Longish entry, again City based, obviously inspired by reading Millennium People. Happened about a fortnight ago, since when I have been largely unable to remember nocturnal occurrences, aside from one where I spent a long time drinking whisky like it was water. Hopefully this trend will evaporate once my time at the supermarket is terminated next week...
I am a police informant/spy, and have infiltrated a terrorist organization based in a waterfront property in some old Victorian-style docks. The waterway is located where West Hampstead Thameslink station is in reality, the train line being a river area. After walking along the planks to the hideout I am greeted by a man with a short beard and small eyes. He tells me to watch the hideout. He'll be back soon, in maybe half an hour. On hearing this and watching him depart, the anti terrorist unit, who I am apparently a part of, mobilise to bug the property. This involves Channel 4's financial correspondent Faizal Islam, dressed in military fatigues, cutting a circle in a pane of glass. He explains people can jump through it later. In the property, I await the terrorists return. A bell rings somewhere, and the door is cut open by three men, one with a circular saw. Of the three, one is fat with glasses, one is non descript and the other is Mathew (sic) Hutton, whom I work(ed) with in reality. The fat man complains about my poor security checks, what with allowing them to get in unannounced, and checks a bag of beans that apparently indicates the number of people in the house. He says there should be four but there are in fact 20 plus. This, it turns out, is because there is a party going on in the back room, which I am coordinating though until that point entirely unaware of. There is a band playing. I walk past a pipe smoking Andrew Neill and set about banging the little drum kit with recently materialised sticks, as if to highlight the fact that I too can play the drums. The band's drummer is not impressed. I take a back seat, falling in to a tatty armchair. Picking up the bean bag used for counting I dip my hand in an start eating what turns out to be pistachios. The raid on the 'cell' never takes place. I am disappointed with the music.
I am a police informant/spy, and have infiltrated a terrorist organization based in a waterfront property in some old Victorian-style docks. The waterway is located where West Hampstead Thameslink station is in reality, the train line being a river area. After walking along the planks to the hideout I am greeted by a man with a short beard and small eyes. He tells me to watch the hideout. He'll be back soon, in maybe half an hour. On hearing this and watching him depart, the anti terrorist unit, who I am apparently a part of, mobilise to bug the property. This involves Channel 4's financial correspondent Faizal Islam, dressed in military fatigues, cutting a circle in a pane of glass. He explains people can jump through it later. In the property, I await the terrorists return. A bell rings somewhere, and the door is cut open by three men, one with a circular saw. Of the three, one is fat with glasses, one is non descript and the other is Mathew (sic) Hutton, whom I work(ed) with in reality. The fat man complains about my poor security checks, what with allowing them to get in unannounced, and checks a bag of beans that apparently indicates the number of people in the house. He says there should be four but there are in fact 20 plus. This, it turns out, is because there is a party going on in the back room, which I am coordinating though until that point entirely unaware of. There is a band playing. I walk past a pipe smoking Andrew Neill and set about banging the little drum kit with recently materialised sticks, as if to highlight the fact that I too can play the drums. The band's drummer is not impressed. I take a back seat, falling in to a tatty armchair. Picking up the bean bag used for counting I dip my hand in an start eating what turns out to be pistachios. The raid on the 'cell' never takes place. I am disappointed with the music.
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