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In danger in dangerous times

Oh stuff it. I was going to come up with a story about how I've been asleep for the past week and that's why I haven't been able to pen a column over the war with Iraq ... but it would be a fib.

The reason you've not seen anything on the war is that ... well ... I've been swimming.

So what, you say, we've all been swimming. It's summer, it's Australia and swimming is all the go.

Not so fast little furry gerbils ... I've been swimming BACK FROM the AZORES. Yup, and it's a damn long way I can tell you. I sort of lost count after seven bazillion strokes - somewhere south of Patagonia.

Anyway, the reason for my needing to swim home is that the rotters George Dubya and Tony Blah forgot to plonk me on a plane when they left the Azores conference with Spain's PM.

They'd been taking down all my excellent advice - and have since used it - but did they show gratitude? Did they bollocks! They were so keen to get back to order an attack on old Soddy Hussein they forgot me. Bastards.

So there I am in the deep deep blue sea, keeping a very wary eye out for big bitey things, when all of a sudden there was a mass of bubbles swirling up around me. "Ooops, pardon," says I, to no-one in particular, when a periscope pops up for a bit of a peek about.

It gave me a bit of a start, I can tell you, but spare a thought for the poor bugger down the dry end of the tube who is gazing about looking for icebergs and he focuses in upon this loveable-but-wizened visage. (I swear I could hear him scream.)

Within seconds this grey monstrosity surfaces and some nicely starched sailor boys are running around trying to haul me on to the deck.

"Bonjour m'sieu, ca va?"

"Ca va bien, merci. Er, do you speakiddy English?"

"But of course, m'sieu ... may we ask what you are doing out here?"

"Oh, about 1 kilometre an hour, I reckon, but I'm swimming home to Australia."

"We're going to Australie too, we are on a secret mission for our President Jacques Chirac to silence a critic of his. I don't supopose you know an evil type known as Grumpy Old Coot do you?"

"Er .... (cough, cough) no. Why?"

"He has been saying a lot of merde about France and we've got orders to deal with him severely."

"What are you going to do?" I squeaked in a high-but-masculine voice.

"We thought we might tie him up on a Greenpeace ship that's in Australia at the moment and then sink it."

"Fair enough too. I can't stand people who get cheeky about La Belle France and its wonderful people. Can I cadge a lift to Oz?"

"Certainment, funny old wizened type, Mr ...?"

"Lautrec ... Toulouse Lautrec."

"Really? And where are you going To Lose him? Hahahahahahahahaha...."

NB: Dear Reader, I'm ending this column here because the French have no sense of humour and - seeing as I am going to be cooped up with a sub full of them for some days - nor do I.

Grumpy Old Coot has a warped view of life, check him out

If there is something that has really got up your nose, let Grumpy Old Coot know at grumpy@webwombat.com