Braking for love

"Yes, my appointment is for Monday at 7.00pm," you say, just a little indignant -- perhaps still merely self-righteous.

"But today is Tuesday," the receptionist says, "and it's 8.00pm, not 7.00pm right now."

"What?"

"Today is Tuesday, not Monday," the receptionist says.

"What are you talking about?"

"Sir, today is Tuesday, and you said your appointment was for Monday. I'm afraid you're a day late."

"But today is Monday," you insist.

"No sir, I'm afraid it's Tuesday."

The receptionist turns to the dozen or so people waiting to see the doctor. "Hey, you all, what day is today?"

A chorus of voices, without a moment's hesitation, reply: "Tuesday!"

Suddenly, even though you're 100 per cent sure it's Monday, a tiny flicker of doubt begins to gnaw at the back of your brain. "That's impossible," you say, mostly to yourself. "It couldn't be Tuesday..."

The receptionist points to a calendar on the wall, which does indicate that it's Tuesday. He then switches on the radio, just as an announcer says, "And now for the eight o'clock news for Tuesday..."

"No, no, no," you say, again, mostly to yourself, "this isn't right... I couldn't have let a whole day slip by unawares..."

The receptionist is not very impressed by your confusion. He's looking at you with something like pity in his eyes, and doing a fantastic job of making you feel awfully stupid for not even knowing what day it is.

But this is no ordinary receptionist. It's comedian Ibrahim Nasr, and you're on Candid Camera.

How would you react? Would your confidence be shaken by the fat man who doesn't flinch as he casually re-adjusts your world? Or would you stand your ground and insist that there must be some sort of mistake? Up to 60 million people have been asking themselves these questions every Ramadan for the past three years. What if I was on Candid Camera? Wouldn't I recognise Ibrahim Nasr? How couldn't I recognise Ibrahim Nasr? Just look at the guy. He's huge, he's bald -- he's instantly recognisable, to say the least.

Nasr says one of the secrets of this year's success is the make-up man brought over especially from the States, at a cost of half a million pounds. For thirty different situations, one a night, he changed everything about the way Ibrahim Nasr looks. Then there's Nasr himself. He used to make his living imitating the stars, 44 different personalities in all. Which means he has the skills that allow him to slip into 30 different skins, and be that blasé receptionist, or the beggar with the mobile phone, or the ticket-taker at the movie theatre who calmly informs you that the cinema has been moved to the outskirts of town, and that a bus is waiting outside to take you there. "Sorry," he says, "no returns, but if you insist, I can reimburse you the price of your ticket with its equivalent in ghee."

The situations are so ludicrous that it's hard to believe anyone would fall for them. But they do, much to the audience's delight. The show is probably the most popular on TV, Ramadan or not. Think about it: if they're paying the make-up man half a mil, how much are they making on advertising?

Nasr is well aware of his value as a commodity. In fact, Nasr is well aware of a lot of things. He has a huge reserve of knowledge about the Egyptian personality, he says.

"I have to know how to talk to every different type of person. Am I going to say 'Good morning' to an Upper Egyptian? You can't speak to a person from above, you have to speak as an equal. From the clothes you're wearing, the colours, the jewellery, I can tell where you're from, what sporting club you're heading to, whether you're originally from Giza but are now from Heliopolis, meaning that, from your composition and your smell, I can tell that you're from two places. Someone might be wearing a very chic suit but I'll be able to smell that he's from outside Cairo. That's all from prior life experiences I have had and stored up... from his haircut, from the look of his moustache, from the knot on his tie. He might be wearing a suit but I can tell whether he's from Abdin or Sayeda Zeinab or from Shubra... and it's to the point that I can say that so and so is from Zagazig, Mansoura, Damanhour or Beni Suef. And I know exactly when each region's character gets upset. And that the women of Beni Suef have short tempers. And the men have long tempers. And the women of Beni Suef are stronger than their men... This is a great town. I'm speaking truths. I am not saying Beni Suef is bad, no, just that the women are capable because they were born and are living in an area where they rule the house. The men are out all day and the mother is in charge. Any decision is hers, and he looks like he's not in charge because she doesn't leave him anything to be in charge of. You hear a man's voice when he's got something to say, but this guy goes home and finds everything done. The clothes are washed, the food is cooked, the kids are quiet and asleep, they've studied. The rent has been paid, there's nothing... the water's working, the elevator's been fixed, there are no problems at all, so you want to know what this guy is going to say? 'Why don't you see what's on Channel 2?', that's what he's going to say."

Such confidence has allowed Ibrahim Nasr to get away with murder, but the line between the victim's laughter and a swift right hook remains thin. Nasr is philosophical. "My life experiences have allowed me to know how to get what I want out of people, how far I can go. I can see in his eyes when he's going to hit me. I know that what's coming up next is a punch. And you should know that Ibrahim Nasr, as tall as I am and as wide as I am, is not going to be pushed around unless I give the person the impression that I can be pushed around. Like the first time she tries to push, I might fall back a little, so she'll think that the next time she pushes I'll fall down."

He has been hit, of course, despite the extreme accuracy of his perceptions, "because some of the men were truly well built and when I came to measure when they'd strike I was a little slow, they were quicker than I thought they'd be. This year there are about eight falls -- like, hospital falls... but I have good physical fitness because I've done a lot of sports. I've played everything, from ping pong to volleyball to basketball to boxing to wrestling and swimming. I was good at all these things, in sporting clubs not in the streets. I was a free wrestling champion. I wrestled because I was beaten up once for no reason. I hadn't done anything. The guy was like 'Come here...' I was like, 'Who, me?' and he was like, 'You think I'm talking to my mother?' and then POW... I went home looking like... [he makes a funny face]."

So Nasr learned wrestling, and became "really good at a lot of wrestling moves, things like the German key. And I learned it specifically so that I could beat up that guy. And I got really good at it, and I won several club championships and I was ready to rip him apart. But when I realised that I could kill him I decided not to beat him up. In fact, even though I got into a lot of fights before I learned wrestling, I haven't beaten anyone up since then, not once, because sport teaches you to be sportsmanlike..."

Speaking of which, how does he respond when people write in the papers that Ibrahim Nasr harasses and mocks Egyptians for 30 days every Ramadan?

"My response is simple. We have something called April Fool, and that has existed in Egypt for a long time, right? It's funny, right? Is it harassment, or is it just for laughs? It's the same thing with Candid Camera, it's just for laughs. And I also ask people's permission before I broadcast the thing. This year over 10 people said no, and I didn't include them. And aside from all this we're a very friendly people. We love joking around with each other. People joke around with you in the street all the time and they don't even know you. People will say 'Watch your head, watch out... for the air', or someone will say 'Your tyre is spinning...' and you'll stop the car and get out and take a look. The Egyptian sense of humour is unique, you won't find it anywhere else in the world. You can't have the taste of an Egyptian anywhere else..."

And what is the ultimate ambition of the fat man whose trademark is a sports jacket and beret made of the same material in the same pattern? He does not want Candid Camera to be his trademark. Nasr wants to host a daily children's show, with the aim of providing top-notch entertainment along with lessons on right and wrong. He wants to be the number one star of Egyptian children's TV.

Is he the right person for the job? The way Nasr explains it, the powers that be should capitalise on his popularity. If lots of people like you, Nasr says, it's a sign from God. Too often, people who are liked are put down, or at least, are clapped at for a while but then not exploited. Nasr wants to be exploited. He wants the government, or whoever, to use his popularity to teach social values and make LE100 million in the process.

"I am ready to take off all my coats... theatre, cinema, television series, to be a children's star... and work with a director who has got three or four PhDs... 365 days a year. If you're going to spend LE10,000 per episode on adult programming, you should spend $10,000 per episode for children's programming. As long as the people like this person, you should encourage him... never brake the emotions that people have for someone who is loved... love is without brakes. Put brakes on a car, or on the law, but not on love."