TROLL AND COUNTER-TROLL

People are saying that Edward Snowden is a Russian asset. This is wrong. Edward Snowden actually still works for American intelligence. I swear. And all the surveillance stuff Snowden said that the NSA can do, all the listening on your laptops and devices, all that stuff is a load of shite. The NSA can't do any of that. It just wants us to think it can so we don't act against the U.S.A.'s interests. The NSA doesn't really need to watch us. The NSA just needs us to think that it can watch us, so it got Snowden to tell us that this was the case, which it really isn't.

Snowden is now living in Russia and he's spying on the Russians. The Russians know that he's a spy though. So, when Snowden is around, the Russians talk a load of shite about their supposed deep surveillance of the U.S.A. Snowden then reports this shite talk back to the yanks and the yanks pretend to believe it, but they don't because they know that the Russians are on to Snowden because that was the intention of the yanks all along. The yanks want the Russians to waste all their time making up pretend espionage stuff to trick Snowden with. That way, reason the yanks, the Russians will have less time to come up with real espionage stuff.

When it comes to real espionage, there's actually no such thing. No one has the time. They're too busy cooking up the fake stuff. Strictly speaking, there are no such things as actual spies. Well, there are spies, but their job isn't to spy. Their job is to give the people they are meant to be spying on the impression that they're spying on them. Really though, there is no spying going on at all, but everyone thinks there is, so they don't make any plans. The plan is to make the enemy think you might know what the plan is, so they scrap their plans, should they have any, which they don't because they haven't the time.

Are you still with me? Has confusion got you in its grip? It's all about confusion at the end of the day. The intelligence agencies are mad for the confusion.

Did you know that back in a simpler time, during the Cold War, the Russians used to use props in their military parades? They'd have a huge big fake nuke, a thing that doesn't exist at all, a big fake warhead in a parade and they'd know that the yanks would see it and then go and waste all their time trying to research what it was and how to make one of their own. The yanks would waste a load of time and effort that could've been expended on developing real nukes. That was typical of the shite that went on in the world of geopolitical espionage. Of course, if such a thing was attempted today, the yanks would just give the Russians the impression that they had wasted all their time when, in fact, they would've known that the nuke was fake all along. And the extra twist on top of this would be that the Russians would know that the yanks know the nuke is fake, but the Russians would be happy enough because the yanks would still end up wasting a load of time and effort on giving the Russians the impression that they were wasting a load of time and effort.

Do you see my meaning? Is what I'm trying to impart clear to you at all?

Look, it's like this, spies know that reality is irrelevant. The world of spies is a post-reality world. It's just trolling really. Troll and counter-troll. If James Bond films were realistic, Bond would just be going around saying he bedded all those women and blew up all those secret bases, but the reality would be him sitting around in hotel lobbies trying to look suspicious but feeling kind of lonely and wondering what it's all for and if there is such a thing as anything at all and he'd frequently check his reflection in panes of glass to make sure that he's still there and, deep down, he'd be hoping that one day he won't be. Or maybe, like David Shayler, Bond would see his reflection and declare to himself 'I am the messiah and hold the secret of eternal life.'

It's hard for spies to keep their feet on the ground. That's why they're advised to keep weights in their footwear. This also makes them easier to sink, when they need to be disposed of. We'll all have weights in our shoes soon enough.

HUNGRY HUNGRY RACOONS

‘A new decade is here and, boy, has it got a lot of cleaning up to do after the last one.’ At least, that’s what the C.I.A. told me over a few pints in town. ‘As if that ain’t bad enough, the whole house of credit default swap cards is going to come crashing down, we’re going to have water and oil shortages causing wars and there’s going to be refugees spilling out all over the place causing racial tension. We’re in the shit Mr. Fugger,’ they informed me.

‘So, what do you want me to do about it?’ I asked.

‘Well you like telling stories,’ replied the C.I.A., ‘and we need stories to keep people distracted while we maintain order. Maintaining order ain’t pretty. A lot of people are going to get hurt and we don’t want the bleeding hearts getting all moralistic about it. Order trumps morality Mr. Fugger. Morality is abstract subjective bull crap. Order is an objective and observable phenomenon.’

I didn’t like the sound of that. I downed my Guinness and nodded to the barman for another. The C.I.A. kept talking as they peered at me over their whiskeys. ‘We’re going to start shit in Bolivia Mr. Fugger. We need gas and they got it. We’re going to replace democratically elected President Morales with hardcore racist son of a Nazi Branko Marinkovic. It sucks but whachagonnado? We need your first rate story telling prowess to make people look the other way. We want you to come up with an event that will keep everyone talking while we do the old switcheroo.’

‘And what if I don’t?’ I said, playing hard-ball.

The C.I.A. fixed me with a chilling glare. ‘What’s the name of your cat Mr. Fugger?’ I was asked.

I was puzzled by the question but I answered it. ‘Rupert’, I said, inciting a round of sniggers and feeling my masculinity suddenly diminish.

‘You like Rupert don’t you Mr. Fugger?’

I saw where they were going with this so quickly changed the subject. ‘Right, a distraction is what you need. A news event to keep people talking. Let’s see. Let’s see now. How about . . .um . . .a racoon.’

The C.I.A. leaned forward in unison and stared expectantly as my mind darted from place to place, grabbing anything it could. ‘Yeah, a racoon, go on,’ they urged.

‘Right, a racoon,’ I continued, ‘and it gets on a TV show and what’s her name is on it too, you know, Katie Price, um, Jordan, and. . .’

‘Hold on,’ one of the C.I.A. interrupted. ‘What’s the racoon doing on a TV show?’

‘Well, maybe it’s a special racoon. Maybe it pulled a baby from a house fire or has been to space or something.’

‘We can’t arrange that Mr. Fugger. Not even we can send a racoon to space or train it rescue kids.’

‘Right well, could you teach it to cycle a little bike?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘Right so, the racoon is cycling a little bike and Graham Norton is jumping around delighted when all of a sudden the racoon jumps up off the saddle and bites Jordan on the tits and. . . um . . .they explode.’

I wasn’t sure where the hell that came from and I was even less sure how it would be received. I found myself putting my hands up my face and looking at the C.I.A. through the gaps in my fingers. I need not have worried, they were grinning from ear to ear.

‘I like it,’ one said, ‘the broad’s bazoobahs go boom and at that very moment, in another continent, Morales takes a bullet to the brain as his cavalcade passes through Santa Cruz.’

‘Exactly,’ I confirmed.

The C.I.A. quickly scribbled a few notes, finished their whiskeys and stood to leave.

‘Nice doing business with you Mr. Fugger,’ one said, ‘oh, and give our best to, eh, what’s he called, yeah, give our best to Rupert.’

There was more laughter as they sauntered out the door. I downed my pint to calm my nerves.

Then someone cleared his throat behind me. I turned and saw Ajai Chopra of the I.M.F.

‘Any chance you could dream up a distraction for us? We need a product, a kind of craze for some gee-gaw everyone will want to get while we take everything else from them.’

The fact that I probably had no choice but to assist him did little to assuage the wave of self-loathing that overcame me.

‘What about a, um, let’s see, yeah, what about a board game for all the family. Like Hungry Hungry Hippos only with racoons instead of hippos and, um, instead of the marbles you could have tits?’ I offered.

Ajai smirked and made a note. He seemed happy enough.

Jesus, I’m scraping the barrel on this blog these days. O.K., enough of that. Click the link and find out how CRAP MAN HANDLED THE NEW YEAR!