Muammar Muhammad Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi. Libyan dictator. Like most lunatics, Gaddafi wasn’t actually born in the country he ended up ruling with an iron fist. The son of a spot welder, he was born in 1942 in the provincial town of Barry in South Wales, Gadaffi – real name Malcolm ap-Dafyd-Rhys-Davies – flourished in his formative years and attended St. Athanasius School in nearby Llantwit Major. Raised as a devout Catholic, it is understood that the strict constraints placed upon him damaged the youngster and quite possibly created the monster he became in later life.
A Call to Arms
Again, in common with several other rabid monsters, Dafyd-Rhys-Davies attended Sandhurst where his swarthy Welsh looks attracted the attention of both male and female cadets alike. Upon graduation he immediately promoted himself to the rank of colonel in the Legion of Frontiersmen and set about plotting the overthrow of a suitable African country. By the late 1960s, the British were getting a tad tired of wielding the rod of empire and were getting the fuck out of Dodge in quite a few shit-tips in order to let the indigenous wogs return to their old traditions of eating or hacking each other to bits – and in some cases both.
In to Africa
And so it was that the country of Libya appeared on a card in a newsagent’s window in Aldershot. Dafyd-Rhys-Davies had by this time converted to Islam after bumping into some nice-but-misunderstood young chaps outside a local mosque, so he ticked several boxes and was ably qualified for the vacancy. Putting together an ad-hoc force of mercenaries, he chartered a knackered DC3  and in December of 1969 the wheels of the aircraft lifted off the tarmac of Stansted airfield in Essex and touched down several hours later on an unlit strip outside the Libyan capital of Tripoli. After taking out several guards with poison-tipped crossbow bolts, slotting the air traffic controller and hosing down the cafeteria with 7.62, the youthful soon-to-be tyrant had nailed his bit of the Dark Continent to the mast with gusto. The imperial puppet regime of fellow Welshman King Idris was over and Libya was now the manor of one Colonel Gadaffi – the lush valleys and mountains of his homeland but a distant memory. The colonel immediately set about changing the stamps and banknotes, and making any rank higher than colonel illegal – thereby making himself unique in the history of self-aggrandisement.
It has to be said that being a good-looking fucker makes taking over a country easier than being… say… ginger. Gadaffi’s tightly-tailored battledress showed off his broad shoulders and taught buttocks a treat and he soon had legions of Arabs following his every word and action with total obedience. And that was pretty much how it stayed for the next four decades. Unfortunately, the years gradually took their toll and the colonel’s once chiseled good looks degenerated into something akin to the appearance of a jowelly muppet with a facial hair problem.
Here Comes the Mirror Man
To compensate for the ageing process, Gadaffi became one of a handful of individuals throughout history that took the wearing of uniforms to a whole new level. He was in esteemed company. Herman Goering, Idi Amin and James Shortt were always in the running, but when it came to slapping ten bob each-way on the winner, Colonelissimo Muammar Gadaffi blew every other contender into the weeds with his dapper togs. To say he was ‘creative’ was an understatement and in later years he took to wearing soft home furnishings and bits he’d cut out of the B&Q paint chart – along with the bizarre practice of wearing holiday snaps. In 2006, Gadaffi was branded a cunt under the Sartorial Ethics code of the UK Fashion Council. Fashionista Gok Wan stated that the dictator’s wardrobe was ‘an utter disaster - a nightmare kaleidoscope of clashing pastels and outrageous mismatching base colours.’ He wasn’t wrong.
Rebels with a Cause
Mo had clearly lost the plot and his minions saw the opportunity to drag their prosperous and – to be honest – reasonably stable country into the Dark Ages. True to form, the West stuck its oar in and on a moonlit night February 2011 a knackered C130 full of disenfranchised ex-Mancunians departed from Stansted – by now London’s third airport – and headed south for Libya. Upon landing at Tripoli International Airport, they immediately set about looting the concessions in the arrivals lounge and totally destroyed several fashion outlets – kitting themselves out in all manner of attire in the process.
Several months later – after much to-ing and fro-ing, arguing about what was ally and what wasn’t – and after launching several hundred tons of taxpayer-funded lead of varying calibres into the ether, the rebels had taken several key towns and cities – aided and abetted by Crab Air and their French counterparts. They had Libya, but the former leader was nowhere to be seen.
Misery in Misurata
Like Maddy, Gadaffi had been spotted just about everywhere and was rumored to be working in a kebab shop in Hounslow. He wasn’t. He was working as a sewer inspector for Misurata Municipal Council and it was whilst plying his trade that he met his timely end after succumbing to cranial lead poisoning - something that could easily have been avoided had the former tyrant bothered to carry out a Health and Safety risk assessment. How the mighty fall.
It was the end of an era and the great and the good sent their condolences. Amongst others, the late colonel counted such noteworthies as actress Vanessa Redgrave and professional left-winger Ken Livingstone as friends – along with the IRA. Former UK Prime Minister Tony Blair – himself a fervent admirer of the now dead colonel - said ‘He was the peoples’ potentate.’ before breaking down in a sobbing heap... probably.