THE 'STORY ABOUT A BOMB' ENTRY
In most of the moments of my life I would consider myself a true example of the lazy British coward. I consider sleep to be a hobby, I constantly shy away from conflict, I often don't say all that I could for a quiet life. Then I remember something.
I once dangled my testicles over a bomb.
In the summer of 1997 I worked on a temporary basis for Madame Tussaud's as one of their Visitor Service Assistants. These are the people who made sure people kept moving through the building so more could come and see the waxworks behind them.
The cellar of Madame Tussaud's is directly above Baker Street tube station, it houses the exhibition's Chamber of Horrors. The Great Hall contains effigies of every figure of public significance in the UK and abroad. This makes Madame Tussaud's a logistic and symbolic prime target for terrorist attack. Staff were all security trained, even temps like me.
So I was working the Great Hall stopping eager visitors from putting fake spliffs between the pope's outstretched fingers, simulating fellatio on John Lennon or putting their foot through the plywood stage the royal family stood upon in their desire to get a good shot. The day was average in every respect except one. That morning we had been briefed that an authentic coded bomb threat had been received in the area so we were to be extra vigilant.
A colleague tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to look at him.
"You wouldn't mind watching that while I fetch security?" he asked pointing down and to the side of my left hip. I followed his indication. Sat on the floor was a fat, brown sports bag completely unattended and metres from the British cabinet exhibit.
My natural reaction was to say: "Fuck you, you found it, you watch it. I'll go get security." But the cunning bastard had used my momentary glance to disappear.
I was left with a limited pallette of options:
1) Scream 'run you fools, it's a bomb!' and peg it for the fire exit. Someone kicks the bomb, we all die.
2) Quietly make my way to the exit and slip away. The exhibition hall was so crowded that had I attempted this someone might have just kicked it clumsily. Boom. We all die.
3) Watch the bag.
Obviously the only one that even slightly suggested a chance of survival was number 3. So I stood close to the bag, and started to sweat. At the same time my mouth went dry. So the inside of my body was like sandpaper... the outside, moist.
My tension was not decreased by the fact that although people were moving clear of the bag on my side the other side of the bag was generating a fair degree of near misses as feet swung perilously close to the brown leather.
I could have stood on the other side but that would clearly just reverse the problem. There was really only one way to stop people approaching the bag from either side.
I straddled it, one foot placed carefully either side of the holdall. In a bizarre instinctive move I shielded my joy department with my hands. The last thing I wanted was the mental image of a forensics team digging pieces of my smouldering testicles out of the rubble. If they were to be salvaged from the smoking ruins I wanted my cojones to be in one piece.
People were still swinging too close to either end of the bag. Some of them stood very close to me, one backwards kicking step forward and... fpkk jam all over the rubble. There was only one solution to this. I had to get right into people's personal space. I couldn't alert them to the fact the bag was there, it only took one to put 2 and 2 together and that could be that... mass panic, stray kick, boom.
So I swayed within centimetres of anyone who approached too close for comfort. They would turn, see a pale, sweaty man, struggling for breath and clutching his testicles and move on. Swiftly.
I did this for a hundred thousand years (well, it seemed that long). Then a balding man in a grey sweater came out of the crowd and without a question grasped the handles of the holdall and started to walk away.
I seriously didn't know how far inside my body cavity my testicles had got until I realised the danger was past. Luckily for the hapless tourist my colleague and the security man chose this moment to appear. My colleague took the man aside and had a word with him about leaving unattended packages in the exhibition.
I felt the sweat dry and my mouth fill with saliva. The kickdrum of my heart started to slow.
Yes, most of the time I would say I'm a lazy coward. But I didn't know that was some dude's luggage. We had all the evidence to suggest a real possibility that the holdall was packed with explosives and primed to detonate wiping the effigies of our government off the face of the earth in an act of symbolic protest.
So if you want to know what I would do when left in charge of a bomb we have a concrete answer and an actual incident to reference. I would apparently dangle my tackle over it.
Which I guess means that the real consequence of these acts of terrorism is that people will really get to see how big our balls are.
And not to be immodest or to generalise but I think Mr. Terrorist that you'll find we got pairs on us like fucking beach balls.
Just remember that.
In most of the moments of my life I would consider myself a true example of the lazy British coward. I consider sleep to be a hobby, I constantly shy away from conflict, I often don't say all that I could for a quiet life. Then I remember something.
I once dangled my testicles over a bomb.
In the summer of 1997 I worked on a temporary basis for Madame Tussaud's as one of their Visitor Service Assistants. These are the people who made sure people kept moving through the building so more could come and see the waxworks behind them.
The cellar of Madame Tussaud's is directly above Baker Street tube station, it houses the exhibition's Chamber of Horrors. The Great Hall contains effigies of every figure of public significance in the UK and abroad. This makes Madame Tussaud's a logistic and symbolic prime target for terrorist attack. Staff were all security trained, even temps like me.
So I was working the Great Hall stopping eager visitors from putting fake spliffs between the pope's outstretched fingers, simulating fellatio on John Lennon or putting their foot through the plywood stage the royal family stood upon in their desire to get a good shot. The day was average in every respect except one. That morning we had been briefed that an authentic coded bomb threat had been received in the area so we were to be extra vigilant.
A colleague tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to look at him.
"You wouldn't mind watching that while I fetch security?" he asked pointing down and to the side of my left hip. I followed his indication. Sat on the floor was a fat, brown sports bag completely unattended and metres from the British cabinet exhibit.
My natural reaction was to say: "Fuck you, you found it, you watch it. I'll go get security." But the cunning bastard had used my momentary glance to disappear.
I was left with a limited pallette of options:
1) Scream 'run you fools, it's a bomb!' and peg it for the fire exit. Someone kicks the bomb, we all die.
2) Quietly make my way to the exit and slip away. The exhibition hall was so crowded that had I attempted this someone might have just kicked it clumsily. Boom. We all die.
3) Watch the bag.
Obviously the only one that even slightly suggested a chance of survival was number 3. So I stood close to the bag, and started to sweat. At the same time my mouth went dry. So the inside of my body was like sandpaper... the outside, moist.
My tension was not decreased by the fact that although people were moving clear of the bag on my side the other side of the bag was generating a fair degree of near misses as feet swung perilously close to the brown leather.
I could have stood on the other side but that would clearly just reverse the problem. There was really only one way to stop people approaching the bag from either side.
I straddled it, one foot placed carefully either side of the holdall. In a bizarre instinctive move I shielded my joy department with my hands. The last thing I wanted was the mental image of a forensics team digging pieces of my smouldering testicles out of the rubble. If they were to be salvaged from the smoking ruins I wanted my cojones to be in one piece.
People were still swinging too close to either end of the bag. Some of them stood very close to me, one backwards kicking step forward and... fpkk jam all over the rubble. There was only one solution to this. I had to get right into people's personal space. I couldn't alert them to the fact the bag was there, it only took one to put 2 and 2 together and that could be that... mass panic, stray kick, boom.
So I swayed within centimetres of anyone who approached too close for comfort. They would turn, see a pale, sweaty man, struggling for breath and clutching his testicles and move on. Swiftly.
I did this for a hundred thousand years (well, it seemed that long). Then a balding man in a grey sweater came out of the crowd and without a question grasped the handles of the holdall and started to walk away.
I seriously didn't know how far inside my body cavity my testicles had got until I realised the danger was past. Luckily for the hapless tourist my colleague and the security man chose this moment to appear. My colleague took the man aside and had a word with him about leaving unattended packages in the exhibition.
I felt the sweat dry and my mouth fill with saliva. The kickdrum of my heart started to slow.
Yes, most of the time I would say I'm a lazy coward. But I didn't know that was some dude's luggage. We had all the evidence to suggest a real possibility that the holdall was packed with explosives and primed to detonate wiping the effigies of our government off the face of the earth in an act of symbolic protest.
So if you want to know what I would do when left in charge of a bomb we have a concrete answer and an actual incident to reference. I would apparently dangle my tackle over it.
Which I guess means that the real consequence of these acts of terrorism is that people will really get to see how big our balls are.
And not to be immodest or to generalise but I think Mr. Terrorist that you'll find we got pairs on us like fucking beach balls.
Just remember that.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
hermes:
There's a rumour that The Shield s4 may be starting on C5 Sat 23rd July. I've mailed them directly to see if I can get any confirmation/denial...
devil_bitch:
Wow. That place sounds cool. I would love to check it out some day. That experience wtih the suspicious unattended bag would have scared the crap out of me. See you aren't lazy. You risked life and testicles.