The Inspector
30/12/05 11:15
Arrive in London from Preston. Presumably I slept the entire journey as it lasted 3 minutes and my mouth tasted like envelopes upon arrival.
11:20
I know that my easy bus to Luton airport is at 14:15 giving me plenty of time. I give strong consideration to 'dicking around' for an indefinite amount of time, then, remembering how badly I had messed things up the days before, and how deluded I had become during the packing debacle, I decide to head straight for the bus stop, see what time it is and then dick around within a closely controlled proximity of no more than 15 minutes.
I wander into a travel office situated inside the greenline bus terminus where I find two staff are sat at a single shared desk. The English male on the left is engaging face to face with a customer, the female right converses in a foreign language to a phone enquiry. I prepare to wait patiently when an anonymous, slightly smug looking individual approaches me.
'Are you alright there?' the anonymous man asks
"I'm fine thanks" comes my succint response
'Can I help you with anything?'
"I'm waiting to speak to one of these two people here"
'Ah well..... I'm the inspector. What is it you wanted to ask them?'
"I wanted to ask them where Gloucester place is; my bus leaves from there"
'Ah well.....they don't know the answer to that.'
"Ok...well....I think I'll wait a minute and take my chances anyway"
'No point...they don't know the answer'
Is this some droll, unimiginative, self-styled villain calling himself 'The Inspector'? Parading up and down London public transport depots deriving some sick, maniacal pleasure from putting on an authorative front, then intercepting lost members of the public and advising them that the answers to the questions that their entire journey, nay, their entire FUTURE, hinges upon are in fact unanswerable. Unanswerable in fact by the very people who are trained, then paid, then placed in front of you to provide such answers. With his simple, yet devastating words he hopes to cause a self-inflicted, short circuit inside his victims' brains. By denying the existence of answers he hopes that a series of immense, stark realisations will occur in such a short space of time that the human being's defence mechanisms and coping strategies will be flooded and fried.
A susceptible victim first realises that the safe, reliable, cogs of a seemingly all knowing, all powerful society, previously thought of as carefully crafted, have in fact been made out of ice rather than metal and are now melting all around them. He realises that all science, religion, history and government have been distorted, fabricated to create a pretty picture facade.
Ordinarily, the human brain can cope with such matters as many of us at certain points in our lives decide not to dip in the sea of lies that surround us or eat our establishments diet of disinformation. The Inspector's cunning lies in his placement and also his timing. He knows that shortly the victim will realise that they have no chance of getting to where they have planned to go...even worse...if they have friends or relatives who have gone ahead to meet them...well....where the fuck are they right now? If they have to change their currency back to English pounds then won't they lose most of it to those "No charge, no commission" people who have to be making something somewhere. You get the idea..some victims can withstand this barage longer than other, but, if 'The Inspector' has managed to snare you then it's over. You forget all notions of the past and future as they are too intense to handle. You walk around London shouting at random people, pointing at horses and saying, "Is that my bus-ee bus bus holiday bus?" and slavering all over yourself, occasionally stopping for food. This repeats until you die. It is a proven fact that before 'The Inspector' began his operations there were no homeless people in London. All the stories of physical abuse,drug abuse, and broken homes that lead to homelessness are just a fallacy. A concoction created by our politicians and insane media to explain this previous inexplicable phenomenon.
Possibly, but not probably.
I think again to try and glean some possible meaning from this individual and his bizarre words.
I take a second to perform a quick memory scan, trying to summon as much memory as possible. I conclude that yes, I have heard of companies performing aptitude and performance tests on employees to give an indicator of their general levels of knowledge and intelligence. I also conclude that no, I have never heard of a company somehow extracting all employees memories and thoughts, then downloading them into their superiors brains, thus allowing them to know everything that their employed underlings know.
Yes, this technology may exist in some secret, black budgeted laboratory, but it is doubtful that the testing stages would be caried out in a grotty, London bus depot. It is even more doubtful that such technology would be implemented inside this fucking pion.
No, the answer was so clear and so simple all along.
This man was a stereotypical, London FUCK.
You know the type, rushing and pushing you out of the way as if their time is as limited and as precious as a dischevelled, sunken, aids ravaged child. One who needs to claw their way past you in the queues at D*sneyland for ‘Space mountain’ so they can experience the thrills of a ‘Normal, happy child’ once more before they stop and drop. If you try and ask these Londoners a question in the street they will simply keep walking, totally blanking you, like your voice has as much weight and meaning as a speech from the Prince of Monaco. If you have been stabbed in the street, they will not only refuse to directly help you, but will actually hamper the attempts of fellow random passers by who are actually trying to help you. True story. A guy was stabbed on a bus in London, managing to make it downstairs. Onlookers refused to help and eventually it was left to one woman to shake herself out of shock and assist the man. She asked for a jacket from another passenger to stem the flow of blood. Everyone refused. Everyone. Londoners don’t want to have a dying person's blood all over their jacket. When would they have the time to go to the dry cleaners, what will all their important business and busy lifestyles?
The pathetic British media tried to praise the 'Resolve' and 'Stoic resistance' of Londoners after the bombings. Nah, they just didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone involved. They don’t care about London, or anyone else in it outside their own circle. For them it was a holiday and a nice story. “Oh, I was in London that day, oh dearie me.” I’ve never visited anywhere else that was so devoid of humanity and passion.
Yeah, 'The Inspector' was a London prick. His crowning achievement, lifetime highlight would be to tell his Grandchildren that he was within the miniscule 60 mile radius of London when the bombs struck.
I adopt a slightly mocking tone, gauged such that it would knock him down from the summit of smug mountain, yet not too much mocking that he would hamper my enquiries even further.
“Hmm..yeah....so what you’re saying is that you know everything that these two people know?”
The smugness on his face doesn’t flinch and he’s beginning to grow a very large grin now. Jesus, this guy’s a prick. My incredibly restrained subtlety has been lost and he now believes that I am massaging his ego.
‘Yes’ He states ever so smugly.
The desire to point out the gaping holes in his logic is still held back by the fact that I still believe he has my answers.If this was Manchester I could have sacked this off long ago and just asked a random person. They would, in a friendly and non-ambiguous way, tell me the answer, or apologise for not knowing. They’d probably walk me there themselves. I’m not there though, I’m in London. Anyone I ask here is likely to either not speak English, be a tourist themselves or a complete prick, like this guy.
“That’s impossible” I say, finally delivering the words to burst his bubble.
Aha! I have defeated ‘The Inspector’ with pure, unadulterated logic. Where as he plans to destroy lost members of the public’s worlds in 7 words. -They don't know the answer to that- I have destoryed his in 2.
I could have done it in 1:
“Impossible!”
but decided that only Brian Blessed could accomplish such an exclaimed exclamation.
‘The Inspector’ exits smug mode, but chooses not to retaliate to my killer blow.
‘It is illegal for them to give you that information’
No! Incredible! It appears that he doesn’t want to crawl off, lick his wounds and rethink his long-term plans of villainy. He’s actually shifted up a gear, now trying to lure me into another mine(d) field of his outrageous claims. Knitting an even bigger web of unbelievable,unpalatable lies.
“Ok. Well, can You give me the information?” I ask, starting to tire of this whole affair.
‘No. It’s illegal for me to give you that information’
“How!? Who says?” I've started to snap a little.
‘The company, it’s illegal to give out competitors' information’
What an utter fuck wit. Instead of implying that he is an all knowing, omniscient, being and that him and his associates have been gagged by legal sanctions placed on them by the highest judges in the land he could have straight away just said.
‘I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to tell you that. Company policy I’m afraid. Why don’t you try’
Unconfident of success, I try to make 'The Inspector' break his precious laws. I'm going to remain calm, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me wound up.
“Well, I’ve already booked the ticket now so it doesn’t affect your company if you tell me. If you leave me with some information from your company, I’d be glad to consider it on my next visit.”
The smugness started to seep back on his face.
'I can’t do that' he says, with undertones of gloating.
"So what you’re saying is you’re going to jeopardise a young man’s trip to go and live abroad to be with his girlfriend because of some petty rule made by your company? A rule that even if you broke wouldn't divert any business or profit from your company, it just helps a lost person to get where they need to be?"
He unflinchingly and without pausing or altering his facial expression says,
'Yes'
He doesn’t even realise what I made him admit. What I said basically translated to:
“So what you’re saying is that you’re an A grade cunt? A bitter, twisted, pen pushing fuck?”
‘Yes’ he unwittingly admitted.
Arrive in London from Preston. Presumably I slept the entire journey as it lasted 3 minutes and my mouth tasted like envelopes upon arrival.
11:20
I know that my easy bus to Luton airport is at 14:15 giving me plenty of time. I give strong consideration to 'dicking around' for an indefinite amount of time, then, remembering how badly I had messed things up the days before, and how deluded I had become during the packing debacle, I decide to head straight for the bus stop, see what time it is and then dick around within a closely controlled proximity of no more than 15 minutes.
I wander into a travel office situated inside the greenline bus terminus where I find two staff are sat at a single shared desk. The English male on the left is engaging face to face with a customer, the female right converses in a foreign language to a phone enquiry. I prepare to wait patiently when an anonymous, slightly smug looking individual approaches me.
'Are you alright there?' the anonymous man asks
"I'm fine thanks" comes my succint response
'Can I help you with anything?'
"I'm waiting to speak to one of these two people here"
'Ah well...
'Ah well...
"Ok...well....I think I'll wait a minute and take my chances anyway"
'No point...they don't know the answer'
Is this some droll, unimiginative, self-styled villain calling himself 'The Inspector'? Parading up and down London public transport depots deriving some sick, maniacal pleasure from putting on an authorative front, then intercepting lost members of the public and advising them that the answers to the questions that their entire journey, nay, their entire FUTURE, hinges upon are in fact unanswerable. Unanswerable in fact by the very people who are trained, then paid, then placed in front of you to provide such answers. With his simple, yet devastating words he hopes to cause a self-inflicted, short circuit inside his victims' brains. By denying the existence of answers he hopes that a series of immense, stark realisations will occur in such a short space of time that the human being's defence mechanisms and coping strategies will be flooded and fried.
A susceptible victim first realises that the safe, reliable, cogs of a seemingly all knowing, all powerful society, previously thought of as carefully crafted, have in fact been made out of ice rather than metal and are now melting all around them. He realises that all science, religion, history and government have been distorted, fabricated to create a pretty picture facade.
Ordinarily, the human brain can cope with such matters as many of us at certain points in our lives decide not to dip in the sea of lies that surround us or eat our establishments diet of disinformation. The Inspector's cunning lies in his placement and also his timing. He knows that shortly the victim will realise that they have no chance of getting to where they have planned to go...even worse...if they have friends or relatives who have gone ahead to meet them...well....where the fuck are they right now? If they have to change their currency back to English pounds then won't they lose most of it to those "No charge, no commission" people who have to be making something somewhere. You get the idea..some victims can withstand this barage longer than other, but, if 'The Inspector' has managed to snare you then it's over. You forget all notions of the past and future as they are too intense to handle. You walk around London shouting at random people, pointing at horses and saying, "Is that my bus-ee bus bus holiday bus?" and slavering all over yourself, occasionally stopping for food. This repeats until you die. It is a proven fact that before 'The Inspector' began his operations there were no homeless people in London. All the stories of physical abuse,drug abuse, and broken homes that lead to homelessness are just a fallacy. A concoction created by our politicians and insane media to explain this previous inexplicable phenomenon.
Possibly, but not probably.
I think again to try and glean some possible meaning from this individual and his bizarre words.
I take a second to perform a quick memory scan, trying to summon as much memory as possible. I conclude that yes, I have heard of companies performing aptitude and performance tests on employees to give an indicator of their general levels of knowledge and intelligence. I also conclude that no, I have never heard of a company somehow extracting all employees memories and thoughts, then downloading them into their superiors brains, thus allowing them to know everything that their employed underlings know.
Yes, this technology may exist in some secret, black budgeted laboratory, but it is doubtful that the testing stages would be caried out in a grotty, London bus depot. It is even more doubtful that such technology would be implemented inside this fucking pion.
No, the answer was so clear and so simple all along.
This man was a stereotypical, London FUCK.
You know the type, rushing and pushing you out of the way as if their time is as limited and as precious as a dischevelled, sunken, aids ravaged child. One who needs to claw their way past you in the queues at D*sneyland for ‘Space mountain’ so they can experience the thrills of a ‘Normal, happy child’ once more before they stop and drop. If you try and ask these Londoners a question in the street they will simply keep walking, totally blanking you, like your voice has as much weight and meaning as a speech from the Prince of Monaco. If you have been stabbed in the street, they will not only refuse to directly help you, but will actually hamper the attempts of fellow random passers by who are actually trying to help you. True story. A guy was stabbed on a bus in London, managing to make it downstairs. Onlookers refused to help and eventually it was left to one woman to shake herself out of shock and assist the man. She asked for a jacket from another passenger to stem the flow of blood. Everyone refused. Everyone. Londoners don’t want to have a dying person's blood all over their jacket. When would they have the time to go to the dry cleaners, what will all their important business and busy lifestyles?
The pathetic British media tried to praise the 'Resolve' and 'Stoic resistance' of Londoners after the bombings. Nah, they just didn’t give a flying fuck about anyone involved. They don’t care about London, or anyone else in it outside their own circle. For them it was a holiday and a nice story. “Oh, I was in London that day, oh dearie me.” I’ve never visited anywhere else that was so devoid of humanity and passion.
Yeah, 'The Inspector' was a London prick. His crowning achievement, lifetime highlight would be to tell his Grandchildren that he was within the miniscule 60 mile radius of London when the bombs struck.
I adopt a slightly mocking tone, gauged such that it would knock him down from the summit of smug mountain, yet not too much mocking that he would hamper my enquiries even further.
“Hmm..yeah....so what you’re saying is that you know everything that these two people know?”
The smugness on his face doesn’t flinch and he’s beginning to grow a very large grin now. Jesus, this guy’s a prick. My incredibly restrained subtlety has been lost and he now believes that I am massaging his ego.
‘Yes’ He states ever so smugly.
The desire to point out the gaping holes in his logic is still held back by the fact that I still believe he has my answers.If this was Manchester I could have sacked this off long ago and just asked a random person. They would, in a friendly and non-ambiguous way, tell me the answer, or apologise for not knowing. They’d probably walk me there themselves. I’m not there though, I’m in London. Anyone I ask here is likely to either not speak English, be a tourist themselves or a complete prick, like this guy.
“That’s impossible” I say, finally delivering the words to burst his bubble.
Aha! I have defeated ‘The Inspector’ with pure, unadulterated logic. Where as he plans to destroy lost members of the public’s worlds in 7 words. -They don't know the answer to that- I have destoryed his in 2.
I could have done it in 1:
“Impossible!”
but decided that only Brian Blessed could accomplish such an exclaimed exclamation.
‘The Inspector’ exits smug mode, but chooses not to retaliate to my killer blow.
‘It is illegal for them to give you that information’
No! Incredible! It appears that he doesn’t want to crawl off, lick his wounds and rethink his long-term plans of villainy. He’s actually shifted up a gear, now trying to lure me into another mine(d) field of his outrageous claims. Knitting an even bigger web of unbelievable,unpalatable lies.
“Ok. Well, can You give me the information?” I ask, starting to tire of this whole affair.
‘No. It’s illegal for me to give you that information’
“How!? Who says?” I've started to snap a little.
‘The company, it’s illegal to give out competitors' information’
What an utter fuck wit. Instead of implying that he is an all knowing, omniscient, being and that him and his associates have been gagged by legal sanctions placed on them by the highest judges in the land he could have straight away just said.
‘I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to tell you that. Company policy I’m afraid. Why don’t you try
Unconfident of success, I try to make 'The Inspector' break his precious laws. I'm going to remain calm, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me wound up.
“Well, I’ve already booked the ticket now so it doesn’t affect your company if you tell me. If you leave me with some information from your company, I’d be glad to consider it on my next visit.”
The smugness started to seep back on his face.
'I can’t do that' he says, with undertones of gloating.
"So what you’re saying is you’re going to jeopardise a young man’s trip to go and live abroad to be with his girlfriend because of some petty rule made by your company? A rule that even if you broke wouldn't divert any business or profit from your company, it just helps a lost person to get where they need to be?"
He unflinchingly and without pausing or altering his facial expression says,
'Yes'
He doesn’t even realise what I made him admit. What I said basically translated to:
“So what you’re saying is that you’re an A grade cunt? A bitter, twisted, pen pushing fuck?”
‘Yes’ he unwittingly admitted.
posted by Swedophilia at 17:35
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