Je mappelle Bond, Jacques Bond...

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by DozyBint, Aug 23, 2009.

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  1. From The Mail:

    True Lies with a twist!

  2. BiscuitsAB

    BiscuitsAB LE Moderator

    Comment section at the bottom.

    "He shouldn't have worn the burkha to escape, it will just make police suspicious of everybody dressed like that, because of one stupid man's actions. Does he realise what he has done?

    - Lulu, Middlesbrough, UK, 23/8/2009 17:47 "

    I can't decide if thats the best WAH ever or the op is serious. Guess thats the beauty of a good wah.
  3. And the colour of his eyes?
  4. I can see wearing the burkha but why did he wear the bra too? :?
  5. I would
  6. "Knightswood" as well, but they're aw deed!! :roll:

    You'd shag Jaques Cousteau's flippers, and you know it!!!
  7. Any holes is a goal :D
  8. Aye, the Scotland fitba team hasn't been the same since Frank McAvennie hung up his boots. :D
  9. I read this tale with interest but noted that there were plenty of gaps in the story.

    I then dug a bit deeper and came up with this intriguing account of what actually happened.

    The Dubai not-so-secret Police have got him under arrest and are about to stick sharpened pins up his nose when he shouts. “What’s that over there?” and as Abdul & Mohammed stupidly fall for the oldest trick in the book, he manages to escape their evil grasp and make it to the ground floor wet-room.

    After finding some wetsuits conveniently hanging on a row of nearby pegs, he silently kitted himself out in one that fitted his big tough guy frame.

    Whilst still using his fantastic distraction skills, taught to him by Mon. Paul le Daniels on week three of his international man of intrigue correspondence course at, he slipped unnoticed into the cool desert night and headed to the Navel dockyards at Port Khalid dressed as a Frogman.

    Which was quite natural to him as that was what he was. A Frog Man.

    On his arrival at the 18’ razor wire fence and floodlit surrounded dockyards, he used his teeth to chomp silently through the defences. “Easier than chewing escargot.” He mused (Silently)

    Utilising Michael Jackson’s moon-walking (mond gait) technique he quietly made his way towards the UAE SBS shed where he knew the necessary breathing apparatus would be stored.

    Unseen in the deep silent shadows of Pier 3 and not daring to breathe; he slipped the catch from the carelessly unlocked scuba stores and silently entered the darkened interior.

    Removing a mini-maglight from the double secret pocket in his left sock he surreptitiously shone the light around the room, careful of course to place his fingers over the bulb as he began to select an assortment of dive gear.

    After picking out an Apollo A-320NRX stage one regulator he noticed that it had a red brand logo and that would clash with the green flashes on the Aeris Orca Scuba Mask that he had set his heart on, so he reluctantly swapped it for a twin tube Genesis S.K.O. Octopus system.

    “Not as good.” He whispered to himself, but the colour match would fit in with the style and élan of this particular escape.

    Realising that time was of the essence, and hearing the far off sound of alarm bells, he grabbed a black Catalina 63 cu ft standard aluminium cylinder and a pair of Shark Catcher fins.

    “No time for lead weights.” He muttered quietly as he quickly donned his accoutrements and grabbed an Oyster Mariner dive watch and matching Fogcutter Recon dive knife lying rather handily on the bench by the door.

    “This knife is sharp enough to cut through fuel lines, should I need it.” He pondered quietly.

    Back outside in the shadows of Pier 3 whilst making a brew and tactically smoking a gauloise cigarette he noticed the lights were on at the Dubai Wrens quarters and a plan began to hatch.

    It was an easy job for him to enter the insecure dormitory and nick a matching burka and bra ensemble from a washing bowl in the laundry room, and to his delight he noticed a bum-bag hanging on a peg and on closer inspection it contained a quantity of cash.

    After placing the bra around his ample chest he realised that his man boobs would fill the garment and extra padding would not be required. Positioning the bum-bag round his girth he then pulled the burka over his head and looked at himself in a cracked and stained mirror in the corner of the room.

    “Mais oui” He mouthed silently, pleased with the results of his disguise.

    The fins were too large to be carried beneath the black material of the stolen burka so he decided to wear them and hope that no-one would notice.

    He flip flopped brazenly past the sentry on duty at the front gate that lifted the barrier for him with a wink and a smile.

    “Wait a moment.”

    The sentry had shouted, causing our desperado to freeze.

    “Perhaps I see you later sweetmeats?” Whispered the guard with a toothless grin half hidden behind a goats meat addled beard.

    “Inshallah” Muttered our man under his breath as he made his clumsy waddle towards Al Meena Street and relative safety of the part of town he knew so well.

    He located Golden beach, off Al Meena Street with only two stops for a brew and a gauloise cigarette before he leopard crawled across the sand towards the welcoming sound of the ocean, that he, er, knew so well.

    It was 20km to the island of Abu Musa a distance that would only take him 10 hours if he paced himself and came to the surface every 30 minutes and trod water for a quiet gauloise cigarette.

    Navigation was not a problem, as the stolen Oyster Mariner watch used in conjunction with the Magellan Crossover Night dive GPS system that he had secreted up his arrse before his unfortunate arrest would be just the job.

    Whilst he silently finned beneath the waves he was aware of the thudding and scudding of small boat propellers some 3m above him as the UAE SBS search teams frantically sought their fugitive whilst smoking fags made from camel dung and drinking tea from bowls of sugar.

    The Mariner showed him the time was 0500Z as he noted that the smooth sandy seabed was rising in front of him as he approached the shores of Abu Musa.

    He then sank slowly to the bottom, just 1m from the surface as he made a tactical underwater brew with the last of his neoprene teabags and caught his breath for the first time since his escape. He decided against an underwater smoke as that would be plain stupid.

    “Time to take off the burka.” He said to himself, before emerging from the waves that crashed softly on the shore.

    Deciding that a monkey crawl would benefit him this time, he made his way along the beach towards the small jetty where he knew that the only Police launch in the entire area would be moored.

    Digging into the deep sand was a breeze as he utilised the over sized brassiere as a makeshift scoop.

    Once settled into his sandy hide he removed a pair of mini Steiner binoculars from inside his right sock and watched the Police launch bob up and down on the gentle ocean swell.

    30 minutes into his watch he managed to snag a passing plastic bag caught on the shore breeze. “This would be an excellent time for a shit.” He whispered to himself.

    He could not recall the series of books where he gleaned this top tip but now he could crap all day and not leave a trace.

    By nightfall he was down to his last two gauloise and there had been no movement from the Police launch.

    Slowly emerging from his hole, he shook the sand from his equipment and he quietly commando rolled towards the jetty and shimmied aboard like a silent deadly thing.

    There was no noise from within the vessel as he made his way past the small bridge where he noticed that the ignition keys were still in place.

    “Huh, amateurs.” He whispered to no-one in particular, as he stealthily made his way to the engine room and gently lifted the hatch that he knew would give him access to the fuel lines.

    With two swift and silent thrusts with the Fogcutter Recon dive knife, he was rewarded with the soft and quiet gurgle of liquid and the smell of diesel oil.

    Silently retracing his steps he slid quietly over the side of the disabled launch and back into the welcoming blanket of the shallow waters of the Persian Gulf, that as we know, he knew so well, before once more donning the trusty scooping bra and faded black burka.

    Without incident he made it back to Golden beach and by using small strips of materiel from the hem of the knackered burka, he tied the ends of his fins to his ankles and thereby fashioning a rather natty, if somewhat improbable pair of Ali Baba type slip-ons.

    Although now without sleep for three days and more importantly without a smoke for 10 hours the escape was beginning to take its toll on our hero, and he was aware that he was more likely to make an error on this next part of the plan.

    With only two gauloise left he realised that he could restock at the tobacconist at the Marhaba resort on Golden beach although he could get them cheaper at the Al Ras Hypermarket in Jumeira, but that would entail a 20 minute bus ride, and some-one would be bound to notice the now tatty and grey faded burka, and that together with the deep seated smell of fish and stale garlic breath could bring about a compromise situation.

    He decided that it would a total gangfuck if he didn’t get to Jumeira beach, an area he knew well, and where he guessed there may be a fully tanked up Zodiac and it may be ready to go.

    The No 94 bus to Jumeira pulled up at the time scribed on the timetable attached to a palm tree at the bus stop, and after checking on his stolen Oyster Mariner he was satisfied that all was well with the Dubai bus service, and as he was not carrying a mobility scooter he did not anticipate any problems with the UAE Health & Safety people.

    He was about to step aboard when a man in a wrinkled dark cotton suit approached him said in perfect French. ”Have a pleasant journey.”

    Having seen the Great Escape on his advanced selection course at www.frogspyskool.,fl he was all too aware of this ploy and just fluttered his eyelids at the man and boarded without mishap.

    “Nice shoes” commented the driver as he rammed the gearlever into first and trundled south along the coast road.

    Our man travelled for 20 minutes in silence on the ratty bus, ignoring the lecherous looks he was getting in the rear view mirror from the skinny unshaven bus driver, before hopping off and jinking his way towards the tobacconists he knew lay between him and the sea that he knew so well.

    The purchase of the two packets of imported gauloise cigarettes successfully obtained without incident from an indifferent shopkeeper would see him through the next stage of his plan.

    His luck held. There at the small jetty on Jumeira beach was an unguarded Zodiac, now if only it had enough fuel to get him the required 40km to International waters he would be frog free.

    More luck. There was a full tank of 2 stroke fuel and two full jerry cans lashed to the deck and behold…… a wind up battery charger for his Magellan Crossover Night dive GPS system and a fully charged mobile phone in a plastic bag.

    Quelle chance! What luck!

    Stripping a further length of hem from the rancid rag that was once a burka he fashioned a knot in one end and now had himself a starter cord for the outboard motor.

    The little Johnson 50 spluttered into life on the second pull the propeller gurgled happily in the clear blue water of the Persian Gulf that he had come to love.

    After casting off, he grabbed the twistgrip and clunked the craft into gear and headed towards freedom.

    He managed to get a four bar signal on the stolen Motorola and made contact with his old friend Pierre Le Spion who happened to have a chartered yacht only 6 hours away and would be only too glad to help out an old Ami from frogspyskool, and oui, he would love to visit Mumbai.

    By skilful use of the tides and his knowledge of this particular stretch of water, not to mention the fully charged Magellan Crossover Night dive GPS system, he managed the 40km without incident and boarded the chartered yacht La Bullshite without further incident.

    Oh! How happy was our intrepid hero when he finally reached International waters and over a couple of glasses of red wine and some garlic dippy things, he dripped out his story to Mon. Le Spion.

    The rest as they say, Is in the papers.

  10. Arte :clap: :clap:

    Mai Oui, C'est Vrais!!

    Encore!!! Encore!!!

    Reminds me of the "Frogman/Ninja" team in "Flushed Away". :D
  11. But of course it may not be true.

    Disclaimer post, is just in case "La Monde" are reading this and have the copyright to an abridged version that the fat French spy walt liar is contracted to write none-time soon.
  12. The whole story must be a wah by an arrser!
  13. now when's that coming out in paperback mon brave?
  14. Your explanation Arte et marte is beautiful. I doubted this story in Le Monde from the outset, but having read the truth of it from you, I can well believe it. The man is a hero.

  15. That's MDN!