I’ve begun answering to the name Mo Salah.
Which is surprising, given that I look nothing like the man (a pity) and wouldn’t last two minutes in the Premier League (an even greater pity).
But I do spend a lot of time in North Africa. And I am from Liverpool, which, it transpires, is enough to be associated with the man known as the Pride of the Arabs. So, when someone yells ‘Salah’ at me from the back of a pick-up truck on a dusty Moroccan road, I’ve learnt that they’re generally just saying hi.
Forget English; football’s the real global language.
Or at least that’s how it feels when I run into Aziz, just about managing to ask how he is doing in the impenetrable Moroccan dialect of Arabic. ‘Labess alhamdulillah,’ comes the invariable reply.
What’s he up to today? He gives French a shot: ‘Jouer foot’.
‘Fn? Lrahm?’ (‘Where? Sand?’) I demand, unexpectedly aggressively, completely blanking on the word for beach. No worries though – Aziz understands.
‘Viens? Coming?’
