from CNN.com

[curious george]

Report: 'Bond-like' car used by rabbit poachers
Wednesday, January 14, 2004 Posted: 11:48 AM EST (1648 GMT)



BRUSSELS, Belgium (Reuters) -- Belgian police have caught two rabbit poachers whose armor-plated getaway car was equipped with so many gadgets it would not have been out of place in a James Bond film.

Belga news agency said Tuesday the poachers were caught overnight with 14 wild rabbits in the back of a car that they had reinforced with metal plates to stop bullets.

The car was also equipped with an automated box ready to spring tire traps to slow pursuers. The poachers had fitted a halogen lamp on the outside to blind their prey and shielded the car's number plates with lead sheeting to avoid identification.

There was also a device to eject two old bicycles fixed on the back of the car on to the road as an obstacle to any vehicle in hot pursuit, Belga reported.


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Isn't what would have come to my mind to use a "Bond-like" car for, but oh, well.

cg

[Yuliya]

How much does a rabbit cost in Belgium? Or was it not the only purpose to equip the car with all those gadgets?

[Ace]

yes seems as awful lot of bother for rabbit poaching. And James Bond wouldn't be caught dead in that heap o' junk!

Ace

[sparklingblue]

This article I have here is also Bond related. I thought I'd just post it here instead of starting a new thread. (CG, tell me when you feel that I'm sabotaging your thread )

***

I'm hunky-dory with my Bond body double

Imogen Edwards-Jones wants to lose 'the layer of vodka and crisps' from around her ribs

Now, I'm not religious, but when I walk into the Lansdowne Club for my first lesson with former British fencing champion Steven Paul, I realise there is a God. And he wears a tracksuit, carries an epee and body-doubles for Pierce Brosnan. This exercise thing, I smile, looking heavenward, doesn't seem so bad after all. So far, so ready to work hard and impress the handsome trainer.

But, then, Steve gets technical. He hands me a long sword that I have to hold between my thumb and forefinger and keep pointing ahead of me. For a girl whose only exercise is typing, this is quite tiring. But I persevere. He gives me a grilled mask to wear. I squeeze it over my face and feel like a rather claustrophobic dominatrix. And then, suddenly, we're off.

Fencing is all in the hips, bum and thighs, all of which I have in abundance, but not, apparently, in the right strength and consistency. We bend our knees and, like two crabs, we dance back and forth, up and down the runway, keeping a "fighting distance" apart. I barely make it there and back before wanting a nice rest. Steve, I can tell, is not very impressed. "You'll need to work on your fitness level," he suggests, tactfully. I say something along the lines of "I am not usually this unsporty". He can tell that I am lying.

Steve then moves on to some fight moves and I can't believe my eyes. The man lunges forward like a gymnast, his sword thrust ahead of him. "I bet you can do the splits," I smile. "No," he replies, clearly thinking I must be deranged. Then it is my turn. And much to our surprise, I'm not that rubbish. (Did I tell you I once did ballet?) In fact, it turns out that I am a lunging genius.

Up and down I go, lunging and jabbing my sword. I feel great. I knew it was only a matter of time before I released my inner Honor Blackman. Impressed, Steve moves on to "parry and riposte" techniques, but then, sadly, the lesson is over. Boy, I am looking forward to next week.

With my Bond girl credentials very much intact, I saunter on to the Sanderson Hotel (a place I am more used to falling out of drunkenly, than working out in). There, I am greeted by the seemingly charming personal trainer Jamie Baird, who pops me on to some fat-finding scales, and informs me that I am 37 per cent adipose. Dreams of black catsuits disappear, and a career as a member of the Jerry Springer audience beckons.

To say I am disheartened is an understatement, yet Jamie is not put off. "We'll get that off in no time," he says, charging up the Stairmaster. "Tell me, what is it exactly that you eat?" While I run through my diet – which turns out to be 80 per cent carbohydrate – Jamie gets out a balancing ball and board thing. "Do you think I'd lose weight if I had one of these in my house?" I ask, keenly, as I try to keep my balance. "You'd do better if you didn't have a fridge," he replies.

An hour of squatting, weights and cycling later and I leave feeling like a wrung dishcloth. "Don't forget to power-walk for an hour tomorrow," he says, as I stumble out of the gym. I want to give him a lewd hand gesture, only I don't have the strength.

So two sessions in and how do I feel? Am I a lean, mean, sword-fighting machine, with buttocks of steel and abs you can do your laundry on? Are you kidding? I can hardly walk. In fact, I am thinking of having a Stannah Stairlift installed. Things, as they say, can only get better.

[Yuliya]

One depressing article...