Online Bullying...sort of....

Back to the View from Blighty

While setting fire to a number of documents crucial to the case against me this morning, I noticed an article on the subject of "online bullying". This practice, it seems, is on the rise, and is causing much distress. Many people have fallen victim to this cruel and cowardly means of attacking an individual and without the opportunity to fight back, these poor souls are left helpless - in some cases, still suspended from the ceiling by their leather straps and PVC buckles. This is indeed a damnable state of affairs! It reminds me of the time when I worked for MI6, the British security service, and was constantly looking over my shoulder, lest some loathsome viper betray me.

My first encounter with the world of espionage came in the winter of 1943, when I was working for the government. The Second World War was at its most intense, and we British had just agreed to a pact with the Soviet leader, Joseph Stalin. Linguists were therefore needed at the Foreign Office, and since I was one of the few who actually spoke Australian, I was invited for an interview. My interviewer was Captain Charles 'Bulldog' Brezhnevkopa, an Anglo-Irish gypsy from Italy. I was called into his office, and sat down in front of the huge mahogany desk. I fathomed at once that he was working for the intelligence service, for although he pretended to be reading a newspaper, he had cut out two large holes in the front page, and was peering through them at me. Since I knew that this might be some form of game, I craftily brought out a newspaper of my own, together with a brush and paste, and wallpapered his holes with it. He arose from the chair, bits of newspaper stuck to his chin. "Fuse", he boomed, "you know that we're signing a pact with the commies, don't you?" I nodded. "And this means letting them in on some of our defence secrets. Do you understand the implications and possible devastating outcome?"

I nodded sternly, banged my fist and swore out loud, when in fact I didn't have a clue what the hell he was talking about. "It means", he said, "that when this damned war is over, we'll have to deal with THEM!" I reeled back at the venom in his voice. He now looked like a man possessed, and, to illustrate this point, was wandering around the room with a white sheet over his head, making ghost noises. "Gad, sir - you look like a man possessed. Here, swallow this crucifix and I'll play a selection of hymns on this portable organ. We'll soon have you back to normal". He sat down, gathered his thoughts and looked me in the eye: "It's this job, Fuse - it gets to you sometimes. You see, officially I have no support from the government. If the brown stuff hits the fan, I'm on my own. Do you know, the last time I asked for assistance from the Foreign Secretary, his office said that he couldn't be reached - that he was "somewhere in the Himalayas looking for the Yeti, and wouldn't be back until Tuesday". The IDIOTS! Do they expect me to believe that? They must think I'm insane!" I looked at this tortured soul in his Napoleon suit and hired clown shoes, and felt sympathy for his plight. I ventured some advice. "Sir, have you ever thought of cutting twelve inches from your footwear? We don't want you to fall over".

He turned and gazed at me, droplets running down his cheeks and squirting out of his rubber flower. "I know, I know", he whispered quietly. "It's the stress, Fuse. It cripples a chap. I'm uptight. I've tried cutting back on my daily whisky, but cornflakes don't taste the same without it. What the heck - I'll give it a shot as soon as this war is over and those squirrels have stopped following me about. Anyway, back to the present. Fuse, we want you to meet with Stalin, and negotiate a deal for when the war ends. You must inform him that, in exchange for the safe return of our troops, we are offering two tickets to see Waldo Squint's Balsawood Penguins at the Palais Des Jambons, Paris. We're also giving away free popcorn, and..."

Poor chap. The last I saw of him, two military policemen were escorting him into an ambulance. He looked such a lost soul, just sitting there, talking to a glove puppet supplied by a kindly psychiatrist. I never found out what happened to him, although the glove puppet became Home Secretary and was knighted in the Queen's Honours List. Such are the tribulations of high office...