Friday, August 18, 2006

Baguettes Not Bombs!

Ever wondered what was the point of GCSE French?
Well, take four potential Basquian terrorists; long separated comrades, one with copious medical knowledge and three with an overdose of social conscience, up for a bit of armed struggle and send them to a somewhat chaotic Heathrow airport on Thursday the 10th August 2006 with bags packed for adventure and sunshine and the outcome is somewhat different from what you might expect.

On arriving at the initial rendezvous point - the symbolically chosen Swatch stand in Kings Cross station (make of that what you will, infuse it with meaning or disregard with the flippancy it deserves) it became swiftly apparent that some further force than chance was intervening to prevent these particular travellers from reaching their desired destination in the heartland of Basquian resistance. At every point along the way were placed deterants cunningly disguised as the well-meaning British public. Contrary to the massive screen broadcasting the eight hour old 'breaking news' that all incoming flights to Heathrow were cancelled but failing to mention anything about the outbound flights, the over zealous evesdroppers in the ladies gave the distinct impression that no planes were landing or leaving from Heathrow.
Initial attempts to reach Bilbao thwarted, the four headed to a small and secluded travel agent on the Euston road. Whereupon they were met by an agent placed to ensure full discouragement of any airbourne travel who went to great lengths to prove that leaving the country was not an option (all be it in a friendly and well meaning manner to throw them of the scent of government intervention). Tired and disheartened the comrades headed to familiar territory to refresh themselves with the fuel of resistance and hope for alcohol induced inspirations.

The plans indeed began to flow in great multitudes but were seriously hindered by the missing element of self belief. The ability of those with all the power to intervene in long made plans so easily was hard to overcome. But then came the flash of hope that the comrades required, a leak from our side, that yes planes were beginning to leave, bound for adventure and contrary to the warnings and scare mongering the only viable course of action was to get to the airport as quick as possible. So the newly revived travellers set off, racing against the envisaged security chaos to reach a plane scheduled to leave in half an hour but which they had been assured would be flying late.

However, the phones must have been tapped, when they arrived security were waitng for them. Dressed as and acting like over zealous airline staff the forces of the powerful approached the comrades immediately on arrival, with surprisingly accurate question statements about the airlines required and the appropriate desk to attend to be told that ALL Iberia flights were cancelled. Tricked into wasting precious time, the four wasted no more. They quickly settled on a plan to leave by boat and headed swiftly for Portsmouth accompanied by a potential recruit who, apart from the Aussie accent, bore a not so striking resemblance to a mutual acquiantence by the name of Smithies working for the Epoch Times who had previously been mixed up in the affairs of the comrades(!!).

Upon eventually reaching Portsmouth (but losing the Smithies lookalike along the way) they were met with immediate and unasked for instructions as to how to reach the boat. This unfortunately involved a taxi ride from a man who can best be labelled as a Daily Mirror reading facist who took it upon himself to spout his racism and anger at the four stunned comrades. His comments on 'bloody foreigners' and his expressed surprise that nobody had bombed the mosques in Portsmouth (yet!) gave the distinct impression that perhaps this was what he saw as a positive solution to race relations in the town. This was however clearly another obstacle placed to incite the anger of the comrades and halt their progress. Upon recognising it as such they bit their tongues and rode out the urge to convert the unconvertible in ten minutes. Finally reaching Portsmouth ferry port, geting to Europe seemed at last within grasping distance but the adventures were just beginning and many more obstacles would be placed in their way.

To be continued....

5 Comments:

At 2:42 AM, Blogger estÃ¥ said...

i am glad to see that the smithies lookalike has been given the prominence he deserves... deeply suspicious...

 
At 3:50 AM, Blogger Acid Anth said...

Commrades I beleive you will find the answer on a downtown wall in bordeux... signed with the words SAMO!

 
At 10:23 AM, Blogger The Paranoid Mod said...

Which reminds me of when Geoff Hoon compared a town in Iraq to Southampton a couple of years ago. This was put to a squaddie out there, who said "There's no beer, no prostitutes and they're shooting at us, it's more like Portsmouth".

Boom, and furthermore, boom.

 
At 9:10 AM, Blogger Cat said...

Los comarades alcanzaremos nuestra patria basque

 
At 9:42 AM, Blogger Cat said...

http://kittysnoozes.blogspot.com/

 

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