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This is a question Inflated Self-Importance

Amorous Badger asks: Tell us tales of people who have a high opinion of themselves. Jumped-up officials, the mad old bloke who runs the Neighbourhood Watch like it's a military operation, Colonel Blimps, pompous bastards and people stuck up their own arse.

(, Thu 24 Jan 2013, 12:22)
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I made brief mention of my run-in with the secret policeman a few posts ago but now it’s time for the full story.

After following the dubious advice from the Frenchman we followed roads that still aren’t on any maps until we arrived at Moloundou in South East Cameroon after dark with a broken rear right spring, and no chance of repairs. Fortunately we were in a Land Rover, so broken springs are more of an inconvenience than a real problem.

I found a place to park in a filthy goods yard which was at least secure with a big metal gate, and fell into an exhausted sleep to the throbbing music of a shebeen five meters from my head until 4.a.m, when the other occupant of the yard got me up to move my car so he could get his truck out. Fucker. Inevitably I reversed over a huge nail and put a hole in my tyre, which I plugged as best I could; this left me with three good tyres, and three shagged ones. By the time I was done the sun was rising and I was in the sort of foul mood that only coffee can help, so I headed off to a shack around the corner for breakfast.

A rotund bloke who had clearly been raiding the 70’s dressing-up box was lazing with a few mates outside the coffee shack and as I approached he called me over and suggested that I should show him my papers. Normally I’d be polite as punch, but today I really needed that coffee, so although I didn’t tell him to piss off I started to gently teased him about his clothes – asking if this was the new Gendarme uniform. When he claimed to be the Chief of the Secret Police I asked to see his ID, which he had ‘left in the office’ I suggested that maybe it was a secret ID that wasn’t actually visible, and to come get me once it had re-materialised. I wasn’t really being rude, I was just taking the piss, but the Roxana turned up and told me just to ignore him, which he really didn’t take kindly to. When I came out with my coffee five minutes later the crowd were all looking serious, and a young guy on a bicycle was handing an ID card to my new friend, who, as it turned out, really was the Chief of Secret Police. Ooops. Anyway I apologised as best I could but the damage had been done – we were summoned to his office, which was a short drive away.

I knew he’d keep us waiting, but didn’t expect a six hour wait before I was called in for an interview without coffee along with Rich and Roxana. Apparently the worst offence wasn’t my not taking him seriously, but Roxana ignoring him. So it’s good to see that blaming the woman is pretty universal regardless of culture, even if it is a jumped up prick doing the blaming.

It wasn't all bad though – I’d been meaning to find time to sort out the driver’s door handle which had been getting tricky to open for ages, so I used the six hours to strip down the door and repair the linkages, after which we couldn't open the door at all and had to climb in and out of the window for the next month until a real garage fixed it.

Length? 18 months and 70,000km
(, Thu 31 Jan 2013, 15:43, 2 replies)
So, you weren't the droids he was looking for?
Either that, or you've posted a proper story, long after the eleventh hour has passed.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2013, 15:47, closed)
Nice one
Particularly liked the rebuilding the window bit.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2013, 16:29, closed)

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