It was another terrible night - I should have known better. I went out on the pull with Donald Rumsfeld and "General" Tommy Franks. Look, I know it's neither big nor clever, right? But I'd been having a bad week. I'd been thrown out of the BNP for "lowering the tone" and Gary Glitter was no longer returning my phone calls. So anyway, I hadn't seen "The Don" in quite some time, mostly out of choice. I'd had a fucking brilliant idea for avoiding him: booked meself a cheap flight to Guantanamo Bay. It's not too cool, all a bit Club 18-30 and I'm too old for that Ibiza shit these days, but - you know, desperate measures and all that. But you can't stay in Guantanamo forever, can you. Or can you? I can never answer those questions. "You can't sign on forever," they used to intone earnestly down Holloway Road job centre, while I sat there idly masturbating. I used to say, "Why not?" and then they became angry.
<*dv_0*> Yeah, so "The Don" shows up with his new pal Tommy Franks on board. Tommy spent the whole night trying to get the DJ to play Queen tracks. You have to wonder, what the fuck is it with the US military and shit bands? I switched on the news a couple of hours before Saddam's deadline ran out to witness some dimwitted four-star arsepotato hymning the battle-readiness of his troops - fair play, you might think, but then the goon barks "I have just one thing to say to Saddam - when the President says go: it's hammer time!" Completely unacceptable shit. It could only have been bettered if, on cue, "U Can't Touch This" had erupted* from the PA and all the troops had started dancing and doing scissor-kicks. In enormous purple pants.
It was getting towards the end of the night; horrific quantity of booze consumed. We fetched up in some diabolical meat market. I don't mean a club; it turned out that Don and Tommy had a thing for ogling cattle by torchlight. I'm not sure I can go into it, I signed the Official Secrets Act, the Unofficial Secrets Act, and the Offalicial Secrets Act. "You can't touch this," Rumsfeld hissed at me in the darkness in a minatory tone. He was holding the torch under his chin, pulling scary faces. He gurned eerily, throwing all sorts of crazy shadows about: "This is what they teach you in the Pentagon," he whispered. A cow mooed somewhere in the background, as though expressing agreement.
Don was dispensing advice on what to do with the "laydeez." I needed the masterclass: I'd been out to dinner with this chick a week back, and had said, preposterously, "Madam [this was her name], my feelings for you are real; it is the rest of me that is a fiction." She got up and walked out, leaving me with an enormous bill. Aggravating: that's what I'd intended to do. But you take my point. I said, "Don, you're a man of the world, you pull the strings (it sez here) of the world's most powerful fighting force - I mean the X-Men, obviously - and I don't doubt for a minute that your heavy-lidded, narrow-eyed glare knocks 'em dead in Washington. Help me out, Don. Be good to me, Don. I'm reachin' out to you here."
Don looked up from his can of Tennants Super and slurred, "The X-Men are a terrorist organisation -"
"Don, be good to me. Come on. Your eyes are like tiny anuses. The babes love that, right? The honeyz and the, the - uh - the marmaladez. How do I get mine like that - is it practice? A zen-like state?" I gulped. "Surely not surgery. I don't think I can get that on the NHS, Don. I can't go to my doctor and say, 'I need the Rumsfeld eye-sphincter and fast, doc, my seed is drying up here -' No way, he ain't gonna go for it. He doesn't like me anyway, not after I developed this, this chemical dependency on Pritt stick."
<*dv_2*> Had I been able to see his eyes, I'm sure I would have seen Rummie looking back at me blankly. Somewhere in that head, somewhere in that planet-sized brain, wheels groaned and turned inexorably, astrological cycles condensed and dispersed, seasons changed, the earth breathed; and in the vault of his mind, this vast, heaving, megalithic computation produced a thought honed to a single sentence: "This guy is a fucking prick."
<*dv_1*> This broadcast was brought to you by Echelon.
*Look, call me pedantic, but does "U Can't Touch This" technically erupt? From anything? The verb correctly attached to "U Can't Touch This" is surely "prolapse". Anyway, between ourselves, I'm gonna have you nekkid by the end of this footnote. Now everybody dance. Drums.
Submitted by Tom Muir
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