What would your father do if you were kidnapped by Parisian sex traffickers?

[MitzyLeFrouf]

I'm watching Liam Neeson in Taken as he kicks, wallops and murders his way across Paris in pursuit of his abducted daughter? It's made me wonder what my father would do if such a situation arose.

He's an ex-accountant with a dodgy hip so I'm not sure he'd follow the Neeson method of daughter retrieval. He'd be more likely to start the rescue by putting the kettle on, having a cup of tea and checking the weather forecast in Paris. Then he'd have to phone the 67 relatives to inform them of my perilous situation. By the time he got off the phone to my Auntie Mary my virtue would be long lost.

What would your dear old dad do?

mistressdeecee and lavenderhoney your posts made me howl! This thread is epic.

Yes needs to go on classics

He would probably say Oh dear and go about his normal day.

He would probably say Oh dear and go about his normal day.

Adding to previously. We are a tightly knit family.
My BIL would get into my/their mobile phones (he is also fluent en Français), my DSis would do the profiling and psych them out, DB would help me break their bones - or at least joints - (along with older nephew) and then he'd fix them (hopefully in positions that would hurt them for the rest of their lives).

lweji...... blimey!, just......blimey!

Or... in real life... just report to the police and hope for the best.

My dad would probably never get as far as hearing I'd been kidnapped. As soon as he was phoned he would put phone still connected on sofa arm because this wasn't a friend who he'd given his number too.

if he knew I'd been kidnapped he'd follow procedure, only discuss things once "yes you've already said that", but would no doubt come and get me.

He flew 2000 miles to come and help me home when DP and I split and I was returning to UK with DS. All at his own expense.

He cares more than he'd let on

My Dad would say 'I'll probably not find you and if I did I definitely won't kill you but here, would you speak to my wife as she is VERY upset as she so looks forward to Durham coming to supper on a Saturday night'

Ooh good thread

My dad would go for an emergency wee, probably dither about whether he should change into a smarter shirt, decide to change into a smarter shirt. Would worry if it matched his trousers, would change trousers. Would probably still not be satisfied, but would go anyway. Would speed down to Paris, overtaking cars, lorries and high speed trains, while phoning my mother/sister/voicemail to make a plan and talk about how typical this was of me.

He would arrive to rescue me after having yelled at the kidnappers and threatened them to the point of tears, only to find that I had whupped the kidnapper's arses and freed myself.

He'd give me a lift home, downplaying my fantastic escape and intent only on talking about the fantastic fuel consumption of his new car, how many numpties were on the road and did his shirt look ok.

Love my dad

I too hate that movie....
A dear friend and I went to a theatre in Paris to watch it. We were stupid twenty something's in Paris, completely alone and renting in a very 'bohemian' (read dodgy) part of the city. Scared ourselves stupid. Walk home was pretty interesting....

Not quite sure what DF would do, DGF on the other hand was a bad ass. In the French foreign legion latterly and the SBS. Awesome chess player and taught me how to knit. Miss him.

Fabulous thread!

Dad isn't in the best of health now, but he was a rum bugger back in the day, and would fly into an absolute rage. He'd gather his old cronies and they'd mount a rescue effort instantly. Think a very angry contingent of Del Boys!

My mother would be in hysterics and would be prescribed Valium by the GP because it would just all be too much for her to cope with, as per. She'd need lots of people fussing and flapping around her to hold her hand and make tea whilst she tried to absorb the tragedy that had befallen her. She'd probably be posting hysterical FB statuses about how she just cannot cope with the stress etc etc.

DH's immediate reaction would be to go into complete panic, and then after a few minutes of swearing he'd go batshit and would tear Europe apart. He'd enlist FIL and his brothers who have some truly unsavoury connections, and I am in absolutely no doubt that there would be bloodshed. They'd definitely find me.

On our return to Calais we'd bump into my dad who'd be buying huge stores of tobacco and deciding on the price to flog them at when he got back. He'd bear hug me, and thank my FIL and his crew profusely, then we'd have to all travel back to FIL's local boozer so the extended family could all cluck over me and my dad could buy everyone a pint

My Dad would just come and get me, there would be no messing and at least 2 of my brothers would go with him. They'd probably do the tactical/messy bits and bloody live it but he would definitely be in charge.

My Mum would be at home looking after my 4 children in a state of zen-like calm. She might also have made a phone call to her DB who had somewhat shady connections across Europe and the Middle East. In which case DF and DBs would turn up to find if was all sorted bar the mopping up...

My Dad would have a drink or three and become even more taciturn than usual. Not so sure about the action if it wouldn't involve fixing things around the house. A few months later, talking to my brother, he would say "Well, you obviously know what happened to your sister ..."

My dad would bumble around the house looking confused for a bit. Then he'd try and find his old rifle, but be unable to remember the code for the cupboard he locked it in.

Eventually he might set off for Paris. Unfortunately he'd probably end up getting sex-trafficked himself. I have a vision of him trying to tell a Parisian police officer - in terrible French - that he'd been mugged by a girl he asked directions from.

By this time he'd have lost one slipper, and had forgotten where he'd parked the car. Or had he borrowed my brothers car because his was doing that weird thing with the indicator? It was probably just a loose connection, if he had a look under the bonnet it was maybe a wire that could be fixed... hmm, it's a bit confusing under there, another cup of tea and a look at the Hayne's manual...

There is nothing my dad wouldn't do in this (or any situation) to help me. He is the best dad ever.
Like most other dads his actions would be sandwich dependent.
He would also tell me off as if he moves his car after 6pm he loses his space outside his house
When I was safely rescued he would have another story of my bad behaviour to tell, when I was drunk and he found me when I rolled down a hill when I was 14, when they found my boyfriend hiding in my wardrobe, when I baked a cake and it went wrong and I tried to wash it down the sink, when I was silly enough to get caught be sex traffickers bla bla bla

If it was tomato season, I'd be stuffed, because he'd only leave the house if he could be sure he'd be back in time to water the tomatoes.

Winter time I might have more chance, on the unlikely offchance that he had heard the phone ring in the first place of course. There would be some changing into a smarter jumper and a lot of tuneless humming and sucking of teeth to get through first, mind you, and the eventual arrival at the traffickers' den would be delayed by the need to pass by 50 available parking spots first.

He wouldn't answer the phone if countdown was on, or if it was Tuesday because that is bowls night or if it came while he was cooking tea.

He would ask them the address and write it down on the back of an envelope, mutter that how could I disrupt his routine like that. Then he would drive to Paris and look for me, unless it was Tuesday or Friday morning, because that is swimming, or Thursday morning because the cleaner comes. When he got to Paris he would look for us and explain to the kidnappers in fluent French why they were wrong and what rules they were breaking. He would tell me off on the way home for disrupting his routine.

After much persuading by mum, Dad might come off the golf course and write a letter to "Stinky McNab in the Foreign office who I was at school with" to see if they could do anything while making off colour remarks about how I wouldn't make the sex traffickers much money now my tits have gone south. Then he'd get back on the golf course. Once my mum had sorted it out she would call me and tell me how terrified he was and how much he did to help me.

My dad would shout "SQUIZMUUUUM Squizita has been kidnapped in Paris. You speak French..." Down the stairs. A few hours later my mum would burst in and rescue me muttering under her breath that if he expects her to make sandwiches for the local gardening club cards night as well he's got a fucking cheek. Then she would make the sandwiches.
My mum has actually taken down a robber on the Paris Metro though. So she is better qualified than him.
But the sandwiches. .. she just made a rod for her own back.

DH would know a few people to rescue me with. Some from "the filf", some dodgy geezers, and some posh people who are even dodgier.
Mind you they'd probably be a bit late, and it would play out like the kidnap episode of the cartoon "Archer" with me beating up my captors upon overhearing I wasn't considered top dollar merchandise. I'm extremely vain and bad tempered.

My Dad would attempt to turn on his hudl in order to do some googling. He would struggle to find the on switch and after 20 minutes of effing and blinding about modern technology, he would try and ring me and ask how to get on That There Internet again. Having failed to speak to me, he'd leave the phone connected for 20 minutes while my answerphone recorded him having a coffee and swearing about modern technology. He would then retrieve the phone from the sofa and wonder why it was blinking and said 'in call' on it. He might shout up the stairs and ask what 'in call' is short for at which point my mother would sigh and turn off the hoover.

My Dad would then take the executive decision to ring my brother and ask him about how to get onto That There Internet. A half an hour circular conversation later and my brother's blood pressure in serious trouble, my Dad would hang up and make another coffee. Finally, my Mum would appear, clutching a duster and muttering. She would take over the Turning On of the Interweb and within 17 minutes would have successfully connected to Amazon Kindle, sent three blank emails and downloaded some thrash metal from Spotify.

They would probably then go for lunch. A nice one. To get over the trials of the morning.

After a brief trip to he supermarket to stock up on carrots, my Mum would start one of those 'you know Bob who was married to Sheila with the gammy leg and the dog that humped lamposts' conversations and finally segue onto 'you KNOW who I mean, friends with the postman's son, went to school with Grantaire' at which point my Dad would mention to my Mum that somebody phoned earlier and it sounded like a sales call and they said something about traffic and Paris. My Mum would berate him for not hanging up sooner.

After a nice dinner of cod in parsley sauce and some new potatoes, that nice new man who has moved in next door and is some sort of police officer apparently, gets home from work. So they ask him to show them how to get on the Interwebs and he sighs pleasantly and humours them. It transpires they have open 37 separate tabs and have a lengthy argument about how to close them. A new email flashes up entitled 'we have Grantaire' and they proceed to bicker about how to actually open the email. In a bold move my Mum would hope for the best and click on the picture of bin. The email disappears so they decide to switch off the hudl and give up. They can't find the off switch so they just put a tea towel over it and hope for the best.

As they settle down to sleep, Dad would grumble that I never did ring him back.

In short, I would be fucked.

In ever sense of the word.

*every