Fox (n): carnivore of genus vulpes; crafty person; scavenger; (vb) to confuse; -ed (adj): to be drunk.

Thursday, 26 April 2012

Live and let lie.

MAN dies in mysterious circumstances.

He is found inside a bag he could not possibly have padlocked himself.

A third party's DNA is found on the padlock.

And the dead man is a spy, a highly intelligent man specialising in designing computer programmes to trawl the world's communication networks looking for terrorists.

It doesn't take a genius to figure it out, does it?

Yet apparently Britain's spymasters didn't notice when James Bond disappeared for a week, and even when his sister phoned up to tell them he was missing they didn't bother popping round to his flat for several hours, at which point they dispatched a couple of policemen who discovered his remains.

There are two possibilities here. Either the British security services were fully aware of foul play and wanted some time to cover it up - to remove DNA and incriminating evidence from the flat - or they're total numpties.

The thought of our spooks being incredibly stupid is not a comforting one. No wonder Osama bin Laden managed to outwit them using some pay-as-you-go phones, an old PC and a Speak-and-Spell.


Gareth's inquest is still ongoing but there's a lot of attention to the detail of wigs, shoes, and his sexuality and not much talk about the bigger picture.

A SPY GOT DEAD AND MI6 DIDN'T NOTICE.

"Hello? Is that Q? M here."

"Ah, M, hello, I've just been working on this amazing invisible stealth exploding Biro I think you'll like..."

"Yes, yes. Look, have you heard from Bond?"

"007? Oh, he was here last week picking up my latest rocket-propelled Savile Row suit. But no, not heard from him since then."

"Really? We can't raise him on the phone and he's missed an important meeting with an incredibly beautiful Russian double-agent."

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh well, I expect he'll turn up soon. G&T later?"

"Why not. Bye."

You see? Not exactly encouraging, is it?

And these are the security services we're relying on to stop us being exploded in our beds, to make sure planes don't fly into the Tower of London, and to swoop in and arrest the bad guys at the 11th hour.

Until the inquest is over it's not for me to say what happened, beyond passing the observation that dead bodies often get moved in bags by people who don't want them to be found, and that such things usually happen when there's foul play.

But you'll excuse me for thinking that the people keeping us safe are either miscreants or pillocks, and therefore the best thing to do might be to climb inside a padlocked rubber bag and not come out until there's no more pasty tax, granny tax, recession, u-turns, floods, droughts or Danny Alexander.

Have they gone yet?