Is this letter genuine?

There is a letter circulating on the internet today, purportedly from the Syrian Parliament to the U.S. House of Representatives, in which the Syrian side of the current conflict is allegedly put forth in an attempt to persuade the U.S. Congress to approach the Syrians diplomatically before they vote on a unilateral attack this week.

I don't know if the letter is genuine, and the fact that the only website it appears to be on is the British National Party website makes it even more suspect by some. The Mail took the letter down but the Guardian still shows the link in their comments. I'm not impressed by any of those three websites, but just in case the letter is legitimate, I share the link for your consideration and comments.

Here is the link to the PDF via the BNP website.

The PDF takes a while to load.

10 more British words and their translations by me

1. Tosser.

The guy who throws the ball to the batter in cricket. Not the same as the wanker guy.

2. Bloody.

Soaked with blood.

3. Chuffed.

All scraped up. Derivative of scuffed.

4. Fancy.

Something special, as in "I hope you don't fancy a fancy dinner tonight."

5. Fortnight.

When tourists spend the night at the Alamo.

6. Sorted.

Revolting. Americans say "sordid."

7. Anti-clockwise.

Not in favor of being on time for appointments.

8. Zed,

Jed's brother. As in...

Fabienne: Whose motorcycle is this?
Butch: It's a chopper, baby.
Fabienne: Whose chopper is this?
Butch: It's Zed's.
Fabienne: Who's Zed?
Butch: Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead.

9. Twigs 'n berries 'n bits 'n bobs.

Stuff.

10. Sod off.

A mudslide.

11. Whinge.

What you do when you slam your finger in a door.

12. Fiver.

£5

13. Tenner.

A male opera singer.

14.

R.I.P. Seamus Heaney, Pen Digger

Soil and Strife (Obit)

























My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.