Posts filed under ‘Misc’

The Top Secret Diary of James Bond

Monday
15st 7lb. People don’t realise how hard it is to be me. They don’t understand the emotional turmoil and heartache.

Take an example: I was infiltrating the Ritz in Paris in case some terrorists might be harbouring. I dropped into the kitchens through an air vent and (would you believe it!) the chefs started spraying me with AK47s. Noting the absence of explosive barrels (typical!) I ducked between the bullets (Matrix style – I love that film), picking them up one by one and dumping them head first into a vat of simmering soup.

I noticed an attractive woman watching me from the restaurant, so I took off my shirt and began composing a quip. After less than ten seconds (!), I took a sip and said, “Too many cooks spoil the broth,” drawing her attention to the analogy between the proverb (in which the cooks spoil the broth indirectly, by their actions, as it were) and the current situation, in which one might say they are having a direct adverse affect on the broth’s flavour. Five words for you: No Action For Little Jimmy. I just don’t understand why women detest me initially, and then suddenly warm to my charms as soon as I put them in a life-threatening situation.

And you’d think once I’d spotted the trend I’d be sorted, but no! I tried holding her out the window by her heels for a few minutes, and after that she wouldn’t even come near me. I guess she didn’t like the rain. Women!

Tuesday

New nemesis (at last!). I phoned for a pizza and the guy didn’t show up for forty minutes. Not wishing to kill the little bugger at such a premature stage in our mutual nemesisdom, I threw some copper coins at his face and quipped, “Keep the change.” He said, “Sorry Sir, I’m late, it’s free,” and gave them right back to me! Oh he’s a good one alright. Mark of a real megalomaniac: doesn’t know how to take a kicking when he’s down.

Wednesday
Bloody corporate responsibilities! As if it wasn’t already enough that MI6 is officially sponsored by Omega, Rolex and Aston Martin (so I have to wear two watches, and spectacularly crash another wankmobile every six days at the most… have you seen the mpg of those things? Every time I get inside a little piece of me dies. I’ve always wanted a Micra), they now have a new multimillion-pound contract with the explosive barrel industry. Apparently in every shootout I’m now contractually obliged to go for the nearest explosive barrel. So I get to the promo event and some bimbo gives me a free can of petrol. Isn’t it obvious I only use Diesel? Do they think I’m some kind of Jeremy Clarkson with pecs instead of manboobs??

Thursday
Went down the gym. Seeing as the only women I seem to be able to get with these days are empowered feminist stereotypes, I thought it would be a good place to start. You’ll never guess who was there: Judi Dench! Damn Judi Dench! Now my standards are as low as the next man’s, but never once have I stooped that low (have you seen how short she is??). So I took my shirt off and started lifting some treadmills and waited for her to leave out of embarrassment. She just said, “You’re big, but have you got stamina?”!!!

Now I don’t need to justify anything in my own diary. Whatever you think now about your so-called “personal integrity,” Dench-seduction changes all that. She’s bloody irresistible! As far as I’m concerned, you can take all your Halle Berries and Denise Richardses and shove them down where I don’t have to look at them.

Anyhow, suffice to say I slightly misinterpreted her remark and the whole debacle resulted in an incredibly sexy slap for yours truly. I laughed, and then (wait for it!) she kicked me in balls! I kept laughing and giving my best S&M screams and she just kept on doing it! Spent the night in hospital – well worth it, trust me.

Friday
15st 8lb. Job done for the week, so got pissed and went clubbing. Too bloody noisy. Kept introducing myself to girls and they kept thinking I was called Bonjay.

Get this: when one of them finally twigged what I was saying, all she could say was, “You’re a bit of a smarmy git aren’t you?” Now I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, most of which set me up conveniently for a good quip. But this was something else. I decided to go into gritty mode. “Would a smarmy git have a body like this, bitch?” I said, taking my shirt off. Next thing I know she’s got her boyfriend to start punching me. Me! I took a few blows to show my manly vulnerability, then shot him.

It didn’t do it for her. I don’t get how to do vulnerable, I wish I could be more like Chris Martin. I met the guy in a hotel the other week. He plays a woman like he plays a piano — all loud banging and wailing and whining until you just want to leave the room. He’s my idol.

Saturday

Went shopping for caravans. Charged it to HM Treasury. I swear they don’t check anything. Last week I spent £14m on lottery tickets and told them it was because Dale Winton was a terrorist financier and I could bankrupt him if I managed to win the jackpot. Those guys are complete dipshits, trust me. Recent woman crises (see above) meant I had nothing to do between 12am and 4am, so I phoned ITV’s The Mint and tried chatting up the woman with the worst job in the world, by trying to amuse her with retarded answers. She asked for a word starting with TEA_, so I said “tea shirt.” She just smiled and moved on. The next caller said, “tea-nager”.

I’m not a loser.

Sunday
15st 9lb. Ordered another pizza, ham and mushroom (wood-fired, not oven-baked). This time the bastard was early! He’s unpredictable, dangerously unpredictable. Not to mention short, ugly and arrogant… I think of us as opposites, locked in a timeless struggle of good vs evil. And in love opposites attract, but in high-energy physics they annihilate each other, and I was feeling bloody energetic.

I didn’t say that out loud, obviously – the geeky quips are a real turn off for the ladies. Never sound too clever, it gives the game away. That’s what Oxford teaches you. He looked pretty tough so I played it cool. I paid him, remarked, “It’s late… I bet you’re dying to get home.” Then I watched him leave on his scooter. As he left the drive, I shot the fuel tank – KABOOOOM! Charged the pizza to HM Treasury.

December 2, 2006 at 10:15 pm Leave a comment

TV Licensing Letter

John Hales

TV Licensing

Bristol

BS98 1TL

Dear John,

Thank you for your enquiry pertaining to my apparent lack of a TV licence. I would like to set the record straight in this regard. I actually do have a TV licence, but it is nonexistent, like my TV. I was under the impression that a nonexistent licence was valid for a nonexistent TV. Is this correct?

If my nonexistent licence has expired, I would be grateful if you could renew it. For this reason I have enclosed the blank application form you generously provided, containing my nonexistent credit card details.

I have decided not to upgrade my licence to a real licence because, although I am impressed by the clear nonexistent benefits, I feel the £126.50 would be better spent on a top class sandwich.

Similarly, I have decided not to incur a £1000 fine. I would prefer to keep this money in reserve for future offences I may enjoy, such as indecent exposure.

In summary, I hope you will not find it necessary to caution me under the aptly named Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984.

I must add that I was impressed to note your offer of a 50% reduction for blind people. This strikes me as a rather excellent marketing scheme and a very good incentive to poke my eyes out. However, since I would find poking my eyes out an activity in itself more enjoyable than watching your recent output, I am afraid I have to decline your kind offer.

Yours sincerely,

The Legal Occupier

November 17, 2006 at 9:09 pm Leave a comment

The Da Vinci Cod

“All persons, both living and dead, are purely coincidental, and should not be construed” etc.

Prologue

Jean Garlique ran down the long, dark hallways of the Louvre. His heart thudded like a hammer. He knew there was no escape.

“There is no escape,” his assassin had said at their confrontation, and Jean was generally a trusting person.

On hearing those words, Jean had turned around and looked the assassin in the face. A pair of dark, evil eyes had stared back at him. Fish eyes.

“You… have the head of a fish!” Jean exclaimed.

The fish man pulled back his hood. Scales ran down his neck. Slime dripped from them.

“Die!” the fish man exclaimed.

Jean sagged against a wall and reflected. I never had a chance. The fish man had forced him to eat barbecued food. Jean knew about the research. The carcinogens would kill him within sixty to a hundred years.

He thought about how he would use the time he had left. At least I still have time to put together a ludicrously complex series of clues, he thought.

Chapter 1

Professor Sean Hunkman, Professor of Riddlology at Harvard University, looked across the room. Everyone was attentive and bright-eyed. He began with his trademark opening:

“Good morning students, my name is Professor Hunkman. We don’t know one another yet, but I’m confident you’ll find me to be a handsome, rugged and remarkably intelligent alpha-male figure. Before we begin today’s lecture, I’d like to give you a more lengthy physical description of myself…”

A sharp knock at the door interrupted Hunkman.

“Sean come quick!” exclaimed his secretary. “There’s been a murder in Paris!”

Chapter 2

Hunkman raced down the corridor, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He wasn’t ready for all this yet. Goddammit! Suddenly an idea struck him like a lightning bolt. He burst into an undergraduate French class.

“I need a sidekick… NOW!” he shouted. “Put your hand up if you want the job.” Eager hands went up all over the classroom. Only one girl didn’t volunteer for this dangerous adventure. Hunkman knew from his wealth of experience that only a girl with real courage and intelligence would dare to use reverse psychology on him like this.

“You!” said Hunkman, and pointed at the mysterious girl. Everyone gaped.

“But I can only speak Franglais,” the girl said. “I would just seem like a token foreigner.”

“Never mind, come anyway,” Hunkman said.

“So Indiana, can I call you Indy?” the girl said after they had left the room. Hunkman stared at her, entranced by her beauty and confidence despite her obviously inferior intellect. Suddenly the question registered.

“Oh, erm, well actually for copyright reasons you have to call me Sean,” said Hunkman. “You can only call me Indy off-page.”

“Ohh, je understand.”

“What’s your name by the way?” Hunkman inquired.

“Helen.”

“Right Hélène, let’s go to your home town of Paris.”

Chapter 3

Hunkman stood at the window of Garlique’s office in the Louvre, watching as the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower and illuminated the Arc de Triomphe with a golden light. Beautiful, he thought. The exact opposite of that corpse behind me. Hunkman suddenly remembered and turned around.

Garlique had used his own body to leave a clue. He lay prostrate and naked, with his whole body painted silver and with plastic fins taped to his back and feet. His face was smeared with some kind of yellow, pus-like substance. Hélène put some on her finger and tasted it.

“Tartar sauce,” she said. But what could it all mean?

“Intriguing,” Hunkman thought aloud. He knew that Garlique would have left some kind of message for him, but he didn’t know how. Hunkman didn’t have time to look at the open laptop, the notepad, or the message on A4 lined paper hanging from the doorframe in front of his face. He had to play a hunch. He looked closely at Garlique’s head.

“That wig… it’s encrypted!” Hunkman exclaimed.

Chapter 4

Hunkman carefully separated the hairs from their precise pattern. It was a classic technique developed during the Crusades to pass Holy secrets from wig to wig. Hunkman had to read every last knot and strand. It took him several hours and he worked up a manly sweat. Suddenly he stood up.

“Here’s the message then,” he began. He read the message aloud:

YOU’LL FIND OUT EVERYTHING IF
YOU GO TO MADAGASCAR. THERE’S
SOMETHING FISHY IN MADAGASCAR.
TO REITERATE, GO TO MADAGASCAR.

“Merde! It’s a cryptic clue,” Hélène said dejectedly.

“It’s a riddle alright,” Hunkman said. “The kind of riddle only a Professor of Riddlology could solve.” Hunkman stared intensely at every line and every letter. Come on Sean, you still got it, he thought. Blood pulsed through his temples. He took deep breaths.

“It means we have to go somewhere,” he concluded, looking at Hélène.

“Oh?”

“Come on Hélène, we’re going to New York so I can think about this more carefully.”

Chapter 5

Hunkman’s New York hotel room was sparse but stylish. Nearly all the room was taken up by the four-poster bed that he took everywhere with him. The rest of the space was filled with riddlological equipment. Hunkman was crouched over his electronic Debiblifier, looking depressed.

“It’s not in the Book of Job then…” he mumbled, noticing the latest readout.

“Is there any way je t’aide?” Hélène said, massaging his shoulders.

“Hmm… there could still be hope. There’s something that I think could maximise my riddlological powers.”

“Oh?” Hélène raised an eyebrow.

“Yes… passionate lovemaking.”

Chapter 6

Hunkman turned his head on the pillow, and looked at the young, naked, Gallic beauty panting on the bed beside him.

Ahh, he thought. Now I remember why I became a lecturer. Suddenly Hélène sat up. “So what have you come up with then?” she asked.

“What?”

“About the riddle?”

“Oh right yeah… erm, Knights Templar, Golden Ratio, Moon banks Swiss landings…”

“Oh Sean! Tu es so clever! Mais quelle does this mean?”

“We’re going to Madagascar!”

Chapter 7

Hunkman cut through the undergrowth that was all around him. The jungle was hot like an oven.

“Mamma mia! This jungle sure is hot,” Hélène remarked.

They had been searching through the jungle for nearly three hours. Hunkman looked puzzled. If there was anything in this country we would have found it by now, he thought.

At that moment, Hélène stepped on a loose palm leaf and the ground gave way beneath her. She froze and her legs turned to jelly. She knew she had fallen into a trap. As she fell, Hunkman’s eyes went wide. His jaw dropped and his blood ran cold like a fridge. Hélène gripped the edge of the pit. Her feet hung inches above a bed of metal spikes. They were sharp like daggers. She couldn’t hold on for long.

Chapter 8

Hunkman pulled her up and they carried on walking.

“That odd little interlude got me thinking,” Hunkman said. He furrowed his brow. Hélène looked up at him curiously. “The riddle says, ‘You’ll find out everything if you go to Madagascar’,” Hunkman said.

“Oui?”

“But who said it has to be the country Madagascar?” The idea was like a light bulb switching on in Hunkman’s head.

“C’est crazy!”

“Think about it. What if the riddle actually refers to the evil English fish magnate, Michael Adagascar?”

Hélène gasped. She put her hand over her mouth. “You’ll find out everything if you go to M. Adagascar…” she said.

“Exactly.” Hunkman replied. How could I not have seen it before?

They raced back through the jungle. Hunkman’s heart thudded like a hammer. The next direct flight from Madagascar to London left at 5pm – in thirty minutes. They had to catch it if they were going to reach London by nightfall.

Chapter 9

On board the plane, Hunkman explained the threat they were up against. Hélène could not believe her ears.

“So Adagascar est one of les Knights Templar?” she asked.

“It looks like it. Adagascar keeps his money with an exclusive Swiss bank: Gnikhts Remplat. For centuries conspiracy theorists have claimed that the bank is connected to the Knights Templar, but they never had any evidence… until now.”

“So Gnikhts Remplat is bankrolling the Knights Templar?”

“Gnikhts Remplat is the Knights Templar, Hélène. Look at this…” Hunkman pulled out a pen and paper from his jacket pocket. He spelled out the words:

GNIKHTS REMPLAT
KNIGHTS TEMPLAR

“What’s that for?” Hélène inquired.

“Look closely,” Hunkman said, “And you’ll see… it’s an anagram.”

Hélène’s jaw dropped. “Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed.

Chapter 10

The aircraft landed just in time for Hunkman to watch the sun set behind the majestic London skyline. He braced himself against the cold midsummer air. As the towers of London Bridge glowed orange in the light, Hunkman glanced up at Big Ben: 8.26pm GMT. At 10pm Michael Adagascar would leave town to attend a meeting at Knights Templar HQ. We have to work fast, Hunkman thought. Hunkman and Hélène jumped into a taxi and headed for Adagascar Mansions.

Hélène was puzzled. Her brow was furrowed. “What’s Adagascar got to with all this?” she wondered aloud.

“Our friend Michael isn’t just the regular kind of Knight Templar you meet every day,” replied Hunkman. “He’s with the Order of the Monkfish.”

“Le what de la what?”

Hunkman was startled: “You’ve never heard of the Order of the Monkfish? They’re the secret enforcers of the will of the Knights Templar. They do the dirty work of the Catholic religion. You’ve never wondered where the word ‘monk’ comes from?”

“Well… non.”

“It’s a shortened form of the word ‘monkfish’… just like the word ‘fish’. The Order of the Monkfish predates both. They killed Lincoln, JFK, Pope John Paul II…”

“Don’t you mean…”

“No, I always mean what I say Hélène.” Hunkman looked sternly. “Didn’t something about John Paul II’s death strike you as a little convenient? A little sudden?”

“But, erm…”

“Shut up, we’re here.” Hunkman said.

Chapter 11

Hunkman rang the doorbell at Adagascar Mansions. When the door opened, he saw a familiar face. It was a character he’d met in the prequel you haven’t read. But the face was also familiar for another reason: it was a face he’d seen in every fish market in every fishing village all over the world – the face of a fish. Hélène gaped, while Hunkman narrowed his eyes like a hawk.

“So we meet again, Mr. Hunkman,” the fish man said.

“I hope you’re ready to get battered,” Hunkman quipped menacingly.

“It’s un enormous poisson!” Hélène exclaimed.

“Not quite, Hélène,” Hunkman replied. “He’s half human… don’t ask.”

At that moment the fish man pulled out a dagger. It was sharp like a metal spike. He lunged at Hélène.

“Duck!” Hunkman yelled. Hélène dodged away and Hunkman parried the thrust with his bare hand. Manly blood ran down his arm.

“What is that thing?” Hélène squealed while the men continued to grapple like stags. Hunkman punched hard, but his blows just slipped off the fish man’s oily skin.

“An assassin for the Order of the Monkfish,” Hunkman answered between punches. “If I remember correctly from my research, his name is Steve.”

The fish man narrowed his huge eyes evilly. “Actually, I prefer to be called St… erm… wait, you got it right. You… you know my name.” The fish man froze like an ice cube. A tear appeared in his eye and he began to sob like a baby. “No-one ever cares about me… you’re the first one who…”

Hunkman took his chance. He spotted the kitchen just to the left of the lobby. He ran through the front door and pushed Steve into the kitchen. Hunkman had to act on instinct. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bubbling deep fat fryer. How ironic, he thought. He threw Steve into it and watched him gradually cook through. He wiped his hands, winked at the chef and went back to the lobby.

“Come on Hélène. We’ve got bigger fish to fry,” he quipped.

Chapter 12

Hunkman and Hélène sprinted up the ornate stairs leading to Michael Adagascar’s study. Adrenaline flowed in their blood and their pulses raced. It seems like only yesterday I was an undergraduate French student, Hélène thought. But she knew she had to put those thoughts out of her head. It was time for the final showdown. When they stopped outside the door to the study, she listened attentively with wide eyes as Hunkman explained his elaborate plan.

“It’s all in the riddle,” Hunkman said. “Remember: ‘There’s something fishy in M. Adagascar’. I’m willing to bet that means Adagascar is keeping some kind of secret artefact kept inside his bowels… something so precious that the only way to protect it is to eat it every day. If we can get it out, we’ll find all the answers we’ve been looking for.”

Hélène looked puzzled. “And how are tu going to do that?” she said.

“All I have to do is trick him into ingesting these laxatives,” Hunkman said, holding up a bottle of tablets. “That shouldn’t be too hard, thanks to my amazing powers of persuasion.”

Hunkman dissolved the tablets in a glass of wine he had fetched from the kitchen, and strolled calmly into Adagascar’s study.

“Hello…” Adagascar said, slowly looking up from his desk and adjusting his spectacles.

“Good evening Michael. So good to see you here. Can I offer you a drink?”

“What? No… this is my house.”

Goddammit! Hunkman thought. I’ve underestimated him… this guy knows every trick in the book!

“OK, what do we do now?” Hélène inquired from behind the door. Hunkman went back and they whispered to each other. Adagascar looked on, raising his eyebrows.

“Don’t worry Hélène, I have a Plan B.” Hunkman whispered. “It’s complicated and will require careful coordination. I’ll do the hard bit, but I need your help.” They discussed the details of the plan and went back into the study. Suddenly Hunkman rushed up to Adagascar.

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRR,” he yelled. Adagascar jumped and then fainted. “Right Hélène, now you pull his trousers down.”

Hélène shrugged and walked over to the desk. She carefully examined the turd. After a few minutes she stood up triumphantly. She handed the artifact to Hunkman with awe on her face and poo on her hands.

“Mon Dieu!” she whispered. She was dumbstruck. The artifact was a mummified fish.

“Fascinating,” Hunkman thought aloud, unwrapping the fish. “It’s some kind of cod… in the shape of Leonardo Da Vinci.”

Epilogue

Adagascar began to wake up. His eyes opened and he began to rectify his trouser problem.

“But… Da Vinci… how?” Hélène said as her jaw dropped to the floor. “That’s some coincidence.”

“Ahahahaha!” Adagascar squealed with a high-pitched, girlish laugh. “You young, naïve, Gallic fool! In the real world, there are no coincidences. Everything is ridiculously contrived.”

Hunkman knocked him out again. “He’s right. This is no coincidence. It looks too much like the real thing. This is Da Vinci, shrivelled up by centuries of mummification. That’s the secret: Da Vinci was a fish.”

Hélène stared, wide-eyed. Hunkman knew her jaw was at risk from overdropping and could fall off completely, but he had to keep going.

“That’s not all Hélène. My research has shown conclusively that Da Vinci is descended directly from Jesus Christ. If Da Vinci was a fish… it’s a genetic certainty that Jesus was too. The whole Christian religion is based on a lie. It explains all those miracles he did involving fish. Jesus simply tricked all his buddies into getting caught and eaten. Ironic huh?”

Hélène knew there could be no doubt. Hunkman’s argument was flawless. All the evidence supported it. She was speechless. At that moment, Hunkman noticed something else inside Adagascar’s faeces: a secret message to go with the fish. He started reading:

AS YOU’VE SURELY WORKED OUT BY NOW,
CHRISTIANITY IS BASED ON A LIE AND
DA VINCI WAS A FISH. THAT IS THE SECRET.
GARLIQUE KNEW TOO MUCH. HE WAS GOING TO INCLUDE
THE SECRET IN A THRILLER HE WAS WRITING.
EVERYONE WOULD HAVE BELIEVED IT. WE HAD
TO KILL HIM.

BEST WISHES,
K.T.

Hélène gaped. “Un secret message from the Knights Templar!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” Hunkman said. “Well that certainly ends the story abruptly. You might call it a deus ex machina. That’s Latin for ‘God from the machine’ – the phrase originates from Greek theatre where a god would be lowered on to the stage to end the story abruptly.”

“Wow, I sure needed you to spell that out for me,” Hélène said.

“Well that’s what I’m here for.”

“So I guess that’s it then.” Hélène shrugged and walked towards the door. As she was about to leave, Hunkman suddenly spoke.

“Unless…” he said.

“Oui?”

“Unless this is actually a riddle. A riddle even more complex and challenging than the previous one.”

Hélène sighed. “Right, fine, I’ll get my kit off,” she said.

Boy am I too smart for my own pants, Hunkman thought, slipping his pants off. This is gonna be a long night.

THE END

July 9, 2006 at 1:09 am Leave a comment


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