Hiding in Plain Sight

And so the whole Russian spy/poisoning debacle rumbles on.

This week’s edited highlights:

Russia continue to deny any involvement. As one would expect.

Both targets, Sergei and Yulia Skripal, seem to be on the mend. As one really didn’t expect. They will both doubtless make interesting witnesses.

It turns out that after Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson told us and the world that the nerve agent attack was categorically, definitely, no two ways about it, the work of the Russian state, and that he’d been told this by “a guy” at Britain’s top military laboratory, Porton Down (who had been charged with confirming the source of the Novochok – a class of chemical weapons developed in the former Soviet Union and Russia), leading to diplomatic expulsions the world over in unity, it turns out, and you won’t believe this, but Boris wasn’t told this at all.

For this week, Gary Aitkenhead, chief executive of the Defence, Science and Technology Laboratory at Porton Down, stated that although the substance used in the attack had been identified as Novichok, it was not clear whether it had been made in Russia.


Who’d have thunk that Boris would deliberately spread untruths to us? It’s not like he has form in this area, is it….? Oh wait…


Of course, he won’t get fired for this. For getting fired, then returning as the saviour of both the Conservative party and the country is exactly what he wants, so he’ll be allowed to bumble along in his offensive, gaffe-magnet, foot-in-mouth manner, totally unreprimanded.

But putting Boris’ undoubted ineptitude aside for a moment, hypothetically speaking, if it wasn’t the Russians (and it probably was), then who could it have been?

It struck me at the weekend, sitting watching TV with my mother, catching up on a soap opera set in a Northern town that I’d not really watched properly in about 20 years. I spent most of the time asking who so-and-so was, and informing my mother that one character used to be in Brookside and one had been a contestant on The X-Factor.

A lightbulb moment: it worked for Jimmy Savile, so why couldn’t it work for somebody else?

Whoever is responsible must have insidiously infiltrated our society, made us accept and love them, in such a way that they were above and beyond suspicion when the time came to strike. Maybe they even wore distinctive clothing.

Hiding in plain sight.

I’ll expose him.

This bastard:


Case closed. Gotcha.

As those equally annoying 118 athletes might say, we’ve got your number, Aleksandr.


The Jags – Back of My Hand

You’ll get it if you listen to it, trust me.

More soon.

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