Sunday 15 June 2014

Cock-blocked by the Bilderberg Group

Cock-blocked by the Bilderberg Group

It was the evening of April 20th, 2007, when a secret cabal of powerful men and women made a brazen attempt upon my sex life.

I was working as an MEP and used to visit the European Parliament in Brussels on a fairly regular basis. On the date in question I had attended a debate on a redrafted section of a trade bill that had been passed the previous year, but had been found lacking in certain key areas.

The vote had been time-tabled as a Schedule-C hearing and so should have been held in one of the chambers in the C wing of the parliament building. However, because the parliament was in such a state of disarray, the reading of the proposed amendment ended up being heard in the large conference room on L wing.

In these situations it is quite common for MEPs to confuse the scheduling code with the location of the vote, and indeed that is exactly what happened to me on this occasion. I got it into my head that I was attending a Schedule-L hearing, taking place in the C wing. At this point I must stress that I was not the only MEP to make this mistake. Anyway, I ended voting for something completely different to what I thought I was voting for. A consequence of this error is that I am partly to blame for the tomato ketchup that you buy in stores not tasting quite as good as it used to.

On my way out of the parliament building I bumped into Larson Ljungborg – a Swedish MEP who, for reasons best known to himself, has always referred to me as “Giles”. We spoke for a while and he mentioned in passing that the steering committee of the Bilderberg Group were rumoured to be in town.

The Bilderberg Group, if you are not familiar with them, are a loose-knit consortium of leading politicians, academics, industry and media figures, who meet occasionally to discuss the direction of world affairs, with the goal of fostering strong relations between North America and Western Europe. The composition of the group – the fact that it includes so many powerful and influential figures - along with its somewhat clandestine public image has led many to believe that it is a manifestation of a shadowy world government who secretly control all aspects of our lives from behind the scenes. There are even some commentators who go so far as to claim that the members of the group are not human, but an alien race of star-faring lizards. Why an advanced reptilian species who are capable of shape-shifting and traversing the black void of space would choose to assemble at a hotel in Watford, England, as opposed to meeting on an orbiting space craft, or communicating via telepathy, is beyond me.

I soon forgot all about my conversation with Larson. It was a Friday night and I was a single, middle-aged male bureaucrat in Brussels. The world was my oyster.

I had heard through the MEP grapevine that Annie's Bar offered the best opportunities for meeting with a member of the opposite sex. Upon my arrival I immediately spotted a very attractive dark-haired woman perched on a stool by the bar. Her dress resembled a sheet of black satin draped artistically over her statuesque form, in such a fashion that it seemed as if the slightest sudden unchoreographed movement might dislodge it and send it sliding to the floor in a shimmering pile. As I approached she plucked a peanut from a small silver dish that had been placed on a padded paper napkin on the bar in front of her. She raised the small morsel to her red lips tilting her head away disdainfully, as if in open contempt of the human act of eating.

I immediately hit her with my best line:

“The old testament of the bible is very specific in regard to the number of nuts that one may consume between sunrise and sunset. Eating nuts after dark is considered a sinful and wicked practice.”

She turned to face me, her body smouldering with derision, and yet behind that pretence I sensed a flicker of interest.

“Peanuts are legumes.”

We bantered back and forth like this. With me drawing parallels between biblical verse and modern European trade laws while she sipped her Martini and affected studied boredom. Finally my bladder rudely interrupted our conversation and I was compelled to make my excuses and adjourn to the men's room.

When I returned to the bar a few minutes later the woman was gone. Perched on the stool she had previously occupied was an overweight man dressed in a suit. I enquired as to whether he had seen a girl in a black dress and if so where she had gone, but he ignored me.

Growing ever more frantic I posed the same question to the barman.

“I guess she went home, bro,” was his vague response.

Had I imagined her? This vision of female perfection who had seemingly been erased from the memories of the staff and patrons of the bar. I ordered another drink while I scanned the thinning crowds for signs of my elusive quarry. When she failed to reappear I decided to call it a night and return alone to the banality of my hotel room.

The following morning I met Larson in the main dining room. We talked about our respective evenings. It transpired that he had drunk a little too much vodka and had been cautioned by the police for urinating on a statue of Jules Bordet. When I described my unusual encounter at Annie's Bar, he was incredulous:

“You failed to pick up a woman at Annie's! Joseph Merrick - the elephant man himself - could not fail to score in that place.”

It was at this point that his face formed itself into a solemn expression. He placed a reassuring hand on my forearm as if in support:

“My friend. If what you have told me is true and you left that bar alone last night, then it was because somebody there wanted you to leave alone. Somebody powerful.”

Maybe it was the cold milk I had just poured over my Weetabix but I felt my blood chill. Could my failure to hook-up with the beautiful woman at the bar really have been the outcome of a conspiracy? And if so who were the likely architects?

It was in that moment that I recalled the conversation Larson and I had shared the previous day, in which he had told alerted me to the presence of the steering committee of the Bilderberg Group in Brussels. Had this consortium of the world's most power individuals colluded with one another in an attempt to cock-block me? What would they stand to gain from such a brazen attempt upon my sex life? Was this an isolated attack or just one of many other attempts that had gone unnoticed?”

I pondered these questions on my journey by Eurostar back to St Pancras station but found no easy answers.

When I returned to my office in Brussels the following week there was a message from Larson requesting that I call him immediately.

His line was engaged all morning. When I finally managed to get in touch with him he informed me that Annie's Bar had been closed down for violations of the health and safety code. Around the bar area the inspectors had found evidence of reptilian DNA that belonged to no known species of reptile.

“You did not hear this from me,” he said before abruptly terminating the call.

No sooner had I put the phone down it rang again. Assuming that it was Larson I immediately grabbed the receiver.

There was no voice on the other end of the line but I could detect the faint sound of a person breathing. After about 30 seconds there was a clicking noise as my phantom caller hung up.

(Jeremy Goosegroom OBE, as told to backwards7)

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