Fein) in Cork, I would say, mystifyingly, "Michael Collins!", which seemed a good deal better that hollering "Up the Provies!". But there was always a big question mark in my mind. Since the discovery of being a Brit often also evoked "Manchester United" or "Liverpool", the immigration man may have thought the IRA was a football team and Bobby Sands its centre forward, its new Manager a certain Michael Collins.

In non-Arab Iran, you couldn't play this game. There is a Bobby Sands Street next to the British Embassy in Tehran and the much smarter Iranians would know that I belonged to the Little Satan before I could utter my all-purpose nationality reply of "European". The odd thing was that, however wicked our various prime ministers were perceived to be – Thatcher was a bad time, Blair worse, Gordon Brown much easier, because many Muslims (like many Brits) had no idea who he was – we never got personally blamed. A transliteration problem means that Cameron is often written "Cameroon", which always leads me to mutter "Scotland" under my breath.

Of course, the Arabs and Iranians and Afghans and Pakistanis – despite the racist attitude of our own political poltroons and jolly generals – have a pretty good idea of what the Brits are up to. Not surprising, since we've been enthusiastically occupying them in various forms for more than a century. The Pakistanis remember our 1948 betrayal of Kashmir, the Iranians our participation in the 1951 overthrow of the democratically-elected Mossadegh (we wanted "regime change", of course – so did the CIA), the Arabs, Palestine, etc. Yet it can be very moving how often – once the Balfour bit has been got over with – a Brit will be welcomed to the humblest dwelling for tea, a five-course meal and hours of serious political conversation. Muslims in the West (I include the UK) were not treated quite so generously after 9/11.

Once, of course, we Brits confronted Arab nationalism and communism and could talk enthusiastically about "socialism". Now – after Hamas and Hizbollah and Al-Qa'ida and Islamic Jihad and all the other Islamist outfits – "socialism" is the one thing a Brit doesn't discuss. Most recently, the Arab question tends to be: "Mr Robert, the Israelis steal your British passports – so why does Mr Cameroon say he is a Friend of Israel?" Unanswerable, of course. Cameron should realise that most Brits do not subscribe to this nonsense. Which is pretty much my reply.

There's still a certain amount of cricket-Tower-of-London-Queen-Churchill stuff among the Arabs – which is better than Manchester United, since I loathe all football – but usually the Brits in the Middle East are treated with a kind of mysterious awe. We were better than the French (true). We were smarter than the Americans (absolutely true). "So why are you supporting Bush and Blair and Obama?" Yipes! "We do not blame the British people," I've heard a thousand times. Of course, of course. "But you are a democracy, yes? So why do you elect this Bush and Blair?"

From there, it's heads down. Yes, another helping of couscous/shawarma/hummus. Yes, I'd love another tea. Black with no sugar. Yes, just like you!