I was a DJ for ISIS!

It all began in December 2015.

I had embarked upon a Vice and Buzzfeed binge and decided to grow a beard.

I grieved in the first few months as I bore what was closer to assorted pubic hair than anything else.

And on the 7th month 'LET THERE BE BEARD'. 

And I rested.

 And I sought the closest mirror to admire my work

With renewed belief in myself,  inspired by my fierce face-locks, I decided to quit my job as a telemarketer, and pursue my passion as a DJ.

I'd never been a DJ before but had once fiddled around on Garage Band.

Anyways, it's art not science.  It comes from the soul. From the profound abysses of our subconscious qualia. 

Or so I read in a Vice column.

 I applied to the local bingo hall and asked if they needed a DJ.

Unfortunately, they didn't, and it was at that moment that it struck me.

If I were to become a successful DJ, I would have to leave the UK. The scene was too crowded.

So I harassed my mother for a few weeks until she spared the necessary £200 for my flight to Syria - a modest ask.

Oh, and the other £11,000 for rent and stuff.

Syria

I arrived in Damascus in April 2016.

After a week or so of getting swindled by taxi drivers, and roadside merchants, I began to feel somewhat at home.

Indeed, the women were particularly fond of me.

 I assumed because of my sharp wit, and my English manner.

I mean, I did tell them that I was a British noble - but money can't buy affection.

After 3 weeks, I'd burned through about 1/4 of the £11,000 my mother had given me, and thought that I should probably start looking for a DJ job.

I posted adverts across Damascus, from the local butcheries to the walls of abandoned houses drug dealers traded in.

Until one day, I received a phone call from a peculiar man:

"Are you - uhm - Al-britaniki? DJ - friki-friki - Huh?" he asked.

"Yep! That's me!" I responded with singular glee.

"We need DJ - for mixing song - in Apostate execution movie."

Did he say Apostate execution? I thought.

 Meh. Perhaps it's a Syrian film genre.

"No problem. Execution, whatever. I've done it all, and will do it all again!" I assured him.

"Great. Come tomorrow to Ahmed's Butchery. Ask for Ali-the-Hammer. Mashallah brother."

"Mahatma you too?" I fumbled, "Oh and how mu-" he abruptly hung up.

That's not very nice. I frowned. 

Alas, manners are dying like 90s shows reruns...

I woke up early the following day, sporting my favourite 'Je suis Christopher Hitchens' T-shirt, and some short-shorts.

As I headed towards Ahmed's Butchery I was met with headshakes, facepalms, teeth-kissing and spitballs.

But I had a great opportunity lined up and nothing could hamper my joy. 

As I entered the Butchery, an impressively-bearded, muscular man stood up. 

Before I could greet him, he rushed towards me, picked me up and hugged me:

"I am Ali. Hammer-time Ali! Ha-Ha! You Apostate execution movie DJ?? I always love frika-frika. I wanted always to be Doctor Dre, and Snoop Doggy when child! I am big Paul Newman fan! Now, I get to meet real DJ! So Excite!" 

He exclaimed.

Oh, how I love their culture! So warm!

 No British employer had ever welcomed me so. I reflected.

Though there was something off about his all-black attire, and the Glock-17 holstered on his crocodile belt.

I just couldn't quite put my finger on it.

For a fleeting moment, I considered whether...perhaps...nooo. Surely not?