I do quite a lot of these, don’t I?
You’ll be pleased to know that the antidepressant mosquitofish of yesterday haven’t re-formed for a comeback tour. What I need to tell you is much, much more fun than that, and at no point will it feature TFF flailing about like a gaffed fish in his bid to avoid impeachment. Get me started on him, we’ll be here all week long.
Let’s instead turn to Mikhail Galin. He’s Russian, so may be a mate of TFF, I suppose. Anyway, he wished to fly from Riga in Latvia to Vladivostok, accompanied by his cat Viktor. They made the first leg of the journey without drama, but for the second leg Viktor was barred from travelling in the cabin. He’s a bit of a porker is Viktor, and at 10 kg was over the (arbitrary) weight limit of 8 kg.
Mikhail was upset at the distress that Viktor would endure in the hold for eight hours, so he sodded off. In a splendidly surreal turn, he returned the next day with Viktor, except it wasn’t. He had a body double, Phoebe, whom he checked in without incident, then pulled the old switcheroo to get Viktor on board as cabin luggage.
Unfortunately all did not go exactly to plan, and the fraud was spotted. Viktor and Mikhail got to Vladivostok, but Mikhail lost all his air miles. All of them.
Here’s the thing. If Viktor really does enter the ring at ten kilos, that’s 22 lb, over a stone and a half. He’s a big lad, isn’t he? Some toddlers don’t tip the scales at that weight.
Let’s go a bit further south now, to Tuscany. The police had tapped the phones of suspected drug dealers (coke is big in Tuscany, apparently) and heard one of the dealers moaning like hell that a big stash, buried near Montepulciano, had been destroyed. It seems wild boar were responsible were digging things up and scattering them to the four winds.
That’s disturbing. Wild boar are pretty excitable buggers even when they’s juss chillin’; I dread to think what they’re like when they’re ripped to the tits on Colombia’s finest export. I bet even the three Albanian and one Italian bad guys decided to steer clear of a few hundred pounds of pig with some big tusks and a lot of pharmacologically enhanced attitude. There again, maybe the boar just sniffed a lot and rambled on rapidly and repetitively. Boaring*, maybe?
Mind you, as and when they get banged up, it will make for a great, ‘What you in for?’ story, won’t it?
*Bad joke, but pretty much irresistible, I feel.