It is a hectic scene in the War Room of the Peace-Keeping Operations Command inside the 11th Infantry Regiment base.

On one wall a bank of CCTV screens monitor the red encampment at Ratchaprasong and other strategic spots. On the other side of the room, officials sit before TVs, each showing a free-to-air channel while they monitor that only correct information is being broadcast.

And in a far corner, a group of paramilitaries clean their substantial arsenal of handguns, rifles and sub-machine guns, sharpen their knives and bayonets, and grunt out a litany of patriotic noises, like ‘kill the buffaloes’ and ‘uneducated scum’. No one quite knows who they are or who controls them. They play ‘Nak Phaen Din’ on a loop, but due to all the other noises, it’s at full volume, and in a room full of regular military and police, no one dares tell them to pipe down.

‘Now get this over to the PM’s temporary office pronto. It’s urgent so no stopping for a bowl of noodle on the way.’

‘But, sir, it’s almost lunch time.’

‘It’s barely 11 and the PM’s office is just across the lawn there. You can get something on the way back. And listen, it’s top, top secret so be careful who you give it to, OK?’

‘No problem. Sir.’

‘That’s what you said last time when you handed it to the guy that cleans the toilets and that was the last we saw of it.’

‘Well he was wearing a uniform, so I thought …’

‘Find somebody with pips on their epaulettes or lots of gold braid; they should know what to do with it.’

‘Alright. See you in a bit. Sir.’

‘Whoa, hang on, I forgot something. See that table over there? It has to go to them first. See the sign on the desk where it says “Terrorist Committee”?’

‘We have terrorists in here?’

‘What? No, this is a draft speech. Their job is to make sure the word ‘terrorist’ is added to every statement that comes out of here at the rate of once every two sentences. We can’t leave it to the politicians and spokesmen, they keep forgetting.’

‘OK, so Terrorist Committee table first and then some-high-ranking terrorist in the PM’s office. Got it.’

Lights over the public TV channels start flashing red, waking up some of the officials monitoring them.

‘What’s up?’

‘Sansern’s coming on again.’

‘Again? Is he after an Oscar or something? I don’t know why he doesn’t learn. Every time he opens his mouth he has to backtrack a couple of hours later. Let’s just hope he doesn’t start giving anything away like his secret snipers on the rooftops …’

The TV stations, as with one voice, say ‘… and the Peacekeeping Forces have secret agents mingling among the red shirts. These officers, who are not in uniform, are armed and ready to keep the peace as soon as they feel sufficiently threatened to open fire.’

‘Well that will calm things down no end. What’s that commotion outside?’

‘It’s the M&Ms, sir.’

‘The what?’

‘The multi-coloureds, sir. They’ve heard Sansern, sir, and they want to volunteer for infiltration. They think that military spies will be spotted too easily by their crew-cuts, military boots and proud martial bearing. They say they can do just as good a job shooting red shirts in the back.’

‘I bet they could.’

‘But they do have a couple of conditions, sir.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, sir, they would prefer not to have to wear red. Not next to the skin, anyway. Some of them say it causes an allergic reaction – sweating, rashes, vomiting and so on. And can they wear masks?’

‘Masks? For the tear gas?’

‘Er, no, sir. For the smell. From the reds, sir. Well, I mean, they’re from upcountry and dark-skinned and some of them keep animals and so on.’

‘And they think they’ll be disguised like that?’

‘Well, sir, they’re terribly keen and if you want to keep our casualty figures down …’

The CCTVs covering the red shirt rally site erupt in loud cheering.

‘What’s happened now?’

‘Well, sir, they’re just reading a top secret document that they say comes from this office. It’s a draft of a speech. It sounds vaguely familiar.’

‘Of course it does. That’s the one I just finished not five minutes ago.’

About author: Bangkokians with long memories may remember his irreverent column in The Nation in the 1980's. During his period of enforced silence since then, he was variously reported as participating in a 999-day meditation retreat in a hill-top monastery in Mae Hong Son (he gave up after 998 days), as the Special Rapporteur for Satire of the UN High Commission for Human Rights, and as understudy for the male lead in the long-running ‘Pussies -not the Musical' at the Neasden International Palladium (formerly Park Lane Empire).