Unimaginable Fear in Argentina
This month Dick D. Devlin has given me another bloody nice faux-Dunhill to review. This is a cigar I’m actually quite familiar with. I used to get them from a great little cigar store in St James when I was working briefly as a military adviser for the British PM.
Maggie had called me over because the Argentinians had been pissing her off. She knew that I, as a world champion polo player, knew a thing or two about nobbling Argentinians. And I was also bloody handy in combat.
I arrived at Number Ten and was lead into a room they called the Green Room. I sat there quietly smoking a cigar looking at portraits of those other old war horses Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington, until my silence was interrupted by a huge commotion on the staircase. From what I could make out through all the wimpering and yelling, Dennis had done something wrong in regards to ironing Maggie’s dresses and she was out for blood. Finally the fight subsided and Maggie walked in, all charm as she sought out my honest advice on the Argentinian situation. After discussing all the different angles and complexities, she made her decision: “Fuck them”, she said. “Let’s invade the fuckers.”
Now not many people know this about the Falklands conflict, but Maggie was always one to lead from the front. So much so, that she insisted she serve with me in the first incursion team. I knew Maggie would be up to the task after seeing her some months before during a training session at Hereford. The regiment used to run these sessions for various VIP’s to understand what hostage rescues would be like if ever they were captured. Basically, they locked them in a dark room and then chucked a frag grenade in. This way they wouldn’t panic so much in a real rescue. Now whenever I’ve seen it done – regardless of how tough the hostage – we’ve found them cowering on the ground once the flash has cleared. And fair enough – frag grenades are made to stun making a huge flash and an almighty bang. When we leapt in that day with Maggie as the hostage, though, she was standing up straight holding her handbag, whilst her advisers wept on the floor around her. “Get up you wimps!” she ordered them.
Sure enough a few weeks after our Number 10 rendevous Maggie and I were aboard a Zodiac powering towards the Falklands. Not long after landing on the beach, we came across an Argentinian patrol out in the distance. We took cover, and before I knew it Maggie was stealthily sneaking up behind the poor soldier and garroting him with some metal wire. As I walked up to ensure he was dead I found Maggie chopping off one of his ears. “What are you doing?”, I asked. “Making a souvenir necklace for home, dear”, she replied with a crazed glint in her eye.
Well, within about 12 hours she had that necklace full and all the enemy soldiers in our section lay dead. Maggie was running around howling at the moon, covered in blood, and having one hell of a great time. I sat down for a quiet cigar. It was then that she sat next to me, put an arm around my waist, and told me how horny combat made her. Now I have to admit this did make me fairly interested; it’s not every day you meet a PM you can actually fuck. “Strip naked”, she instructed becoming an enticing dominatrix. I did as she said and noticed she was doing the same. Now I know the rumours about the Iron Lady, and I can confirm I was most relieved to see she does not – repeat does not – have testicles. This relief turned to horror, however, as she proceeded to pull the largest dildo I have ever seen out of her bag and strap it on. I’ve always batted for God’s Cricket Team, so I was almost wimpering that Maggie would make me turn to the dark side.
It was over twenty years ago, but I still have trouble talking about it. So, dear reader, no details. Let’s just say that to this day I still walk a little funny and have panic attacks whenever I see a female politician.
Maggie had called me over because the Argentinians had been pissing her off. She knew that I, as a world champion polo player, knew a thing or two about nobbling Argentinians. And I was also bloody handy in combat.
I arrived at Number Ten and was lead into a room they called the Green Room. I sat there quietly smoking a cigar looking at portraits of those other old war horses Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington, until my silence was interrupted by a huge commotion on the staircase. From what I could make out through all the wimpering and yelling, Dennis had done something wrong in regards to ironing Maggie’s dresses and she was out for blood. Finally the fight subsided and Maggie walked in, all charm as she sought out my honest advice on the Argentinian situation. After discussing all the different angles and complexities, she made her decision: “Fuck them”, she said. “Let’s invade the fuckers.”
Now not many people know this about the Falklands conflict, but Maggie was always one to lead from the front. So much so, that she insisted she serve with me in the first incursion team. I knew Maggie would be up to the task after seeing her some months before during a training session at Hereford. The regiment used to run these sessions for various VIP’s to understand what hostage rescues would be like if ever they were captured. Basically, they locked them in a dark room and then chucked a frag grenade in. This way they wouldn’t panic so much in a real rescue. Now whenever I’ve seen it done – regardless of how tough the hostage – we’ve found them cowering on the ground once the flash has cleared. And fair enough – frag grenades are made to stun making a huge flash and an almighty bang. When we leapt in that day with Maggie as the hostage, though, she was standing up straight holding her handbag, whilst her advisers wept on the floor around her. “Get up you wimps!” she ordered them.
Sure enough a few weeks after our Number 10 rendevous Maggie and I were aboard a Zodiac powering towards the Falklands. Not long after landing on the beach, we came across an Argentinian patrol out in the distance. We took cover, and before I knew it Maggie was stealthily sneaking up behind the poor soldier and garroting him with some metal wire. As I walked up to ensure he was dead I found Maggie chopping off one of his ears. “What are you doing?”, I asked. “Making a souvenir necklace for home, dear”, she replied with a crazed glint in her eye.
Well, within about 12 hours she had that necklace full and all the enemy soldiers in our section lay dead. Maggie was running around howling at the moon, covered in blood, and having one hell of a great time. I sat down for a quiet cigar. It was then that she sat next to me, put an arm around my waist, and told me how horny combat made her. Now I have to admit this did make me fairly interested; it’s not every day you meet a PM you can actually fuck. “Strip naked”, she instructed becoming an enticing dominatrix. I did as she said and noticed she was doing the same. Now I know the rumours about the Iron Lady, and I can confirm I was most relieved to see she does not – repeat does not – have testicles. This relief turned to horror, however, as she proceeded to pull the largest dildo I have ever seen out of her bag and strap it on. I’ve always batted for God’s Cricket Team, so I was almost wimpering that Maggie would make me turn to the dark side.
It was over twenty years ago, but I still have trouble talking about it. So, dear reader, no details. Let’s just say that to this day I still walk a little funny and have panic attacks whenever I see a female politician.
posted by Major Curtis Garr (Ret.) at 09:30
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