Thursday 2 August 2012

Corps Crop Return to me softly. The Bomb Line Ended.

I have been rather quiet and reflective recently. Two reasons. I’ve been contemplating whilst catching up on my Steven Seagal movies. It is summertime and I’ve been pissed. Just to clear that last one up, I don’t mean pissed in the Steven Seagal sense, I mean pished in the best Buckfast sense.

For the past three weeks the secretive squirrel and I have been conducting a debate about what the Hong Kong Phooey is going on. Man have we burned a load of Qs and sunk a shed load of fermented vegetable matter.

After all that incandescent hot air we have not changed our respective view points though. The ss believes the buggers are too thick to orchestrate it all and that it is just a massive car crash that no one notices whilst going about their lawful business. His unspoken thesis, which I agree with, is that it is really our fault.

Your correspondent, as you know, sees the hidden hand. The slow hidden hand with centuries to waste on its progress to the reunification of mankind under a sterile and empty mens Pike, again. The main dialectic though is that the hand was given to us. Engineered to fit us and that is why we cannot see it. We are born innocent.

Last evening we had throttled back from the Lille local blondes and as we sank our final cidre, yes we like French brew, and rattled the coals, I resolved to tidy up a few loose ends here since the whole Q’ing exercise had in fact clarified a couple of things that have been nagging at me for a little while now.

Firstly though a little vignette from two weekends ago.

Having been Q’ing for over an hour and throwing the accelerant around, as well as the blonde, with glee, BTW youz gotsta be careful there otherwise the veggies smell like napalm in the morning, I parked myself with The ss, Mrs The ss, Mrs INCOMING!!!!!!! and dropped a great big 2iC moment. The table was laden with the finest carcinogenic, carbonised, charcoal grilled, sublimated remains of pork, chicken, beef, alligator and emu. Some petroleum jellied, soapy veggies were to hand as an aside. Then I dropped the classic line whilst cracking a Bow “Of course all the trouble in the Mid-East, like Syria, is the GGT’s doing”.

Well the Air Cavalry veggie problem was quickly forgotten.

“What?” was the universal response.

Well, I quickly realised that I was no longer Q’ing under the LTMA in the rain, enjoying the heat, thinking about what I was going to say to you guys who get the short hand, I was dealing with novices who believe in unreality.

So I had to explain that the GGT is the BBC, covert spying and ops, and that where ever they go dead people remain.

Take Boorman and Obi Wan on their bikes, dead people. Under UN cover. Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Sudan, Uganda etc. Etc.

Take Top Gear delivering their baby Jesus, dead people.

Well that got a ribald old hoot that did.

Don’t you get it?