The Guardian
May 17, 2009
By Charlie Skelton

I need to go back a day and tell you exactly how I came to be in an Athens metro station at 8am, grappling with two strange men, struggling and yelling: “Help me somebody! Security! Please! Someone get security! Get the police!” My voice still hurts. My brain is ready to explode.

But that is today. Yesterday divides in half: the half where I flee the Bilderberg resort, too scared and strung out to remain, and the half when I have to bundle myself in a random cab and drive to the British Embassy for my own safety.

I am being hounded. And all because I dared report on Bilderberg. Because I dared point my finger at them, there, in the darkness of a seaside peninsula. Ecce Bilderberg!

I am not lying. I am not exaggerating. I am not imagining. I am not hysterical. If anything, I became incredibly calm when I finally stopped being the ­criminal, stopped being the hare, and grabbed one of the men who’s been following me. I was turning the madness back in on itself, grabbing their wrists and plunging all of us further down the rabbit hole.

So yes, to be clear, I’ve just been tussling with two men in the bleak marble atrium of an Athens Metro station. But that was this morning. I haven’t even had breakfast yet. I need to tell you about yesterday.

I wrote the words below a thousand years or so before all that’s happened to me in central Athens. See me now, back in Vouliagmeni, sitting in a cafe by the sea, being watched (of course) while I sip my orange juice. It is another beautiful day on the Greek Riviera …

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