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Consumers and businesses alike have been advised to be alert to groups of ruthless criminals stealing identities.
They are exploiting weaknesses (or a-holes) in passport security measures to change photographs of the bearer and open bank accounts, travel across international borders and collect supermarket reward points.
Police are urging caution and warn that until urgent changes are implemented, all efforts to protect your physical identity should be made.
Lily Allen rocked Brussels last night. She didn’t recognise me, even though I was close enough to smell her. She smelled alright. The guitarist was a kid I went to school with. He’s been all over the world playing a guitar. Not a bad job, I thought.
The past couple of weeks I haven’t been writing much because I wanted to be a spook, and thus discrete. But the intelligence service I applied to wasn’t intelligent enough to notice that I didn’t meet all the eligibility criteria from the off. Months and money have been wasted going to and from interviews for a job I wasn’t allowed to apply for. So now that’s a definite no, I can post naked pictures of myself on the internet computer and not worry about them falling into the hands of teerrrrists.
So to celebrate I got myself a MySpace account and am hooking up with various people I haven’t even thought about for ten years, including guitarists for famous pop stars. Reckon that’s a job I could do.
I’m often uncomfortable, as in fear for for my safety uncomfortable. Sitting in passenger seats in fast moving cars, sitting in passenger seats in slow moving cars, walking through Eastbourne town centre at eight on a Friday night, scuba-diving, drinking milk that’s a day out of date … that sort of thing.
But around guns I’ve always reckoned myself pretty cool. Apart from the time at school a four-foot psycho called Wingnut explained to me that with his blank-firing cadet’s rifle that if he got really close and discharged it directly into my ear then the force would be enough to evacuate my brain out the other side. (He went on to be expelled for disabling a milk-man with a high-speed ball-bearing.)
I’ve hung out with former child soldiers in Cambodia (see picture) and fired off automatic machine guns. Didn’t even flinch.
But I was particularly uncomfortable on Friday night when, as the first arrival at Tippler’s Bond party, somebody went the whole hog and discharged some sort of fire-arm about three feet away. And it wasn’t a cap-gun. So I was the first departure as well.
It was, apparently, a starting pistol. Don’t care. Call me old-fashioned, but I remember the days when you could walk into a bar in Brussels and the only danger came from paranoid drug-dealing Albanians with sharp knives and big fists …