The English-language edition of the Spanish magazine Spyhole (it isnt a magazine we index

at work: I have my own, private subscription) has a quiz in it this month entitled Do You
Have What It Takes to Be a Spook? I thought Id give it a go.

The correct answers were 1) 15 minutes 2) super 3) biliverdin 4) Zanzibar 5) Tracey Emin 6)
Aubergines 7) SMERSH 8) Neither of them 9) October Surprise 10) Bill Clinton.

My answers were 1) The Belgian Quarter of Shanghai 2) Three missing deadly sins 3) Tony
Blair 4) Zeugma ( mark for being close) 5) Tracey Emin 6) Sputnik 7) A morose wardrobe
8) Both of them 9) Rams Bladder Cup 10) Christopher Hitchens.

Tests like these dont prove anything anyway.


Another traveller met her maker in Antrim today. Jesus, there, are enough murders in this
country to keep the economy going on formaldehyde production alone, though theyll need
super strength thread as well if they hope to patch up this one. Someone really went to town
on the poor woman. Slashed her perineum right open so that her rectum and vagina made one
big gaping hole. Bayonet wounds to the neck, nipples torn off, blinded. Like someone wanted
to make it look like sexual assault but didnt know exactly how to, wasnt sure what to do
with a womans body. To me this suggests a death squad composed entirely of priests.

Due to the loss of foreign tourist bucks and a tightening of security, the Burlington isn't what
it used to be. The doormens uniforms are still the same but look rather incongruous
braiding and pistols dont go well together (something someone should have mentioned to
Pinochet)and they still try to be polite and welcoming, opening the door for you with one
hand as they finger their holster with the other.

The seats are all gone from the hotel lobby, and the walls are adorned with prints instead of
originals, which all makes sense. You cant loiter here anymore to admire the paintings, and
the prospects of a bomb taking out Old Masters would send insurance costs through the roof.
Both the lobby and the bar have a claustrophobic, depressed feel to them, thanks to the poor
lighting. Three years ago, a suicide bomber strolled into Jurys in Ballsbridge and detonated a
homemade device in the lobby, killing two coachloads of Italians who, for reasons best
known to themselves, were about to depart for Avoca. Most of those who died were killed not
by the blast but by fragments from the lobbys glass roof. Shards rained down on the already
injured, impaling them, slicing through arteries, blinding, tearing, followed by a needle rain
of the finest slivers, piercing and puncturing tanned and bloody Italian flesh, working their
way under skin, death by several thousand cuts. The delicacy of the surgery required was
generally beyond the butchers who fill Irelands hospitalsseveral of the victims died on the
operating tableand the ensuing humiliation was enough to prompt the government to
require the removal of all plate glass from hotel lobbies and bars in Dublin.

The Burlington used to depend heavily on natural light, but now the place is lit entirely by
fibre optics, millions of points of light drawn down through the ceiling and the walls. The
fibres are flexible rather than friable, so there is less danger of them taking your eye out than
glass, but much of the light is dissipated and the cost of installation so great that most hotels
elected to go with a gloomy, turn-of-the-century Havana-style brownout ambience than to
pay top whack. Besides, the infrared security cameras can still pick out suspicious packages
and persons in the half-light.

I was dressed for the party in a white tux with matching pants. Id been down the embassy
earlier and took advantage of the opportunity to borrow Franks iron to do my suit. Its not
my iron. It belongs to the department, Frank told me, rather ominously. I made a point of
checking it for dried blood. Christ knows where its been.

Id taken a stool at the bar facing the door, so I could spot Maggie the moment she came in.
My only company was an elderly couple in the corner away from the bar sucking glasses of
fizzy orange, and a middle-aged guy with a face straight out of Scannerspink, blue and
purple patches on his cheeks and a homely, bulbous, vermilion nose like a cosy fireside
shirt open at the collar, no tie, of course, and an ancient charcoal grey suit, heavily creased
and stained from the requisite number of wakes to make a stereotypical maudlin Irish drunk. I
was impressed that he had managed to sustain the stereotype even in an era when booze was
hard to come by. That sort of style requires either bottomless pockets or total devotion to the
cause.

I was twiddling a swizzle stick and sipping a Bloody Mary when Maggie arrived. Id also
treated myself to a Glenmorangie before leaving the apartment, possibly not such a good idea
on an empty stomach, but I tried to look as blas as possible when I got up to greet her and
fell off the stool.

She, goddamnher, she glided across the maple floor in high heels and a low boatneck velvet
dress, Balenciaga or some such, I imagine, mauve but translucent so the sun shining through
the foyer behind her revealed her shapely legs. She carried a black silk purse on her wrist and
wore her hair loose and slightly tousled. She kissed my right cheek and I inhaled Agua Fresca
de Rosas.

Hey Mr M. Ready to show a bad girl a good time?

Fuck me.

I swallowed air and said, Sure. How about some fancy liquor?

Ill have a drink first, if thats alright with you.

Beautiful and filthy. What more could a man want? I helped her up onto the seat next to
mine. Gentlemanly, I thought.

Of course, Maggie. Whats it to be?

She never took her eyes off me but raised her head a little and opened her mouth slightly so
that I could see her tongue press against her teeth. Lo-lee-ta.

Lager top. Pint.

A wha?

She giggled.

Im fucking with you, Joe. They dont serve it. She placed a hand carefully on my thigh and
leaned forward. Ill just have a quinine.
The barman came over. I remained admirably composed despite the thought of Maggie
fucking with me.

Quinine for the lady . . . another BM for me. Maggie squeezed my thigh.

BM, Frank? Are those genetically modified tomatoes?

At these prices, Maggie? I do hope so.

The barguy wandered off and left us to make awkward conversation. I tried to think of some
of Delias jokes to break the ice. Quick as a flash.

Did you hear the one about the dead epileptic who wouldnt fit in his coffin? She was polite
enough to feign amusement.

Very good, Joe. I havent heard that one, which is surprising, because my mothers
epileptic.

Shit. Is she? Not shit, I mean. Fuck. I mean, oh, Im so sorry, Maggie. That was insensitive
of me.

She waved away my apology. Forget it Joe, you werent to know. Besides, even if my
mother hadnt been epileptic, it would still have been insensitive of you.

The drinks arrived before I could dig myself a bigger hole.

Lets just put it down to you hanging around too much with Frank.

Yes. Lets. Its better that she believes that Franks responsible for my thuggishness than the
truth, that I can manage it perfectly well on my own. I told her it was very perceptive of her
and allowed that he can be a bit extreme at times.

Ill say, Joe. She took a quick swig of quinine. Last week I went into his office and he was
walking around with his trousers down and his dick in a glass of iced water. I tell you, I ran
out of there in hysterics.

I smiled.

Hysterics screaming or hysterics laughing?

She giggled again. Which I took to be a good sign, a sign that we were bonding. Sharing.

Fear at first, to be honest, but afterwards . . . well it was so funny, because he couldnt
exactly chase after me . . . but he had to try to explain it, so he popped in to see me with
flowers laterSoooooo clichdand told me this ridiculous story about burning it under a
sunlamp while trying to get an all-over tan at Fitzwilliam.

Did you believe him? I was toying with the idea of telling her the real cause of Franks
distress, but then the thought hit me that maybe it was Maggie whod got the real story and
Frank had lied to me to save face.

Its Frank, isnt it? No way of knowing if hes telling the truth.

We could torture him.

You know as well as I do that theres no guarantee youll get the truth by torturing him.

Who said anything about the truth? Itd just make us feel better.

There is that for it, I suppose. But I can think of ways to make us feel better that dont
require Franks involvement at all.

Im all ears. And hormones. She inched closer and whispered,

Be a doll and get me another drink.




From the Guardian Jobs section:

We are a small but highly renowned organization at the cutting edge of modern scientific
research and practice. Our staff of dedicated and motivated professionals have combined
medical and technological expertise and experience amounting to decades, and we are
nothing if not forward looking. We continue to push back the boundaries of the unknown in
our efforts to answer the ultimate questions that have dogged the human race since time
began, and it is our ambition to be at the forefront of those eminent confraternities across
Europe who have spared no cost, either to their organizational coffers or to themselves as
individuals, to advance the cause of knowledge, medicine, science, and civilization. It is for
this reason that we are currently in the process of recruiting an equally dedicated individual
for the position of

GRAVEROBBER


to perform a number of indispensable but demanding tasks without which our organization
cannot fulfill its mandate.

This position will be part-time and commission based, working nights, sometimes at
weekends. It comes with a handsome remuneration that reflects the challenging nature of the
position, along with an impressive pension plan, although candidates will expected to take
responsibility for their own insurance policy. This post will suit individuals who love a
challenge and who don't much enjoy sleeping anyway. All the necessary tools for rapid and
efficient performance of the tasks demanded will be provided, but candidates should also be
prepared to bring a strong stomach.

Payment will be in cash and no questions asked.

If you think you have what it takes, contact (after 9 p.m.)

Human Resources
The Royal College of Surgeons and Physicians
(back door)
Nicolson Street
Edinburgh

(ask for a "Mr. Kidney")


and more proof of the impact of the New Austerity in the Department of Healths latest
publication.

Ten Ways to Make the Most of Your Used Dental Floss


1: A thong for your hamster.

2: Toecheesewire

3: A sling to give added velocity to bees.

4: Coat in Pritt and weave into a kind of web-like structure to trap annoying flies, which
you can then either eat or bury in the back garden.

5: Using spittle and a blowtorch, wind into a rock-hard cocoon around a real, natural cocoon,
to give the pupating moth inside a big surprise when it emerges.

6: Lynch your sisters Barbies from the washing line.

7: Tie in a knot around your little finger to remind you to go to the dentist.

8: Edible knickers in disrepair? Floss makes an excellent minty thread.

9: A finishing tape for a cockroach marathon

10: Crochet a net for your cats to play topless volleyball over.


They missed out the obvious one: Use it to insert particles of food between your teeth. After
all, who can afford food and dental floss?