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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