meVolution

#EveryPictureTellsaStory

I’d always thought that the Military – any Military – was rather absurd and infantile in the paraphernalia they would produce in order to impress both themselves and others. Marching in time, especially goosestepping and the various exaggerated movement associated with this, seemed to me to be particularly humorous. I could never get away from the fact that someone had made it all up, so to speak. It all seemed so, well… juvenile.

Probably why I laughed so much at Monty Python’s The Ministry of Silly Walks.

I then (this morning) came across a shot of a certain Mr Baghdadi, Supreme and Glorious Leader (now rumoured to be dead) of a bunch of simple-minded thugs who have been persuaded that really really bad things are, in actuality, really really good things. Ah, yes, isn’t all religion simply wonderful. 

In this particular shot, Mr Baghdadi and his cohorts appear to be auditioning for a spaghetti western.  The pure childishness of the image took me back for – and I hate to say this but – I’ve been there: I joined the Armed Forces when I was sixteen years old. My first priority was to get hold of a weapon; my second, to get hold of someone with a camera to take a shot of me with said weapon. I can still recall how I held it for the camera. Juvenile, I know – but then in my defence, I, at least, was a juvenile.

The Baghdadi shot itself appears to be a rip-off of a late 70’s TV show called Charley’s Angels – hold on, I’ll do a quick Google… Yup, You can see the similarity, can’t you?

After I’d stopped laughing I became intrigued as to what must have went on during the actual ‘photo shoot‘: what must have been said; who was telling who to do what?

I penned a (rather rushed) scenario which barely competes with the hilarity of simply looking at the antics of these grown men in the original photograph. I’ll re-write it when I get some time, hopefully funny it up.

Meanwhile: Apologies for spoiling the humour.

Photoshoot

“Okay, five minutes everybody! Hurry up with those sandwiches and please, darlings, wipe you’re mouths. The last thing the world wants to see is a Jihadi with bacon and tomato ketchup on his upper lip.”

“Tea cups back on the pick-up, and if you need to go, then please, please, please go now”

“Anyone seen the yellow flag? Anyone? Listen up everybody. Bit of hush. Did someone pick up the yellow flag? No, darling, that’s black. Yellow – like custard… like a banana? Oh, thank goodness… thank you, James – that’s my whole vision for the shot, right there. Phew.”

“Okay, Stevie, if you go into my bag in the first pick-up you’ll find a large roll of grey gaffa-tape. I’d like the yellow flag taped to the tea-urn and placed here, and then we’ll build the shot around it…”

“Well then, put a heavy rock in it and we’ll clean it out before lunch. Yes, I know it’s got a Man United crest on it but it won’t be in the shot.”

“Can we have all the people who have a black flag to line up here, please… and everyone with an assault rifle… if you can just spread yourselves in between starting with the fat guy on the left?”

“Brilliant!” Sorry? Okay, darling, big boned it is. No offence meant.”

“Perhaps those without shoes in the middle?”

“Great!”

“Pistols now, people! Attention everybody or we’ll be here all day. Look, I know it’s hot but the sooner we get this done the sooner… thank you.”

“So pistols in a flying ‘V’ formation here, with Mr Baghdadi here at the front?”

“Yes, yes, on one knee would look really cool!”

“Yes, just like Daniel Craig in James Bond, Mr Baghdadi!”

“Okay, Let’s look at you all… hmm, the guy with the red band and the Liver Bird on your balaclava? Sorry? A present from your Gran? Er, okay, can we have you in the middle then, just behind the tea-urn?”

“Fantastic.”

“Could we possibly turn it inside out so we can lose the Liver Bird?”

“Wonderful.”

“You’re all stars, people! Nearly there.”

“Now. Motivation. I want you all to imagine… imagine that you’re protecting something very valuable – the most valuable thing you could ever think of. Your wife, or your first born child.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes, it could be the tea-urn I suppose?”

“Why not? In your imagination it could be a solid gold tea-urn!”

“Okay, imagine that the tea-urn is a golden tea-urn and you’re protecting it with your very lives.”

“Yes of course, down to the last brave warrior of Islam.”

“No, not quite like The Alamo?”

“Magical? If that’s what you want.”

“No, no, not Custer’s Last Stand?”

“Well, because they were both battles that were…”

“Yes, yes ‘Knights of the Magical Golden Tea-Urn’ – very good, Mr Baghdadi, another brilliant thought!”

“No, no, not… okay, yes, why not. Dragons.”

“Well, yes, I suppose the tea would give you magic powers if you drank it?”

“Look, c’mon, look everybody, hush now! Let’s just stick with the ‘Knights of the Magical Golden Tea Urn’, okay? You’re protecting the Magical Golden Tea Urn from an attack by fire breathing dragons but you’re protected from fire because you’ve all drunk the magic tea of life”

“Okay… hold that look… pistols a tad higher….”

“Say CHEESE!”

‘Knights of the Magical Golden Tea-Urn’