Game On!

Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

While my dear friend Laura was spreading lies about my succumbing to consumption in the embrace of a cheap whore, I was actually attending, for the first time ever, the annual Conference for the Subjugation of the Britons. The English, as you may or may not be aware, are the most obnoxious people on the planet. Consider the evidence:

• They have ruined popular music.
• They have single-handedly transformed monarchy from an instrument for repression and fear into an absurd mechanism for selling trashy tabloids.
• They pioneered the concept of "elitist elitism".
• They believe Marmite should replace butter. Marmite is the dietary equivalent of tarmac.

In short, they must be eliminated, no matter the cost. The conference was held in the catacombs of Notre Dame, at noon. I attempted to have the event rescheduled, on the grounds that no self-respecting conspiracy can afford to meet earlier than midnight, but my efforts were futile. The French have an extremely strict schedule and refuse to miss out on their mandatory flask of cognac by the Riviera. When I suggested we meet at three in the morning, they said they had their mistresses to attend to. When I suggested some time in the early evening, they shrugged, blew smoke in my eyes and told me to back off. I did; I have a pathological fear of cigarettes and poor English accents.

Security consisted of a peg-legged hunchback who muttered to himself in some foul and ancient tongue as he escorted us to the meeting room. Glancing around the massive oak table, caked with foul-smelling cheeses and bleary wine bottles, I could see some of the greatest scoundrels in Europe:

• François Vaugirard de L'Abbé, the famous Impressionist painter, who is currently being hunted by the FBI, the CIA and the ICP (Icelandic Communal Police) for inventing lung cancer.
• The Magenta Baron, the mastermind behind the recent exploding golf-ball scandal that forced so many country clubs into bankruptcy. Except, of course, the ones that granted the good Baron membership.
• Vladimir B'Stardchev, the man who initiated the Chechnian conflict in an attempt to corner the New York City taxi business. You may also know him as the host of that hilarious cable-access game show, "And To What My Happy, Tovaritch!?!?"

Needless to say, I was excited to get started. Before we could actually begin conferring, however, we would have to watch a performance the table dance, a ritual that dates back to the Conference's beginnings during the 11th century. The exhibition has been updated since then, and now features a bevy of strapping, leather-clad young lads gyrating to "Jock Jams, Vol. 5". I was going to ask the organizers exactly what was meant by this, but they pre-empted me. I was told, in very precise, heavily accented language, to "fuck off." I acquiesced.

After a great many useless speeches, the Conference's organizer stood up to formally initiate the event. I had heard a great many good things about this man, who, in the Underworld, is known simply as Vice-Cardinal Marcos Gabriello Gregorio Marquez de la Venta Loca, or El Cardinal for short. He began by briefly thanking us all for making an appearance, then began running down the various invasion schemes his people had developed over the past year. There were three:

1. Export more cream-based products to the UK. The population will become fat and lazy, thus simplifying the task of storming the country's beaches and seizing the capitol.
2. Pay outrageous sums of money and force the transfer of their better players to foreign leagues. This will force British teams to bring in more foreign talent, thereby convincing the British that they are useless at football. Mass hysteria and depression will set in. Furthermore, the entire economy of Manchester will collapse when Man United supporters suddenly realize they have nothing left to riot over, thereby causing Great Britain to spiral into a massive economic downturn.
3. Start producing cheddar.

While my compatriots sat there, nodding away, I could not help but feel a little bit cheated. I was hoping for action, adventure and the chance to slap Massive Attack across the face for actually releasing their last album. Instead, I was being treated to... AND THEN IT HIT ME! The glint in El Cardinal's eye! The shape of his beard! The shade of his clothing! I jumped out of my chair, leapt across the table and, in one brilliant motion, tore of his beard! I WAS RIGHT! It was Michael Palin in disguise!

A collective gasp spread throughout the chamber. We had been lied to! It was no wonder Great Britain remained independent in spite of its pathetically small, undistinguished list of defenders; we had been tricked into squandering our resources instead of focusing on schemes that might actually pay off in the long-run.

Of course, Pierce Brosnan then made an appearance, grabbed the phony functionary and flooded the room. I have spent the past week clawing my way through the catacombs, praying that my microscopic breathing apparatus would not suddenly fail and deny me the opportunity to exact my revenge for this subterfuge.

To make a long story short, I am not dead.

Listening to: Nursery Rhyme - U.N.K.L.E