Jeremy Bung: Boy Spy

My name is Jeremy Bung. I need hardly introduce myself.  In 1940s Britain, I was called the ‘The Boy Spy’. Eighty years later, I am still ‘The Boy Spy’ and of course hundreds of films have been made about my adventures. Children throughout the last eighty years have wished they had a friend like me, or wanted to meet me, or desired to be me. I understand.

I have put together a small paper, that which you hold in your hands now. This is a valuable document and one from which you will learn much. Its purpose is to give readers some insight into being a Boy Spy. Some of you will gain vicarious pleasure in my adventures. Many more will see this monograph as a learning tool and will adopt my methods. Perhaps, one day, someone with my high level skills will surface and I shall be able to retire. The dangers we face now are as real as the dangers we faced in the 1940s or the 1960s (ah, Krushchev) or any other decade I could mention.

I know, my dear reader, that someone will rise to the challenge so that I can hand over my mantle. It could be you. And for this reason, my little essay follows.

I shall examine three of my favoured techniques as an international boy spy of repute. You must study and emulate.

* * *

My first technique is interrogation. Novices assume this to refer to the process of using duress and harsh lighting and a triumvirate to extract information. Such methods have their place, and I have been on both sides of such techniques (see Jeremy Bung Solves The Middle East Problem for examples). However, ninety-eight percent of all interrogations occur in more mundane settings.

Picture the scene. Fife. A small county on the banks of the Forth and Tay estuary, feeding into the North Sea (remember this point).

A Watchful Watcher (see page 32 for how you can join the club) called in a code 472 – enemy parachute spotted. My driver prepared the automobile, and he drove me to the small town of Anstruther. My job, to track down the parachutist and find out his goals.

Where to start? I always start in the Post Office. Post Offices are the heart of our nation. It is here that news is collated, filtered and rebroadcast to the entire community. Strange goings-on in Bog-end farm house? A mention in the post-office and the vagabond is soon cornered. Mrs Ellis’s chiropodist breaks a leg and is unable to cut toe nails for six months? A new one is soon found.

I entered the Post Office.

“Yes young fellow, with your handsome green cap and blazer and grey shorts. What can I do for you?” This came from the post mistress, a plump and cheery woman of about sixty years. She reminded me of my own Scots granny. However, I suspected she would not be as talented at poker as my dear gran was. I regularly lost my pocket money to her.

“May I have a postal order please? I require to send funds to an uncle trapped in a pagan monastery in Devon,” I asked.

Note how I had laid a trap. A genuine post mistress would enquire the value to which I wished to purchase the order. An inquisitive one would ask why he was trapped. An impersonator would ask his date of birth, shoe size and his purpose in visiting the monastery.

“A monastery in Devon, you say? Would that be Mereway Monastery or Upper Biglington Monastery?” she asked.

“Upper Biglington, of course,” replied I. “Retired generals do not visit Monasteries of low reputation.”

“What value of postal order would it be you’d be liking?” asked the Post Office woman.

“Two-shillings and tuppence ha’penny ought to be enough.” Again, you will note the trap I laid. Enough for what?

“Enough for what?” she asked.

I had netted my prey.

“Enough to ensure safe passage by omnibus from Upper Biglington to Exeter via Torbay.”

“Ooh Torbay, my aunt caught food poisoning there,” said the post mistress. “She died.”

So by now, you will note that I had an inquisitive post mistress. Quite my favourite type.

“Food poisoning can be so frightfully fatal,” said I, my schoolboy eyes glistening as if ten seconds from tears.

“And so inconvenient for the bereaved. The laundry costs are so high,” she confided.

“Do you get many people in here purchasing postal orders,” I enquired. I had, you see, softened her with my repartee, and I could safely ask her for the secret code to the Post Office safe and she would have trusted it to me.

“Not many. Mr Toynbee buys his postal order once a month to pay for his specialist mail-order train magazines. Absolutely avid he is. And that strange young man who just started coming in here, the one with the foreign looking hair, he buys a postal order regularly to send money to his crippled mother, god bless him,” said she.

“A crippled mother?” I cried. I pushed out a tear from my right eye. “I, too, have a crippled mother. Struck down in her prime. I was her last successful endeavour. I should like to meet this young man, that I may offer him advice on how to deal with his mother. Have you his address?”

She gave me what I needed. Of course.

I raced to the address and confronted the young man.

“I hear you have a cripped mother,” I asked.

“Yes I have. Why do you enquire so?” he replied. Neutral accent, but odd phrasing.

“I also have a crippled mother. With mine it is a combination of drink and bad knees. They knock when she attempts a military two-step.”

“She is in military?” he asked.

“No. It is a dance. And if you were Scottish you would know this. Also, you would have asked ‘Is she in THE military.’ Different word order, and using the definite article.

“You have me caught,” he said. There is an honour among spies and he was gracious enough to hand me my victory.

“You may leave now, before you gather any information about the secret bunker nearby that houses our command and control centre. A Russian trawler is anchored in the North Sea awaiting your signal. Or you may stay and I will have you arrested, detained and gaoled,” stated I calmly.

“How did you suspect that I am Russian spy?” asked he, his foreign hair blowing in the Scottish wind in a very Australian manner.

“You said to the post office mistress that you were sending money to your crippled mother. This was obviously a code for Matryoshka Dolls – Russian nested dolls. You are aiming to become nested here. But alas for you Jeremy Bung was on hand.”

“I shall leave country,” he said. He knew he’d been beaten.

“I shall walk you to the harbour, wherefrom a barque will take you to the trawler.”

We walked in silence. I felt no anger towards him. He was merely an instrument of a totalitarian state, doing as he was instructed by a puppet master in Moscow.

“Does your mother keep well?” I asked.

“She finds winters hard. Peeling beetroot is not easy with arthritic hands.”

“I make mine take cod liver oil. It helps,” said I kindly. “I mix it with whisky. She sleeps well.”

My interrogation technique had worked, and my cover remained intact. No one suspected that the ten-year-old boy with his cute curls sticking out from his cap was anything other than a delightful and polite young man.

I had saved the country.

* * *

My second technique is known as misdirection

I have used this technique frequently to save my life, to protect members of the royal family and to prevent war from breaking out between small east European countries. See Jeremy Bung Unites Europe for full details.

Here is an example of how I have used this method.

Once my library books were overdue. I am normally fastidious in such matters, but I had been in consultation with the leader of a major Christian religion based in Rome on the day they were due back.

The fine would have been one shilling and fourpence, which at the time was exactly the price of six sausages, a bag of potatoes and some broken carrots.

It was also exactly the amount of money that our household had available to it. Mother had stopped taking in washing as our water supply had been disconnected, and father’s wage was not to be paid for three days.

“I am to you returning these books,” I said. Note the inversion of the sentence. This is the early stage of misdirection.

“Are you bringing these books back?” said the librarian. She was an officious filly if ever there was one.

“I think so. Books, what can you do with them?”

“Read them, I hope. There is no purpose in borrowing from our stock if you do not intend to read them.”

“Read them? I cannot read.” You can see how I had subtly created a feeling of sympathy in the librarian.

“What’s the point of taking out books if you can’t read?”

“I find the shapes of the letters interesting.”

“So you do not understand the stories contained in our tomes?”

“Tombs?” I said, deliberately misunderstanding the woman. “I cannot read tombs so I know not who lies buried beneath my feet. But there is one exception. I have learned the shapes of the letters that form the name of the great flying ace Lord Ginger Bung.”

“You are related to him?” She asked.

“I am but a great-nephew,” I replied, modestly.

“But still, it is an impressive family connection. No matter, I asked you about tomes, not tombs.”

“Tomes.. Tomes Aquinas? Are you asking about my mother’s ancient family now?”

“Thomas Aquinas is a relative?”

“One of many. My Scottish grandmother frequently communes with him via the services of a medium. He tells her which horses to back, and she makes much money from bookmakers,” said I. “With her profits, she rehomes pit ponies.”

“No matter. You have a fine to pay.”

“A fine day? It was raining on my way here.”

“There is one shilling and fourpence due on these books.”

“Then I shall take it now. It will come in handy to feed my four children.”

“You are ten. You cannot have four children,” she said. I had created confusion.

“My four siblings I meant. Now, may I have my one shilling and sixpence?”

“It is one shilling and fourpence,” she said.

“What is tuppence between friends.” This was an attempt to form a feeling of camaraderie with the wench.

“Tuppence is tuppence.”

“Then please give me my one shilling and fourpence, and I shall go.”

She was unsure how to act, but the difficulty of the mathematics combined with the other confusions I had offered had the effect I desired. She gave me the money.

As you can see not only had I saved my own one shilling and fourpence, and so was able to buy sausages and potatoes and broken carrots, but I had gained one shilling and fourpence.

Famine was averted at home, and I had enough money to take a bus to Methil. The Prince of Ribinia was on a trip to Methil dockyard. I had had a tip-off earlier that an attempt would be made on his life, in the style of the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand.  I foiled this attempt by making the Prince take off his crown. He replaced it with a flat cap. Had he been shot, it surely would have resulted in a war between Ribinia and Brognovia. I estimate that over two million lives were saved.

One day, when I am older, I shall return the one shilling and fourpence to the librarian as I do not wish to see her out of pocket. It is not her fault that I am of superior intellect.

* * *

My third is the daft laddie method.

You may remember from one of my adventures (Jeremy Bung and the Caber Caper) that I had a Scottish Granny.

“Always act the daft laddie if ye are need or want something,” she would say to me as we wove tweed and distilled whisky. “Or if ye get intae bother. Pretend you are an idiot – not a loon, but an individual with nae wisdom or knowledge. A naif.”

It was the 1990s. I was being held captive in a Bangkok jail. The UK PM desperately needed me to oversee an operation in Scotland regarding cauliflower exports. I had to get out of Bang Kwang Central Prison. I demanded to see the Governor, Chada Pandey. I adopted my daft laddie persona.

“You wanted to see me Bung?” Said Chada Pandey. He was irked.

“Bung? Jeremy please. I am but a boy.”

“A boy spy. We have infiltrated your communications.”

“A boy’s pie? Yes please. I am hungry.”

“We know your game, Jeremy.”

“You know I am game for what, Chada?”

“We do not play games in Bang Kwang Central Prison.”

“I did notice the lack of ping-pong tables. And no Monopoly.”

“Your crime carries the death sentence. Death by firing squad.”

“I have been fired many times before. I have lost three different paper rounds, all because I like to travel,” said I. I ensured my eyes were unfocused as I spoke. I had to look simple.

“You like to spy. But we have caught you committing crime.”

“What is my crime, Chada?”

“I have a list. You stole dumplings from a street stall. You took photographs of our secret bases. You tried to blackmail one of our politicians.”

“I did not steal the dumplings; I merely forgot that I had eaten them. I photographed some of your bases, thinking they were art installations. I caught one of your politicians with a concubine in a rickshaw and simply asked him to lend me some money for a taxi. I am guilty of nothing. I have nothing to declare but my madness.”

“Why should I let you leave?”

“I am a daft laddie.”

“I can change your sentence from death to a jail sentence – how would thirty years suit you?”

“Thirty years? I cannot comprehend such a figure. I am ten. Thirty is three times as long as I have lived. It is three life sentences. If you were given three life sentences, Chada, it would amount to what – two hundred and ten years?”

Chada looked annoyed. “I am fifty-five. Three times fifty-five is only one hundred and sixty-five.”

“I am a daft laddie with the counting skills of a nine-year-old. I apologise.”

“A daft laddie, you say. Do you, by any chance, have a Scottish grandmother?”

“Not with me. I left her in the ground.”

“She is dead?”

“No. She sleeps in the flower bed. She likes the fragrance.”

“Of fresh flowers?”

“No. Horse manure. It is good for the roses.”

Chada was looked tense. “Look, I can make you another offer. Perhaps I can change your sentence to community service.”

“Is that something to do with Monopoly?” asked I. This time I addressed my question to the ceiling as if speaking to angels.

“That is community chest,” said Chada. You can do community service and pick up litter in Bangkok.” He was sounding desperate.

“I am not trained in such matters.”

“What training do you need?”

“How to identify litter. How to operate a long-handled grabber. Where Bangkok is,” said I speaking slowly.

“Litter picking would not require training. Bangkok is a litter-free city.”

“A litter picker in a litter-free city? I am a daft laddie, but that sounds like an easy job.”

“As soon as Bangkok is clean, you can leave.”

“But Bangkok is clean.”

“Exactly. We can have you on an aeroplane in an hour.”

“But I like it here,” I said. That was sure to make Chada think me daft.

“Don’t push it Bung.”

“This button?” I pressed it. It set off the fire alarm.

The prison emptied. We crowded around the muster station at the Big Bang Kwang Massage Parlour. Chada looked sad, and I felt sorry for my gaoler.

“Do not be sad, Chada. I will stay.”

“No please. Run. Leave. Go back to the UK. We do not have the special facilities that you need for your feeble mind,” he replied. We shook hands. I feared I had broken him.

I ran all the way to the airport, and flew to London. Back in the UK, I arranged to meet the Prime Minister. The cauliflower crisis was at its peak. The Russians and the Americans were both threatening to bomb Scotland’s cauliflower fields. Thousands of Celtic Cauliflower Cultivators (CCC) could have died.

The PM and I made a decision. We would swap cauliflowers for Russian turnips and we would swap cauliflowers for American fast food franchises. We were desperately short of those. We pitched our plans to the US. We pitched our plans to Russia. Both sides agreed, and the CCC were delighted. No war, and a major international brassica brouhaha was averted. It is estimated that sixty-four and a half million lives were saved.

* * *

And so dear readers, a boy spy must use many techniques to survive. Interrogation, misdirection and daft laddie are but three.

There will one day be a vacancy for an international boy spy. I cannot, surely, stay ten forever. A successor must be found. So practise these techniques, and if you wish to learn more, you should save up your pocket money and buy a copy of Jeremy Bung’s Guide to Spy Techniques. It costs only £49.99.

I urge you to buy a copy and study it.

It is surely the only way to ensure that we continue to live in a country that is free.