Even more shameless plug

Discussion in 'Films, Music and All Things Artsy' started by mistersoft, Jun 28, 2006.

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  1. Tried to ignore them,
    but I guess I'll have to read them again :eek:
  2. I think your next story should be a rural farming tale.

    "The Mystery of the Disappearing Posts"

    Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five.............and gone....
  3. spike7451

    spike7451 RIP

    How about 'Men in ARRSE' for the next one. (No,on second thought's,that's too gay) so how about ' Life of Brian' spoof, Life of Pentwyn/Yannie/Doctrine' (I'm sure ExRab,Dale & the rest of the Anti-Doctrine League can aid with the plot)
  4. Or the Drying Room Mystery of Old London Town.
    aka The Mystery of the Disappearing Threads.
  5. Just posted another chapter.
  6. The one that started it all

    This is a story dedicated to the world’s best regiment of authors, the SAS. It only vaguely bears any resemblance to reality so please do not complain about inaccuracies, it is a story! I would like to thank Dell and especially Microsoft for making this all possible and for not crashing long enough for me to finish it or at least the first chapter.

    Whisky Charlie One

    A novel of sorts by


    Chapter One

    The phone rang and Flabby McAndrew leapt up and answered it. “It’s on” was the brief message and Flabby replaced the receiver. “It’s on dear,” said Flabby to his wife who was sat on the sofa knitting a cam net. “It’s on kids,” said Flabby to his kids, also sat on the sofa and entangled in the half-finished cam net. Flabby reached for the remote and switched off the TV just at the end of Emmerdale. “Can you record this for me when I’m gone” Flabby asked his wife. He was a big Emmerdale fan was Flabby and never missed an episode. Even trained killers had to have their relaxation.

    Flabby walked to the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out a bag. The bag contained everything he would possibly need in the event of a ‘job’ coming up. Crossword books, pot noodles, soft toilet roll, a copy of Bravo Two Zero, as he loved comedy and various other items that would comfort him on the days or weeks away. The children had managed to untangle themselves from the cam net and came towards him. “Can we have our pocket money now, just in case?” they asked. His wife put down the cam net, came over to him, and hugged him. “You will be careful this time,” she whispered in his ear. The children hugged him as well. The tears flowed and Flabby pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at a tear stained face. He had never seen the hamster this upset before. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and pulled it out again, shaking the hamster out of the handkerchief and back into its cage.

    The ‘job’ this time was to prepare for the invasion of Iranistan as the Iranistanis had been supposedly developing a nuclear capability for peaceful purposes but had gone one step further and had developed nuclear warheads. They did not yet have the missiles to deploy the warheads but a combined intelligence operation at a firework factory near Middle Wallop had uncovered some startling developments. Extremely large rockets had been ordered through an Assyrian arms dealer and it was only the shortage of blue touch paper and the lack of a milk bottle large enough that had prevented the Iranistans from obtaining full nuclear capability.

    Flabby said his goodbyes and jumped into his Fiat Seicento. He jumped back out and returned the hamster to its cage. He jumped back into the car again and roared off into the night. The security state at Sterling Lines could not have been higher and he tooted his horn trying to wake Joe the security guard so he could get into camp. The Lines was a hive of activity as fellow SAS troopers finished off chapters of their latest books or played around with screenplays. He parked the Fiat in the space marked ‘Whisky Charlie One”. They had been allowed to choose their own call signs and Flabby had chosen that as it had been his mum’s initials and he only had the one mum.

    Flabby was 35 now, a tall, slightly overweight figure of a man or two men as the others joked. He had joined the SAS from an infantry regiment where he had distinguished himself and had slowly risen through the ranks but then the Royal Norfolk Mountaineers was a small regiment, a proud one but a small one and even after seeing active service in various theatres, Flabby had known there had to be bigger and better things. The Royal Norfolk Mountaineers had been amalgamated into the Yorks and Lancs (Bolton) Wanderers and again into the Home Counties (Very Northern) Division and all their illustrious history had been swallowed up into a huge cooperative of a regiment. The regimental silver that dated back to the Napoleonic Wars now sat in huge vault and was only brought out on every second Saturday of the month except for public holidays and Tuesdays. The regiment was gone but Flabby had other fish to fry.

    Flabby finished off his fish, he loved plaice and the compo tartare sauce was to die for. He sat in the cookhouse, downed an active sport Lucozade, and playfully threw the empty bottle at Ryan Christopher who would be joining him in Iranistan. Ryan wiped the blood from his head where the glass bottle had hit him. It had been a NAAFI own brand active sports Lucozade bottle that he had thrown and the blood poured from a nasty gash. Flabby pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to Ryan who dabbed at his head with the McAndrew family hamster, which had been inside the handkerchief. Flabby took the now very bloody hamster down to Joe the security guard and asked him to return it to the family home. Joe acknowledged and went back to sleep.

    Back in the cookhouse, Ryan and flabby talked about the current ‘job’, the political situation, the price of fish, the benefits of the sweeper system and other topics of the day. Ryan was his number two and an experienced trooper. He had several books under his belt already, they were not any good but he had sold a few and he was also a fine soldier. Ryan had joined the Army to be a pilot, it was a simple mistake to make and the RAF office had only been next door. He had ended up in the Catering Corps and was world famous in Catterick for his Eggs Benedict. He had tried to keep his fitness levels high despite tasting five thousand calories worth of food a day and poisoning himself on numerous occasions. He had gone through the selection process for the SAS, knocked up an excellent Tartlet of Soft-boiled Quails Egg & Parmesan Shavings followed by some Gravadlax with Chilli Crème Fraîche Blini and he was in.

    Flabby knew it was close to the time of the briefing as the little hand on his military watch was close to the eight. The large hand had fallen off on day two when the multi timer mode had gone haywire. He had timed a lovemaking session with his wife and had broken their record by eighty-three days. “Bloody military watch” grunted Flabby noticing that it was now ninety degrees Celsius and he was at a depth of ten fathoms. “Bloody military” joked Ryan showing off his Snoopy watch. “Time for the briefing” said Ryan and they left for the briefing room.

    The briefing room was packed. Those who hadn’t booked, stood at the side and all chattered nervously, you could cut the tension with a knife. The Boss was on the stage with some suits as they were called. Probably MI5 or MI6 or both as MI5 had green ties with red stripes and MI6 had red ties with green stripes. None of the suits wore ties so this was something big and very special and very confusing. The Boss called for silence. You could hear a pin drop. “Shite!” Flabby’s watch pin dropped on the floor and everybody looked his way. He smiled and showed all his watch and a mass murmuring of “Bloody military watches” broke the silence. “See me afterwards McAndrew” said the Boss and started the briefing.

    The briefing went on for at least an hour. All details were covered, point of entry, point of exit, the weather, the nearest MacDonald’s, what to take, what not to take, what to see when you were there, local tourist hotspots, it was all highly technical and highly detailed and far too technical and detailed for a non military type like me to comprehend. Ryan and Flabby knew the score.

    Flabby had his Mp3 player switched on radio and BBC Radio 5 Live had just announced that Hereford United had just beaten Chelsea 4-1 and had taken the Premiership for the third season running. It hadn’t always been like that but Hereford United had been taken over by a Russian cider billionaire and he had pumped billions into the club and bought a team that was second to none, they were permanently drunk but had the squad depth that meant they got away with it most Saturdays but midweek games were always a bit risky.

    “Turn that radio off McAndrew and see me afterwards,” shouted the Boss as the suits took over. If for some reason the transport couldn’t pick them up then they would be on their own just like in Predator and Rambo 34-38 and their only chance of returning would be to capture a helicopter and fly themselves out. Flabby was relieved he’d got all those hours in on Microsoft Flight Simulator and was able to fly anything and everything as long as the keyboard was configured the same as his and it had a Logitech Trackball.

    The targets were to be the usual air defences, tracking stations, mobile phone masts, transmission towers, MacDonald’s, road and rail links, barracks and associated buildings like the Halal Iranistan NAAFI which served a mean camel burger with cactus relish and side salad. Of course, the main targets were the nuclear facilities, difficult to spot from the air but easy on the ground as a satellite photo showed with a ‘Welcome to the nuclear facility’ sign for all to see. The teams would be split with Flabby and Ryan in the main team with the nuclear facility their target. The others would concentrate on the other targets and would knock out as many before being caught, as in every book, they always get caught or else you can’t have a whole chapter on prisoner abuse and torture.

    The briefing ended and Flabby and Ryan went to see the Boss. “Firstly buy a new watch, now!” shouted the Boss “And secondly, don’t trust the suits” warned the Boss. Flabby and Ryan looked at each other and then at the Boss. “Do you know something Boss?” asked Flabby. “They’re working for the Americans,” replied the Boss. “But I thought we were as well” replied Flabby. “Yes but they have a secret itinerary” whispered the Boss looking round as the suits looked in their general direction. “What do you mean Boss?” asked a confused Flabby.

    “The Americans are split, they’re always split but there’s the Jewish lobby and they don’t want Iranistan to have nukes as they will be pointed at them and there’s the Hispanic lobby who just want to drink Tequila and listen to Gloria Estefan but don’t want Iranistan to have nukes but since they’re pointed at Israel then they’re not bothered and then there’s the Irish” explained the Boss. “And what about the Irish, Boss? Asked a confused Flabby. “Nothing, there’s just the Irish” explained the Boss. “So who is it with the secret itinerary? asked Flabby. “We’re not totally sure yet” replied the Boss. “There’s the Afro Americans and the Native Americans and the Asian Americans and the Canadian Americans and the Dutch Americans and the German Americans and the Polish Americans and the French Americans and the Italian Americans and the Middle Eastern Americans and it’s not them and of course there’s the Irish” went on the Boss. “Yes but what about the Irish, Boss?” repeated Flabby. “There’s just the Irish but I suppose we could blame them, everybody else does” concluded the Boss. “I hope it’s all crystal clear now” finished the Boss as Flabby and Ryan left for the NAAFI.

    Complete with new watch, four pound a week for forty-six weeks, Flabby prepared for the ‘job’. He wasn’t going make the mistakes they made in Iraqistan when the desert turned out be a very cold place. Flabby in his room had all his kit laid out on the bed. He started to get dressed, first the long johns from Milletts. He turned the heating off in the room as he had started to sweat profusely. Layer after layer went on, everything checked and double-checked. He was now bombproof and fireproof and protected from the cold and the wet and he needed the toilet so off it all came layer by layer and eventually he was of the right proportions to fit in the toilet.

    Flabby dressed again, each layer checked and double-checked until he was dressed ready to go. He walked down to the armoury and withdrew his personal weapons. The Heckler O’Koch, the Irish assault rifle, smoke grenades, flares, grenades, a Swiss army knife, a bag of Maltesers, various handguns, all the ammunition and ration packs from the QM’s stores. Each item was checked and double-checked and finally he was ready to go. Ryan stood next to him similarly kitted out with PE and detonators to hopefully make a mess of the nuclear facility and a satellite phone to make contact and hopefully get extracted after it was all over and get back to fight for the book rights.

    They walked outside talking about what the Boss had said. “Have you any ideas Ryan?” asked Flabby. “Fcuked if I know” replied Ryan, he could knock up a mean Roasted Monkfish wrapped in Parma Ham, Sun dried Tomato & Fresh Basil served with a White Wine & Mascarpone Sauce but he wasn’t the brightest sometimes. “They’d had plenty of experience with the Irish especially the Northern Irish but he couldn’t see what the connection between the Irish and Iranistan was. It had been so much simpler in South Armagh, living in a hedge, a nice Caramelised Red Onion, Wild Mushroom, Thyme & Mozzarella Tart and watching the world go by. Happy memories, shoot a sniper, Dressed Salmon with Lemon & Watercress Mayonnaise for lunch and back in your hedge again.

    The roar of the Agustas drowned out any conversation as the teams leapt into the back of the helicopters. Next stop a secret RAF base just off the A40, just follow the signs for Brize Norton and then off to the Peoples Islamic Republic of Kebabstan, the country bordering Iranistan. Flabby checked his kit for the last time and was horrified to find the family hamster curled up in the bottom of a pistol holster, it looks as though that hamster was finally going home and might even see some action. He pressed the light button on his watch and decided that next time he would buy one with a battery already in. He settled into his seat and stroked the hamster. He was always nervous en route to a ‘job’ but he had a bad feeling about this one and it wasn’t helped when the hamster bit his finger. With finger bleeding, Flabby sat in the back as the black Agustas roared their way to the RAF base wondering if he would ever see his wife and kids again or see Hereford’s next home game or cash in his Tesco Plus points for that nice hedge strimmer. The Agustas roared on and Flabby knew there was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on which is exactly when the hamster bit him again. Whisky Charlie One was not a happy teddy.

    Chapter Two

    The Agustas landed at the secret RAF base formally known as Brize Norton and an RAF Tristar stood there for their use. The windows of the departure lounge were full of bobble-hatted people as the Tristar had been scheduled for the flight to the Falkland Islands but had been ‘pulled’ at the last minute for the use of Flabby and the two teams. No hours to be spent in the back of a flying Ford Prefect or Hercules as they were more commonly known.

    Flabby waved to the bobble-hatted faces pressed against the glass and after a couple of minutes they all waved back, together. “Bennies” he exclaimed. “You either love ‘em or hate ‘em” he shouted to Ryan as the Tristar ran up another engine. The Bennies were all crowded at one end of the departure lounge as one had spotted a sheep and another thought he might know it.

    Flabby pulled the men to one side as he noticed the flash of a camera but it was just a Benny snapping the sheep for his scrapbook. The eight men stood on the edge of the pan and those that smoked did while those that didn’t went through the motions that actually means they didn’t do anything at all. A ninth member of the team arranged for all the weaponry to be transferred from the Agustas to the Tristar. “Rikshaw” so named because he always had people on the move was the goer and the getter and could rustle up a bacon sandwich in a Baghdad market and even a replacement if it wasn’t crispy enough. He invariably stayed behind and was the logistics and liaison officer. He had joined the regiment from the RHF (Royal Helicopter Fitters) and had begged, stolen or borrowed for his twenty years service. A great analytical mind and as light fingered as they come, he was a real asset to the teams and the regiment.

    Flabby stroked the hamster, which had moved from his holster to his smock pocket, and he had inadvertently wiped his nose with it twice so moved his hankie to another pocket. “Poor Rab C” he said to himself and to Rab C who responded by biting his finger. Rab C hadn’t always been alone but Rab C and Cotter had had a serious fallout and Rab C had given Cotter a ‘Damascus Kiss’ and that was the end of Cotter. The kids, Esmeralda and Bert had found what was left of Cotter in the bottom of the cage and thrown up all over the carpet but his wife Cherie had cleared it up. Cherie didn’t really like pets and a stray cat had been dispatched in double quick time but she allowed the kids to keep Rab C as long as he was kept in his cage as they had bought an exercise ball but Flabby for some inexplicable reason had kept throwing it out the window shouting “Grenade!”.

    The two teams chatted on the edge of the pan, the Benny’s had been told they might not be flying for a couple of days and after fifteen minutes, this was starting to sink in. The RAF Police had called up the dog handlers and they were having fun herding the Bennies up and down the departure lounge. As long as you keep them amused, they can’t complain. Ryan was trying to plan the menu for the operation, he was such an excellent chef, he couldn’t always spell what he cooked but he could do wonders with compo especially his Pan-fried Fillet of Lamb with a Rosemary & Redcurrant Jus Dauphinoise Potato. Compo had improved so much since the days of baby’s heads and cheese possessed, he would have preferred fresh but compo was now so versatile. Flabby was still being bitten by Rab C but then he was starting to get used to this, it was all part of the training though not usually with mad hamsters but a diversionary tactic during interrogation.

    The other members of the team were ‘Smudge’ Smith, ex-Pay corps but a computer whiz and could break any codes put in front of him. There had been that incident at the National Eastminster bank but then he was an officer so it was put down to high spirits and the money that had gone missing had not been claimed as it was apparently traced to a farmer in South Armagh and a mixed dairy and arable small holding doesn’t usually clear two million a year and nor do farmers have substantial property empires near Manchester. The only problem was that Smudge was as tactical as an earthquake. He chain-smoked and even managed enough time to have a cigarette in between chain smoking. His location would be lit up like a Christmas Tree if you didn’t watch out. Boxes of Nicobollox patches had been loaded into the Agustas and Rikshaw was shouting at a crab lackey for dropping one and seriously crushing a bag of Maltesers. Smudge drew deeply on a cigarette and scratched one of his ninety-odd patches.

    ‘Knocker’ Down was a one-man army. He was six foot plus, sixteen stone and a beast of a man. He had single handedly taken on two WRACs at a disco once and actually beaten them, with a baseball bat. He had a problem with women but let loose on the enemy, he was unstoppable. He had joined the regiment from the MSC, the Military Screws Corps the smallest corps in the British Army who presided over the army’s rehabilitation centre at Colchester. Knocker had originally been with the Rutland Yeomanry, the smallest infantry regiment in the British Army but had switched after too many years as a corporal and had excelled in the MSC before deciding that he needed a more active life as those two-hour dinner breaks were a real killer. You could depend on Knocker as long as you kept well away from equipment jokes as his problem with women allegedly stemmed from the fact that part of him was considered the smallest in the British Army but nobody had dared to verify this.

    Leader of Team Bravo was ‘Danny Boy’ Dhmorerghahenaienain (Wilkins) and was actually Irish. He had actually been a member of the French Foreign Legion but had left it because it was a bit too French for his liking. He had joined the Royal Irish in Northern Ireland and passed the selection process for the regiment at his first attempt when still comparatively young. Solid, dependable and with an excellent tactical brain. His faults were that you sometimes you couldn’t understand him and his annoying habit of saying “So it is” after every statement. He had picked that up in Belfast while on special duties and had infiltrated the Women’s Coalition and made extremely rude jokes about how and how often he had infiltrated them.

    The number two in Team Bravo was ‘Taff’ Leek. He had also tried to join the army as a pilot but had spent more time under the bonnet of a Land rover and had left the AAC disillusioned. Taff was from deepest, darkest Wales where men are men and sheep are nervous and had lived in the shadow of a manmade mountain in the Rhondda Valley. With the pits shutting, the only opportunity to see a bit of the world was to join the army and leave his beloved Wales for the very first time. Taff was a supreme soldier, the fittest in the regiment, neither smoked nor drank and could keep going all day. Another excellent brain but could be distracted by the mention of his hero, Max Boyce. Nobody in the Sterling Lines, EVER mentioned Max Boyce so Taff was kept under control and was usually able to concentrate on the matter in hand.

    ‘Jock’ Ferguson was the smallest man in the regiment but one of the toughest. Brought up on one of the roughest council estates in Glasgow, it was go to prison or join the army and Jock joined the Black Watch. His days in the Glasgow gangs were over so he could hang up his sabre that he kept for self-defence purposes only and concentrate on the army. Rose rapidly through the ranks, terrorised both Catholic and Protestant communities in Northern Ireland and was promoted yet again. Saw action in every conflict and was even awarded the George Cross for saving an ice cream wagon in Glasgow from an attack from a rival firm and held off the Rivilloni brothers until police reinforcements arrived. Was seriously wounded by a knife and a stray cornet but held the ice cream wagon for over two hours against overwhelming odds. Very easy to underestimate but you underestimate Jock at your own cost.

    The last member of the team was ‘Nige’ Nigel Ruperting-Smythe, a former Guards officer who resigned his commission to join the regiment. Said he’d had enough of messing the blokes about. Went to Eton, Harrow, Winchester and Slough Grammar School before going on to read Philosophy at Runcorn Polytechnic but switched to Sandhurst and joined the Coldstream Guards rising to the rank of Captain. Got disillusioned with the Guards, all that dressing up, he used to say. A linguist and a mimic, he could fit in anywhere and could order a Big Mac in forty-seven different languages, a real asset to the team. Distinguished himself in Bosnia where he single-handedly stopped the fighting in Kripoopopopovic by blaming it all on the Irish. Was mentioned in dispatches for that but had his season ticket to London Irish cancelled and was thrown out of the Cranberries fan club.
    The long wait was over and the nine men boarded the Tristar. Flabby waved to the Bennies who had been split and herded into two separate pens but still managed to wave back, twenty minutes later. They settled in a row of seats each and tried to get some sleep. “Do you want some orange juice?” came the request from an RAF flight attendant of the almost male persuasion. “Fcuk off” came the reply from most of the team. “Please take your feet off the seats” was the next but last utterance of the flight attendant of the almost male persuasion as Knocker stuffed him into an overhead locker. “And fcuk off” he shouted, slamming the locker door shut.

    “Bing bong” went Nige. They all sat up and looked at him and were just going to tell him the error of his ways when the real “Bing bong” sound went and they all tried to fasten seatbelts as the plane was just about to land at Falafel International Airport in Kebabstan. Knocker just tied one end of a belt round his leg. The pilot came on the PA system and said that there would be a slight delay as today was Falafel’s big boot fair and it was being held on the runway. The plane circled for what seemed ages as boxes of pirate DVDs and cuddly toys were cleared off the runway and finally they were allowed to land. The plane taxied to a quiet end of the runway and the teams saw the two Pumas that would their transport to the heart of Iranistan. The weather was glorious and Flabby looked at his watch forgetting there still wasn’t a battery in it. They knew that they wouldn’t be leaving until nightfall so Flabby decided that maybe he either could get a battery or if not another watch.

    The Falafel big boot fair was in full swing and the team shopped for bargains. Flabby couldn’t find a battery but bought a genuine authentic Rolllex watch at a fraction of the price he had seen them in the NAAFI. It seemed to work and he stuffed his old watch into his pocket, waking Rab C who bit him. The others picked up some good bargains, Jock got a Chinese made AK-47, Nige got an Mp3 player with instructions in Azerbaijani but since he spoke it then it wasn’t a problem. Jock had a cow’s udder omelette washed down with a can of Yak Cola, Smudge had an argument with one of the traders about the offside law but got a good deal on the new Terminator 4 DVD, he thought there were only three but the guy seemed to know. Rikshaw bought a team of camels from one stall and sold them to another making a profit of over a thousand burgers, the local currency equivalent to over seventy-five pence in real money. A good time was had by all.

    Kebabstan, although a Muslim country was a modern country and because once somebody found a puddle of oil then the US had pumped billions into the country. The capital Falafel was a modern city with modern buildings and excellent transport links. There were modern hotels and even alcohol was allowed though you could get your hand chopped off for parking illegally or jumping a red light. The Kebabstan armed forces were equipped with the latest from the US and to emphasize this, a squadron of Starfighters flew over and one crashed. This was the Kebabstani equivalent of the Red Arrows and the eight Starfighters, sorry seven Starfighters performed aerobatics for the big boot fair crowd. The fact that the Starfighters were blowing REAL smoke was a worry but they disappeared after a couple of sweeps but Jock was sure he’d heard another boom in the distance but it must have been thunder.

    Nige called Flabby over as there had been a message from the Boss back in the UK. Apparently it was unwise to trust the Americans but Flabby already knew this so wondered what the Boss was trying to say. The transmission had been on a secure frequency but Flabby knew that even secure transmissions aren’t as secure as they should or could be. Flabby racked his brains and asked the rest of the teams what they made of it. Danny Boy glared at the rest of them when somebody mentioned they could blame it on the Irish but nobody had any hint of what was happening or what was to come. There was a huge crowd at the big boot fair and suddenly the team were looking at them with some suspicion. Taff noticed a crowd of plane spotters but thought nothing of it as the Starfighters had just been over and it’s quite something to see a Starfighter fly, continuously. He had spotted the flash of binoculars and thought nothing of it.

    The team moved into a room that had been put aside for them. The crews of the Pumas were there swapping moustache stories but it all seemed innocent and above board. Flabby reached for his hanky and of course was bitten by Rab C so excavated his right nostril with a solitary digit and pulled out something that was equally large and unpleasant so in true military fashion went to stick it under the seat when he found something already stuck to the bottom of the seat. He knew immediately what it was and with a hand signal called for silence from the team. He pointed out the bug and dispatched the rest of the team around the room. Three more bugs were found but they left the one by the Puma crew as they were still swapping moustache stories and were drowning out anything else in the room. Flabby ground the four bugs on the floor with the heel of his boot and pondered. He looked at his watch which had now stopped and reached for his hankie to wipe the contents of his nose on and was promptly bitten yet again by Rab C. This was not going to be as straightforward as he thought and Rab C bit him again.

    Chapter Three

    Flabby edged over to the Puma pilots who were still deep in conversation. He called Ryan over and asked him quietly to clear the pilots out of the way. Ryan’s last meal had been Devonshire Crab Timbale, Rocket Leaves, Fresh Tomato, Mango & Basil Salsa, drizzled with a Lemon-infused Olive Oil as a starter followed by Honey-glazed Lamb Shank on a Bed of Minted Mash with a Rosemary & Port Jus, then Caramelised Lemon Tart with a Raspberry Compôte and Freshly-brewed Coffee & Mints, washed down by a bottle of wine and eight pints of Guinness. Flabby moved to one side as Ryan strained. Even at that distance, Flabby could smell the terrible odour and he felt Rab C go limp in his pocket. The Puma Pilots drifted off to the other side of the room, then quickly rushed outside gasping for air. Flabby called the team over and despite the smell, they pulled off and examined the last bug. “Definitely Russian” said Rikshaw. “How the fcuk do you know that?” asked Jock. “Because it says made in fcuking Russia on the back of it” replied Rikshaw crushing it under his boot heel.

    Rikshaw was a dashing, handsome sort, certainly not incapable on a job but his real skills were providing the team with anything they required if it meant buying it, stealing it or even making it. A sort of Mr. T. but without the fear of flying, the idiotic use of welding gear and the lack of Ratner’s round his neck. He was a real magnet for the women but sadly after a serious accident with a Dremel and a scale model of the Bismarck, he could no longer pursue his interest in women. So he put all his energy into his work and was a real asset to the regiment.

    “We have to suss this out before the job goes off” said Flabby. “Any ideas” he asked looking at the rest of the team. “We need to get in touch with somebody at the embassy, you know, the trade attaché, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, so it is” joked Danny Boy. “Yeh, but how do we get in touch with him, without attracting too much attention?” asked Taff. “Phone the fcuker up” said Jock, always straight to the point.

    Flabby found a telephone and using his SAS Visa card was able to get through to the British Embassy in downtown Falafel. Giving the secret password “I’m phoning about some sterling” he was put straight through to the trade attaché who knew exactly who he was and why he was there but refused to talk on the phone as he knew the Yanks were bugging all calls but wasn’t sure who else could be listening. The embassy had just been kitted out with the latest communications and the contract had been carried out by KGB Data Inc from Pittsburgh but they all had Russian accents and he had been suspicious. The attaché said he would be at the airport in half an hour if he could get his Kebabstani 4x4 to start.

    The attaché arrived exactly half an hour later and to confuse them wasn’t wearing a tie so they weren’t exactly sure which branch of the intelligence service they were dealing with. “You talk to him Nige” said Flabby as Nige had been to the same school as the attaché and had actually beaten him to within an inch of his life but in the school tradition this was half an inch short but Flabby hoped he wouldn’t hold a grudge and Nige was a smooth talking barsteward and could talk the birds out of the trees if he wanted to. So Nige and the attaché who was called Prendergast, talked at great length. Nige called Flabby over and they talked for another half an hour.

    It seems that the Russians had known exactly when the job was going down thanks to a few additions to the embassy décor. The embassy had been swept afterwards and no bugs had been found but somehow the Russians had found out. It was only when Johnson of Visas had too much of a liquid lunch and fell over in trap two that a bug was found inside the broken toilet. The plumbing had just been upgraded by KGB Plumbing Inc, also from Pittsburgh and also with Russian accents but Prendergast had been away from the embassy for a couple of weeks and missed them. On his return he had ordered another sweep but no bugs had been found but then all tradesmen had been looked into and the KGB Bakery in Falafel had come under suspicion as well as the KGB Dairy Products also in Falafel. So any communication in or out of the embassy was obviously compromised so they would have to work independently of the embassy.

    “We’ve still got our satellite phone” said Rikshaw rubbing his injured parts, much to everyone’s disgust. The scars played him up from time to time and he had to be careful where he drank as he’d been arrested five times, had many offers of sex or marriage or both and was a gay icon in Brighton. “Yeh but is it secure?” asked Flabby. “You can switch on the scrambler mode” said Prendergast showing his intelligence credentials and not something a mere trade attaché would know.

    They all stepped outside and Rikshaw switched on the satellite phone and pointed the dish until the meter showed green. Prendergast pointed out the button marked scrambler mode and Rikshaw pressed it. Immediately a garbled sound emitted from close to the satellite phone but by then it was too late as Ryan had let one go again and everybody ran onto the pan leaving Rikshaw and Prendergast gasping for air while Ryan just stood there smiling. Leaving a decent amount of time, they all wandered slowly back and attempted to call the Boss back in Hereford.
    “Hello Boss, this is Flabby” shouted Flabby only just being heard over the phone but clearly audible in most Middle Eastern countries. Prendergast held a finger to his lips and Flabby realised he might have been a bit loud. “Boss, the Bears are listening” shouted Flabby only slightly quieter. Residents of downtown Falafel were mystified as there hadn’t been any bears in Falafel since the 15th century and only dancing bears at that. “What the fcuk do you mean Flabby?” shouted the Boss, not used to the ‘Allo ‘Allo type code that he was using. “I repeat Boss, the Bears are listening” repeated Flabby further mystifying the Falafel residents. “What fcuking Bears are you on about you docile cnut!” shouted the Boss, waking Joe the security guard. “The Russian Bears Boss” repeated Flabby. “ Well why the fcuk, didn’t you say that at first Flabby!” shouted the Boss, making Joe spill his tea.

    “The Russian Bears are listening Boss” tried Flabby again. “ Are listening to fcuking what?” shouted a raging Boss making Joe squeeze his doughnut too hard, getting jam all over his uniform. “The Russian Bears are listening to us Boss” tried Flabby again. “ It’s not surprising you lump of shite, every fcuker east of Cyprus can hear you, say what you mean and stop fcuking me about you twat!” shouted the Boss, less than diplomatically. “ The Russians have bugged the embassy and us Boss” said a now desperate Flabby. “Then why the fcuk didn’t you say that in the first place Flabby?” shouted the Boss but Joe was ready for him this time and only knocked an ashtray onto the floor. “So what do I do now Boss” asked Flabby, glad he had got his message across so well. “How the fcuk should I know” shouted the Boss and put the phone down, walked out of the office and slammed the door so hard that Joe’s fire bucket fell off the wall. “Fcuking amateurs” was heard time after time as the Boss walked to his car. The Falafel residents went back to Kebabstan’s Match of the Day with Falafel Rovers playing Doner United and Couscous Wanderers playing Gyros FC and they were quite used to being listened to by the Russians but were really glad there weren’t any bears that would have been serious.

    “So what do we do now Flabby?” asked Ryan. “We go as planned” replied Flabby but nervous at having to make the decision himself, it would have sounded so much better coming from the Boss. “We go at midnight as planned” said Flabby and tapped his watch, which had stopped, and the glass fell out. “Fcuking Rolex’ said Flabby gritting his teeth. “Don’t you mean fcuking Rolllex?” joked Ryan showing off his highly tactical Snoopy watch. “I suppose I could just ask the Russians why they are listening to us” said Prendergast surprising them all totally. “I do know Ivan quite well, play bridge with him and tennis” he added. The teams just stared at him dumbfounded. “I’ll give him a tinkle” said Prendergast punching numbers into a rather large mobile phone.

    “Hi Ivan, its Teddy” said Prendergast walking up and down the pan. “How’s the spying going?” “They didn’t?” “They didn’t?” “They didn’t?” “They didn’t?” “They didn’t?” “They did?” went on Prendergast. “ Look Ivan, I’ve got nine of my lads here, yes SAS that’s right and yes they’re going to Iranistan, yes midnight, that’s right as well and blow up the nuke facility, yes that’s right, yes invasion, that’s right as well but then why did you bug us, yes I know you always bug us but then why did you bug them?” he went on. “You wanted to hear what the Yanks said, ok thanks Ivan” said Prendergast and pocketed his phone but only just, mobiles weren’t so mobile in Kebabstan. “There’s your answer boys, it’s the Yanks” explained Prendergast.

    There had been a build up of troops for months now, the Americans had ample troops in the north of Kebabstan but had similar numbers in Turkistan and the Royal Dutch Shell Republic of Arabia and were ready to strike. There had been frantic negotiations in the UN but mainly at OPEC as oil production would be temporarily halted if there was a conflict in any shape or form. The Americans had considered a direct invasion too dangerous but had asked their most loyal allies to clear the way as it was election year in the US and body bags do not make good electioneering. The British government still led by Tony Blair in his eighth term as PM had agreed and tasked the SAS to prepare the ground for the US led invasion. Gordon Brown from his retirement home had not agreed with the action and John Prescott had just dribbled while watching Countdown.

    The US president Arnold Schwarzenoder although just another puppet of that Irish-American family that seemed to like getting shot for a living, had won the last election on a promise of free beer for all Vietnam veterans and that everybody would have the chance to speak English (American) as well as he could. He had been in intense discussions with the Iranistans and at a meeting at Tehrun had promised he would be back much to the amusement of the media but to the surprise of the Iranistans as all his films are banned in Iranistan and they just thought he meant another meeting. Of course the real reason to invade Iranistan was because President Arnie felt that human rights issues were paramount and was thinking of all the extra royalties when the Iranistanis could watch his films or DVDs of Mass Destruction as they were called in the press.

    “So what do you think now?” asked Flabby looking at Prendergast. “Well I could ask the Yanks, if you want” replied Prendergast, struggling to get his mobile back out of his pocket. “I know Hank quite well, we are both Masons and he is the president of my badminton club. He punched in the numbers on his mobile and held it to his ear, covering his face and blocking out the sun for at least five of the team. “Hi Hank” he shouted again walking up and down the pan. “They didn’t?” “They didn’t?” “They didn’t?” “They didn’t?” “They didn’t?” “They did?” “Sorry, forgot to ask how the spying is going?” “And the wife?” “yes, I know she’s not a spy but she does know a good recipe for Fillet of Halibut on a Bed of Buttered Spinach with Grapes and Tarragon Cream Sauce” Ryan’s ears pricked up at this and he made a mental note to add this to his next book ‘Cooking with Compo’ available from all good bookstores or direct from the regiment, address as follows: SAS Publishing Ltd, Sterling Road, Hereford, HF99 9XX or phone 000 999 1234567 or on the website www.sas-publishing.com or email: Sales@sas-publishing.com

    “We would blame the Irish” said Prendergast still pacing the pan. “Oh, you’ve already blamed the Irish” ‘ They have a WHAT?” he exploded. “This is fcuking serious” his tone more serious now. “Right I’ll tell ‘em but I don’t know if they will” Ok, bye Hank, love to the wife and the one in the US” and he hung up, squeezing the mobile back into his pocket. Prendergast looked deadly serious now and his hand shook but then ‘trade attaches’ usually had a drink problem, in fact it was statutory requirement for the job.
    “Right boys listen” said Prendergast cutting himself short as a small, withered European woman walked rather close to them. “Fcuk off Kate!” they all shouted. Kate Edie had been a journalist back in the first Iraqistan bash and had caused more deaths than the Iraqistan forces as she had made soldiers pose for the camera and had slept her way through the forces, brigade-by-brigade and division by division. There must be a leak somewhere if she was fishing around here and maybe more leaks than usual as there were always leaks or moles or whistleblowers in any conflict. Mentally deranged politicians would suddenly fly to the opponent’s capital and start important discussions about bugger all as they thought nobody would bomb the crap out of them while they were there. Oh, how wrong they could be as in the case of Dennis Dumfries an obnoxious Scottish MP who started a party on his own because nobody else would have him but while sat in the Iraqistan capital playing with his Medallions of Pork with a Mustard & Cognac Sauce on a Minted Potato Cake with Wilted Spinach, a cruise missile came in and devastated the sweet trolley and him as well.

    “Right boys listen in” said Prendergast and Knocker returned to the throng after kicking Kate Edie down the pan. “The whole thing is a cover-up, there are nuclear facilities and they are trying to develop the bomb but this has come straight from the White House and I was lucky to get this, Hank owed me one and it’s the Irish that are to blame or as you lot would say, the Northern Irish. The remnants of the IRA and INLA and CIRA are all involved in criminal activities now. We know they aren’t terrorists anymore but there’s big money in pirate DVD’s and there’s a copying facility right next to the nuclear facility. The president has sanctioned a strike on the nuclear facility to blow up the copying facility and the eventual transformation to democracy will net him millions as his DVDs of Mass Destruction are sold throughout Iranistan and probably neighbouring countries as well”.

    The boys looked on dumbfounded. They were used to slippery politicians, there weren’t any other sort but such a scheme to come from so high up was amazing and not for the principles of civil liberties or human rights or justice but just straight forward hard cash. “Fcuking actors should stay out of politics” said Jock. “It seems this one has” said Nige, astute as ever. “I know one thing” said Nige. “I bet nobody in the media will ever be asking if there were any DVDs of Mass Destruction” he concluded and slapped Flabby on the back trying to comfort him. Rab C woke up and bit him through the smock.
    Just to reiterate, this is just a story, it is historically inaccurate, factually inaccurate, logistically inaccurate, militarily inaccurate, medically inaccurate, geographically inaccurate, scientifically inaccurate, grammatically inaccurate and prone to bad spelling.

    Chapter Four

    Flabby looked at his watch and both the hands fell off onto the floor. He ripped it off and threw it against the wall and smashing it into small pieces. The Puma pilots were settled down on a row of seats and some dozed, some just scratched their parts and some still swapped moustache stories. There was still five hours to go until they were scheduled to go and Flabby thought he would let the boys get their heads down or whatever. An hour before lift off and all kit would be checked and half an hour before lift off a final check. Prendergast had gone back to the Embassy as it was Families Night for the staff and the embassy chef would knock up his masterpiece of cod and chips with mushy peas. Not quite suitable for a Kebabstani but good traditional British food washed down with bottles of Puke, the local beer that despite the name was actually quite good. It did cause some confusion as if somebody said they were going to puke, you never knew whether to dive for cover or get your bottle opener out.

    The big boot fair was finally wrapping up and Flabby suddenly realised that when it came time to synchronize watches he would have a big problem so he wandered out onto the pan and tried to a find a replacement watch for his replacement for the replacement. Rikshaw came with him but the others just dozed on the seats except Smudge who had two cigarettes and a pipe on the go and didn’t want to be disturbed. The two walked down the pan eyeing up the stalls that were either packed up or in the process of packing up. Flabby spotted a stall selling watches and especially a Sieko Kinetic, a Rolls-Royce amongst watches. The stallholder wanted 120,000 burgers but Flabby wouldn’t pay more than 100,000 and a deal was struck, he paid with his SAS Visa card so as to get the Air Miles. Flabby strapped his new watch onto his wrist and stuffed the box, guarantee and instructions into his pocket disturbing a rather hungry Rab C who bit him, just in case it was food. Flabby found a stall selling some sort of cereal bar and stuffed it in his pocket whereupon Rab C ate it complete with wrapper then bit him in thanks.

    The local currency, the burger was under threat as the Kebabstani government and the Kebabstani Central Bank wanted to change to the Middle Eastern Euro as currency but people were set in their ways. They could remember when Kebabstan had an empire, well not quite an empire, actually two allotments and a garden shed in nearby Turkistan but still the basis of an empire. People remembered when the grass was greener but the grass was seldom green, more a sunburnt brown and the snow was whiter but the one ski resort in Kebabstan hadn’t opened since 1890 as it hadn’t snowed since then but an elder from a small village in the region had remembered the snow was very white to start with but quickly turned shades of yellow or brown due to the appalling sanitary facilities in the area. There was to be referendum next year about changing to the ME Euro but that wouldn’t affect the two teams in the slightest.

    Rikshaw wandered the rest of the boot fair and then he spotted someone. It was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Long jet-black hair flowed down onto perfect shoulders, a sublime figure and to die for legs, she was just the perfect woman and humungous teats and a great arrse as well. Rikshaw waltzed over to her and introduced himself to her, it was love and lust at first sight and had he been capable of stirring then something would have definitely stirred by now. “Hi, I’m Rikshaw” he said staring at somebody he knew he loved. It was himself as he could see his own reflection in her sunglasses. She took off her glasses and revealed beautiful almond shaped eyes, two of them as well. “Hi, I’m Fatima Charrington but you can call me Fat” she replied, her seductive mouth just oozed sexuality and she had obviously had spinach recently as there was piece stuck in those perfect white teeth. :What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asked, using the army issue chat up line number four. She just groaned, apparently the chat up line had travelled this far already. “I’m after an artificial leg for my mum” came the answer, not quite what he had expected. “Did you find one?’ he asked. “I found a stall selling artificial legs but the stallholder had just hopped off for a minute” she replied.

    The conversation carried on, neither moving, just looking into each other’s eyes which was awkward as they were almost run over by two stallholders and a bin lorry. He found out that she was a surgeon at the Mr Kipling Hospital in Falafel specializing in microsurgery. She found out he was part of a trade delegation but didn’t believe him, it was probably the SAS beret that gave the game away and the smock and the special visitor’s pass he wore which read “Guest SAS Visitor”. He found out that corporate sponsorship was huge in this part of the world and that Mr Kipling did exceedingly good hip replacements and that a local undertaker Domestos & Son buried 99% of all clients dead and that on the Audi highway going to the Doner region, Audi cars had right of way because of Vorsprung Durch Technik. Yes it was certainly big here and the world of advertising ruled supreme.

    He could feel her pressing against him and he thought he could feel something stirring and it wasn’t Rab C as he was with Flabby but then she asked him. “It was a Dremel wasn’t it?” He nodded amazed at her diagnostic skills. “And a scale model of the Tirpitz, no the Bismarck” He was gob smacked, the accuracy of her diagnosis. He had seen doctors and he had seen books and videos and taken tablets but nothing had caused the slightest twinge but just by pressing against him she had woken feelings in him, long dormant. “I can fix it you know” she said. “And then it has to be tried out afterwards” she added seductively. He could feel his ears sticking out as the blood had to rush somewhere. “Yes, a local anaesthetic, ten minutes of micro surgery and you should be ok again” He was amazed it was that easy. “When?” he asked. “Anytime you want, now even” she replied.

    “Flabby!” the population of Falafel jumped as Rikshaw shouted. Flabby saw him not far away and made his way over seeing Fat for the first time, she was a stunner and what a moustache, it would have made the Puma pilots jealous to a man. Rikshaw explained and pleaded with Flabby for the chance to regain the use of the equipment for his former hobby. “If you’re not back, one hour before we go, you’re in shite street” said Flabby. He wasn’t sure if Rikshaw was going to stay behind the action at a command base or was going to come with them but since the itinerary had changed then why not go with the flow. “Ok, Rikshaw but if you’re not back don’t bother coming back” Fat and Rikshaw made their way towards the Mr Kipling Hospital and Flabby wondered why Rikshaw’s ears were sticking out but that wasn’t that important now. He had a watch to wind up so jumped up and down on the spot attracting the attention of the locals who thought he had had too much sun or too much Puke and Rab C not taking to this, threw up his half digested cereal bar in Flabby’s pocket and then bit him at the first chance available.

    It was one hour to go, eleven local time and Rikshaw had made it back and walked about with a permanent erection. “Is that going to get in the way Rikshaw?” asked Flabby. “You can’t lie on the fcuker” said Jock. “You’re not lying near me, I’m fcuked if I want to be stabbed from behind” added Knocker. “Shame we didn’t bring a flag, I know where we could hoist it” joked Nige. Rikshaw was full of himself, well not quite so full now as he had spent an hour catching up for lost time before running back poking his new found erection into any convenient hole. He had been ruthless and what had been peepholes no matter at what height, had been used for his self-gratification and the local peephole community were so very glad they had brought tissues with them after Rikshaw’s performance but thought that their faces were so much softer.

    The time ticked on, even Flabby’s new watch played ball though he did have to jump up and down on the spot a bit too often for his liking especially when checking the PE and the detonators. Half an hour to go and the Puma crews appeared on the scene again, no more moustache stories, they were deadly serious now, totally professional and focused on the job in hand. A technician did the final checks on the Pumas, the ashtrays were emptied, the peanut bowls topped up, the drinks cabinets replenished, the carpet hoovered, the floor waxed and the rotary things on the top counted and double counted, this was serious stuff. Rikshaw tried to check all the kit in the Pumas but kept getting caught on his erection but had mastered getting in and out of them. “Thank fcuk, it’s not a Wessex” he thought as there was that exhaust duct just as you got in and he didn’t want his newly found erection anywhere near that exhaust, it was a hot hole but the sort to steer well clear of.

    The teams split up and Flabby, Ryan, Smudge and Knocker jumped into the first Puma while Danny Boy, Taff, Jock and Nige jumped in the second with Rikshaw who Flabby had decided would be more of an asset with them. The Pumas taxied to the end of the runway and lifted off into the night sky. They looked down on Falafel and suddenly fell in a heap as the Pumas narrowly missed a large tower with a huge ‘M’ on the top of it. “Muslim” said Jock.” “Bollox, it’s that fcuking burger bar” said Nige. Rikshaw fell on the PE and left a large indentation courtesy of his erection. In the other Puma, Rab C did not take lightly to being crushed so bit Flabby through several layers of clothing. Apparently body armour could stop a round but could do nothing against the bite of a semi squashed angry hamster. Flabby fed Ran C from the handy peanut bowl and Rab C filled his pouches so he could bite Flabby again.

    They reached the border and could see the border checkpoint in the distance. Another large ‘M’ made it easy to see. “I’m loving it, am I fcuk” said Jock, always ready with a comment. The Pumas had switched off the air conditioning as this would give the Pumas a far greater range. They were flying low, hugging the contours of the land, trying not to be detected by the Iranistan radar. The targets lay deep in Iranistan territory and they desperately did not want to be detected. The Pumas had been modified with an anti-radar device that actually was ten rolls of aluminium foil stuck on with blue tack but this did break up the radar signature. The foil had actually been bought from a local Falafel supermarket and it was only the fact they had said they were having a very large pork roast that had stopped the staff at the supermarket inviting friends and family as the Kebabstanis never missed a good pish up and the possibility of free nosh. The blue tack had been bought from a local stationary stationery store that toured the commercial districts of Falafel and fortunately the airport as well when it wasn’t stationary.

    The Pumas were flying close to a main road but would head into the desert on the odd time a car would appear. The pilot in Flabby’s Puma was talking to the co-pilot and there seemed to be a hell of a lot of gesticulating going on. Flabby tried to find out what was going on but a sudden movement as a car appeared caused him to fall, squashing Rab C who didn’t bite him this time not straightaway but waited a couple of minutes and then bit him. All of a sudden the Pumas slowed and landed on the road. Flabby wondered what the fcuk was going on as they were still several miles from the first drop off point. With rotors still turning, the co-pilot got out with his map and walked from the helicopter. A couple of minutes passed and he returned. Flabby overheard him telling the pilot to go straight until the first traffic lights and hang a left. The co-pilot had wanted to check his personal TumTum satellite navigation device as the anti radar modification had rendered the Puma’s device inoperative and had found a road sign and checked they were on the right road. He had also seen an encampment of the Tsatsiki tribe and asked directions. The Tsatsikis were opposed to the Iranistani government and were nomads and dealers in scrap metal. It seems the Puma crews were well briefed and it wasn’t the strange action it had seemed at the time.

    Finally after half an hour, the first drop off point was reached and Team Bravo, Danny Boy, Taff, Jock and Nige jumped out and starting pulling kit out. Flabby jumped out of his Puma and checked that Danny Boy was fully briefed and up to scratch on what had to be done. “Good luck Danny Boy” said Flabby, shaking Danny Boy’s hand with a firm grip. Meanwhile Rikshaw spent five minutes trying to pull something out of the back of the Puma, only to find it was his own erection. “It’s piece of pish, so it is” said Danny Boy returning the grip. “See you back in Falafel” said Flabby and climbed into the Puma and watched Team Bravo still unloading as they took off and headed for their drop off point. Danny Boy, Taff, Jock and Nige set up an all round defence while Rikshaw tried to get near enough to the kit to check it. Their Puma took off and headed back to Falafel hoping there was a lock in at the officer’s mess when they got back, they felt like a drink, those peanuts make you so thirsty and those greedy SAS barstewards had cleaned out the drinks cabinet.

    Flabby sat in the back picking lumps of peanut out of a particularly nasty wound courtesy of Rab C who was suffering from airsickness and was now snuggled up in a sick bag with a field dressing as bedding. The Puma flew on for a further twenty minutes or so when the co-pilot gave them the thumbs up. “Does he think we’re going to fcuking jump?” he said to himself and to Rab C who farted loudly then went back to sleep. The Puma landed and they all dragged their gear from the back of the helicopter. As soon as the gear was out, the three went into an all round defence position while Flabby paid the Puma pilot. These defence cuts are ridiculous he thought to himself as the pilot swiped his SAS Visa card but he was glad of the Air Miles. The pilot shouted at him that if they required picking up then they would have to give fourteen days written notice and that a non-returnable deposit would have to be paid. Flabby thanked him and crossed him off his Christmas card list, not that he ever sent them anyway. The pilot gave a thumb up and Flabby stuck up a finger in response and the Puma raced off just in case there was a lock in the officer’s mess and really happy that the drinks cabinet was still full.

    Flabby called in Ryan and told him to find somewhere that would be well camouflaged during the day as they would have to wait until the following evening before moving off. They would have to sleep during the day and move at night but the desert wasn’t as deserted as you would think during the day so particular care had to be taken. They moved the kit to a small cave under a rock overhang that would give them ideal cover during the day. Flabby asked Ryan to knock something simple up, just three courses and it didn’t have to be hot but they needed to eat before morning. Ryan grabbed his Heckler O’Koch an excellent Irish assault rifle, fitted the silencer attachment and headed off into the night. A quarter of an hour later and narrowly avoiding being shot by Knocker, he reappeared with a couple rabbits or what was left of them as he must have pumped five hundred rounds into them.

    The three of them settled down to a meal. Knocker was on stag but would eat after the first one of them finished.” I hope you’ve got some fcuking ammo left?” Flabby asked Ryan spitting out another round from the pan-fried rabbit with lemon grass dressing. The dressing was sublime and complemented the metal of the rounds perfectly. They finished off the main course, demolished the sweet and wolfed down the coffee, cheese and biscuits. This was really roughing it. “No fcuking starter” thought Flabby. He took over from Knocker who grabbed his portion of rabbit and crunched loudly on the rounds. Smudge stuck on another patch and smoked his pipe, his cigar and three cigarettes. Their Puma had been a non-smoking one, apparently you have to stipulate smoking or non-smoking when you book and somebody had neglected to do this. He checked on Rab C who was fast asleep in the field dressing in the sick bag but woke briefly, scratched his ear, licked his bum and went back to sleep. It seemed that even Rab C was preparing for the days to come.

    Just to reiterate, this is just a story, it is historically inaccurate, factually inaccurate, logistically inaccurate, militarily inaccurate, medically inaccurate, geographically inaccurate, scientifically inaccurate, grammatically inaccurate and prone to bad spelling.

    Chapter Five

    The sun was slowly rising over the desert as Flabby looked out from behind a small knoll. The others were out for the count and even Rab C could be heard snoring in the bottom of the sick bag cuddled up in the field dressing. There was a slight smell of hamster puke but it didn’t bother Flabby and it certainly didn’t bother Rab C either, who stretched first one leg, then the other, farted, then drifted off again dreaming of biting gigantic fingers. It was an empty landscape, just a few scrub trees and some wispy sunburnt grass and loads and loads of sand. It reminded Flabby of his holiday as a youth before he had joined the army. They, him and a couple of friends had pitched the tent in a campsite in Lowestoft but due to a serious compass reading error, had pitched the tent the wrong side of the sea wall and Flabby had been the only one not to be rescued by the coastguard as the others had floated out to sea on their lilos.

    He thought of how well his books had done and h
  7. The follow up

    Just to reiterate, this is just a story, it is historically inaccurate, factually inaccurate, logistically inaccurate, militarily inaccurate, medically inaccurate, geographically inaccurate, scientifically inaccurate, linguistically inaccurate, religiously inaccurate, tactically inaccurate, diabolically inaccurate, grammatically inaccurate and prone to bad spelling and speling mist-aches.

    Chapter One

    Flabby tooted his horn. Then realising nobody had heard it, tooted the car horn. There was one good thing you could say about the Suzuki Alto and that was that the horn was excellent. It really was the only good thing anybody had said about the Alto. The well-known journalist and broadcaster Jeremy Clarkson had placed it at the top of the ‘Ideal vehicle for a bag lady’ list and had spent forty minutes of one edition of Top Gear slagging it off. Flabby didn’t care, the Fiat Seicento had been just too small, just one six-pack of Lofty-Brau and the boot had been full, the hamsters never had enough legroom and the kids usually had to run behind.

    Joe, the security guard fell off his chair. The Alto did have a good horn as he usually slept for most of his shift unless the security state was high, then he just dozed. He raised the barrier and waved as Flabby crawled through. “Flabby, you’ve forgotten something!” he shouted. Realising his mistake, Flabby crawled back, jumped in the Alto and drove through. He parked his car in his designated space ignoring the bicycle somebody had parked there. He jumped out and threw the mangled wreckage of what had once been a bicycle into the nearby skip. “Strange, I’ve never seen staff plates on a bicycle before” he said to himself confirming some form of madness but not really caring.

    He wandered into the squadron office and swapped Pleasantries with Tom Riddle, the squadron clerk for the moment. Pleasantries are a free gift available from the local Soddo petrol station and similar to the crap toys you get in those small chocolate eggs. It is in fact, a small toy that you build from dozens of small fiddly pieces, is designed for 7-12 year olds and had really taken off in the military world. You got one free after every four gallons or 800 litres depending on how bad you are at imperial to metric conversion. So Pleasantries swapped, Flabby picked up his mail and feasted his eyes on Tom’s replacement. It was nice to have a woman about the place and she was all woman. Her long blond hair cascaded down her back. Obviously, some form of scalp complaint thought Flabby, never having seen a partially bald woman before. This was Melanie (Melons) Grapelli who was to take over when Tom finally departed. “Hope she gets her hair sorted out before then,” thought Flabby and headed for the briefing room.

    Flabby spotted the rest of his troop sat altogether on one side of the briefing room. Due to a severe lack of manpower and a bad case of writer’s block, there were some familiar faces. ‘Knocker’ Down was there, as was ‘Danny Boy’ Dhmorerghahenaienain (Wilkins) and finally ‘Nige’ Nigel Ruperting-Smythe. It was the old team again and some had been pulled from instructor’s posts or desk jobs just to make up the numbers. Flabby couldn’t remember who the Defence Secretary was this week but he wished he would do something about the financial cutbacks that were severely restricting the regiment. “Who the fcuk’s that lot?” asked Knocker pointing to the other side of the briefing room. “I see you haven’t lost any of your subtlety Knocker,” said Flabby, smiling at Knocker’s ability to say exactly what everybody was thinking. “They look like fcuking authors to me,” Knocker continued. “Fcuking hate authors” he added, glaring at the other side of the briefing room. “Especially those fcukers that write spoofs” he was in full swing now. “Think they’re funny but they know fcuk all” his outburst was attracting attention. “What you looking at, typo boy? He asked nobody in particular, staring demonically at the other troop.

    Fortunately the briefing started. The Boss appeared on the scene and all sat rigid in due respect. Knocker picked his nose and farted loudly. “Fcuking spoofs, all of them,” he muttered to himself and nonchalantly scratched his arrse. The whole hierarchy was there, the CO, all the officers and even the RSM. Strangely, the RSM’s stick appeared to be held together by black masking tape. “Gentlemen” said the CO and everybody looked up except Knocker who was still scratching his arrse. “Gentlemen, your squadron OCs have been briefed. They will pass on all the relevant details and hopefully some of the irrelevant ones as well” He paused for a response to his joke and a crawling little shite somewhere sniggered then shut up as nobody else was laughing. “Had to fcuking be them,” grumbled Knocker. “All that’s left is to wish you a safe journey there and back and don’t let the regiment down,” concluded the CO. “Sit up” bawled the RSM leaning on his stick which broke into two pieces and fell on the floor with a loud clatter. The CO left the briefing room and the RSM, picked up the pieces of his stick, glared at everybody daring anybody to laugh and left the room with as much dignity as he could muster.

    Major Edward ‘Teddy’ O’Bayre greeted the troop. “Fcuking suits” grumbled Knocker, hating all officers with a real vengeance. “Don’t need ‘em, don’t fcuking want ‘em” he continued. “How’s thing’s Knocker?” asked Teddy. “Oh, fine sir thank you very much and how’s the wife and little Rupert?” grovelled Knocker trying to keep a straight face. “Fine thank you, on solids now and soon be walking,” explained Teddy. “And Rupert?” asked Knocker pushing it to the limit. Teddy glared at Knocker and Knocker finally shut up. He picked his other nostril and tried flicking what he had found at the other troop.

    “Who has heard of Bogezuela?” asked Teddy and wasn’t surprised that nobody knew. “According to OUR intelligence, Bogezuela is a landlocked country that lies between Chile and Argentina and is so narrow that you don’t often see it on a map. The President is a left wing suit called Hugo Chavez and he has definite intentions on being a pain in the arrse. He has already invaded Argentina,” explained Teddy. “So fcuking what, I’ve invaded Argentina twice already” said Knocker never really impressed with anything. “His brother is the leader of a drugs cartel and the other mob will be taking Mr Emilio Chavez out and his little industry. We will be assisting the Argentinean Special Forces in making Mr Hugo Chavez see the error of his ways” Jaws dropped all around as the fact that they were going to assist the Argies was quite a revelation.

    “Who has heard of Chavs?” asked Teddy. Who hadn’t would have been nearer the mark. “Caught one pishing up my hedge the other week,” said Knocker determined to get a word in edgeways. “Good job I’d taken an MP5 home with me. Stuck it up his fcuking nostril, then the fcuker shat himself as well” he concluded. Teddy decided to ignore the slight breach of military discipline and continued with the brief. “The reason that Chavs are called Chavs is because they follow the example of Hugo Chavez. I don’t mean they invade foreign countries, in fact it’s just the dress sense or lack of that they copy. You don’t think that wearing a hood when it’s a hundred in the shade is anything else other than fashion. And those baggy trousers and everything several sizes too big, it’s all off a web site run by Chavez and he markets and sells a lot of the clothing as well. If we take him out we can not only get a million brownie points off Argentina and they’ll hopefully conveniently forget about their territorial claim on the Falklands or the Malvinas as they call them but we get to tidy up the youth of today” concluded Teddy, gasping for air as Knocker had let one go again. “Oh and I forgot to say, they have oil. So if we don’t get them first then the yanks will,” said Teddy leaving the most important point until last.

    “Sir, do you get to wear a white suit like in Ultimate Force?” asked Knocker still intent on annoying Teddy. “Yes” replied Teddy, not rising to the bait. “We need somebody to shag then,” joked Knocker, he hated Ultimate Force but he watched every episode. “Listen up then” said Teddy and Knocker ignored him and fiddled with his balls. “We fly in civvies to Buenos Aires and then onto San Juan and then it will get tactical. All the kit will go in a Hercules and should be there to meet us. If not somebody please take a pack of cards” Nobody laughed but then most of them had been there before. Stuck in some godforsaken spot and armed to the teeth with a Swiss Army knife, it just wasn’t funny and it didn’t bear thinking about. Even the Swiss Army knife wasn’t a ‘cert’ anymore, as sharp objects weren’t allowed on civilian aircraft now. “Yer right” joked Knocker. “I’ll toothpick the fcuking pilot to death if he doesn’t take me to Cuba” Knocker had a way with words and an individual style. He just said what he thought without thinking first or so he thought.

    “This is the regimental transport,” said Teddy as they sat on a minibus heading for Heathrow Airport. “You can’t always use the helicopters, they’re not taxis” explained the voice of reason and common sense but falling on deaf ears. “Even the fcuking REME call helicopters Cabs” said Knocker knowingly, sticking up a finger at a small boy, sat in the passenger seat of a car behind them. “Stop that Knocker!” Knocker pulled up his trousers, settled back in the seat and mumbled to himself. He was actually talking but nobody was listening. They were all in civvies and Teddy WAS wearing the white suit with a neckerchief and suede shoes. “Looks like Martin Bell” mumbled Knocker. “Or that silly fcuker of an occifer in Ultimate Force” he continued. The journey was tedious but the driver put on the radio and they all sang along to Black Lace’s Agadoo that Radio SAS played rather too often for comfort. The traffic was terrible as they neared the airport and the driver pulled out the blue t1t from the glove box and stuck it on the roof. With the light flashing and the siren going, they made excellent time and arrived a couple of hours before they were due to fly out.

    “Not exactly subtle was it?” moaned Knocker but glad he was out of the minibus. “Tactical as fcuk” he said and pulled his bergen from the back of the bus. The rest had the SAS design luggage, mostly in blue but with the ’Armalite” badge clearly visible. “You can drive a truck over these and it doesn’t hurt them,” explained Nige. “Drive a fcuking truck over that barsteward, wouldn’t hurt us” moaned Knocker pointing to Teddy who was strolling through the airport. “More like fcuking mincing” said Knocker not letting up. “Sure we’re on our way, so we are,” shouted Danny Boy over Knocker’s moaning and they all headed for the check-in counter.

    They walked through the airport building, the amount of droopy moustaches seemed to increase and that was just the women. They knew they couldn’t be far from the check-in for the Argentinean airline, Aero Pepperminto. They saw their flight on the board, noted the flight number but failed to tell the author so he either has to guess or he has to try and work round it. Teddy walked up to the first desk with their passports and tickets and spoke to the check-in clerk, a Mrs Malvinas. Stroking her long droopy moustache with one hand, she typed the details into the computer using the other. “This isn’t real,” she said to Teddy. “I know it’s not real, it’s a story and we are really in the hands of the author,” replied Teddy. “No, I mean the moustache isn’t real,” said Mrs Malvinas pulling off her moustache revealing her true Latin beauty and a slightly smaller moustache though not quite so droopy. “I have to ask you some questions,” she continued stroking the smaller, less droopy moustache. “Did you pack your bags yourself?” It was the standard security spiel and she went through the lot. No, they didn’t have any weapons, pornography, scissors, nail files, thermo nuclear devices or inflammable shoes. “What about those w@nkers?” she asked pointing to the rest. Teddy looked at her surprised at the use of the word ‘w@nkers”, it wasn’t as if she knew them. “My husband Mr Malvinas was killed on the Islas Malvinas by an SAS officer called Falkland” explained Mrs Malvinas and Teddy wondered how she knew they were SAS as he was wearing a Devon and Dorset’s neckerchief. “I have sworn to kill him,” continued Mrs Malvinas and Teddy wondered where the fcuk they got their check-in clerks from, as this one was a raving loony.

    From nowhere, two armed police officers jumped on Mrs Malvinas. One pinned her arms, the other held her by the moustache. A figure behind Teddy spoke and Teddy almost shat himself. “She was going to kill you,” said a suited figure that had appeared at roughly the same time as the armed police officers. “She’s working for Chavez,” explained the suit. “Her husband was killed on the Falklands and by an SAS officer and Chavez just exploited her hatred,” he further explained. He spoke into his jacket lapel and a second suit appeared carrying a suitcase. “Shall we all go into an office?” insisted suit one and they all followed him into an office at the back of the airport. It was crowded in the small office with the two suits, the two armed police officers and the five SAS men but they did fit in and crowded round a table where the suitcase sat on top still unopened. “Don’t panic, its safe now,” said suit two and nobody moved except the two armed police officers who shuffled behind Knocker. Inside the suitcase was enough PE to take out an airport let alone an aircraft. “She’d already put it through under somebody else’s name” explained suit one. “We were just waiting for you to turn up then we could arrest her,” explained suit two. “Fcuk me sideways” said Knocker and the two armed police officers behind him shuffled back nearer the door but well away from him.

    The excitement over, the troop piled out of the office and checked with the new check-in clerk if in fact they were checked in or not. “I’ll check,” said the replacement check-in clerk stroking his droopy moustache with one hand and punching the keyboard with the other. Teddy was a bit worried with the punching but he just put it down to a Latin temperament and/or a shite keyboard. “Storming or non-storming?” asked the replacement check-in clerk not believing Teddy’s story that they were visiting Argentina on the request of the Argentinean Meat Marketing Board. “Load of bullocks” whispered the replacement check-in clerk to himself. “Pardon?” asked Teddy but the replacement check-in clerk refused to repeat it. So with boarding cards and nice seats in the non-storming section, the troop sat down again and waited to be called. The bingbong bingbonged and the announcement for their flight was broadcast over the PA system. “Will all (hiss)gers for Flight (hiss) please report to (hiss ) 43” The call was repeated but with even more hisses and even less easy to understand so the illustrious four and Knocker made their way to Gate 43 and were welcomed onboard the Boeing 757 by the droopiest moustache they had seen all day. “We’re on our way, so we are,” said Danny Boy. “Bollox” said Knocker emptying the contents of an overhead locker over half a dozen passengers. One stood up to confront Knocker but thought better of it and sat back down again. He sat there wearing the blanket over him looking like Mother Teresa except for the droopy moustache of course. “Fcuking suits you mate” said Knocker and slammed the locker shut making most of the passengers jump out of their skins. He sat down, tied the seat belt round his leg, farted a couple of times and tried to get some sleep.

    Chapter Two

    The flight was boring. The in-flight movie was The Mask of Zorro but in Spanish, a co-production between Uruguay and Argentina and featured some of the droopiest moustaches ever seen on film. “I could hide a fcuking platoon behind that fcuker” was Knocker’s comment and not likely to nudge Jonathan Woss off Film whatever. Much of the swordplay was hidden by the moustaches and much of the actors as well and the dialogue was so bad there were subtitles but they were in Portuguese. “Fcuking waste of fcuking time” went on the film critic and hit the LCD screen causing the man in front to spill tomato soup down his leg. He stood up dripping with soup but seeing Knocker, sat back down again. To pass the time Danny Boy went for a dump and did not press the button and won the sweepstake as twenty-five seconds was the longest anybody spent in that trap after his parting gift. “Like a fcuking log, so it was” bragged Danny Boy. “Yer, you’re as thick as one,” said Knocker and Flabby had to pull the pair apart. They hit some turbulence and Nige set up a Spanish school teaching them handy Spanish phrases like ‘That wing is falling off’ or ‘How serious is undercarriage failure’ or ‘Can anybody fly a plane’. It passed the time and kept them out of mischief.

    So after many hours, the plane circled over Buenos Aires ready to land. The pilot gave his spiel and told them the weather was warm with the possibility of a Junta later on in the day. Teddy made a note to look that word up and settled back for the landing. The pilot made a faultless landing on the wrong runway and they waited in the heat until a tractor could tow them to the airport proper. Once there, they all fought their way through fellow passengers and started the long walk towards immigration and customs. Immigration was a breeze, as the officials appeared to know exactly who they were and why they were there. Customs was slightly more difficult and it was only because of the timely intervention of a Captain Diego Belladonna of the Argentinean Special Forces that the customs officials came away with their lives. One had decided that Knocker was to have a full body search and it was when the official started putting on the rubber gloves that all hell let loose. To this day, there is still a pair of rubber gloves missing and only Knocker knows exactly where he put them or shoved them.

    Captain Belladonna shook Teddy’s hand and welcomed them to Argentina. He did shake Knocker’s hand but disappeared instantly to ‘go to the little muchacho’s room’. Once he had returned, he explained that there would be military transport to take them to San Juan. The Bogezuelans were just thirty miles away but the town had held firm after a couple of attacks and the Bogezuelans had withdrawn to regroup. He explained that intelligence on the ground suggested that the size of the Bogezuelan army would double within a week as reinforcements were being sent in so they did not have much time to act. “It is so strange, we end up on the same side,” said Captain Belladonna. He had been a raw recruit on the Falklands but had been treated well after capture and had even learned to love ‘cheese possessed’. “I like your suit Major O’Bayre” said Captain Belladonna. ”Are you taking the pish?” asked Teddy, glaring at the Argentinean who didn’t look as though he was. “No Teddy sir, no taking the Michael” assured Diego glancing nervously at Knocker who seemed ready to dive into the fray and not with words. “He’s an arrse but he’s our arrse,” explained Knocker to the rest of the troop, loud enough for all to hear. In fact loud enough for most of Buenos Aires to hear. “It is just like Ultimate Force, no?” declared Diego and Knocker laughed. “Cnut” he exclaimed but affectionately, he liked a joke and he liked Ultimate Force as well or liked slagging it off.

    They sat on the Hercules and apart from the safety demonstration being in Spanish, they could have just as easily been on an RAF Hercules. A fat droopy moustached AWAF (Argentinean Women’s Air Force) showed them the emergency exits, the oxygen mask and told them the in-flight movie would be Zorro Strikes Boringly Yet Again 2. They settled down next to the inevitable crates of chickens and tried to ignore the smell. That was Knocker again and he grinned from ear to ear. The flight was to take roughly three hours so they tried to make themselves as comfortable as possible. The Herc rolled down the runway but then the pilot put the foot brake on and the rolling stopped. With the engines burning and turning, the Herc lumbered to the end of the runway and awaited a call from the tower. A small man with a small but still droopy moustache leant of the tower window and shouted to the Herc pilot and despite the noise of the engines the pilot still managed to hear him. They were off, they thundered down the runway at the speed of a clapped out 2CV, and finally they were in the air.

    The pilot banked sharply and they headed off in the general direction of San Juan. The sprawling metropolis of Buenos Aires gave way to suburbia and then to remote farms. They were now flying over flat grasslands named after the disposable nappies, Pampas. It was because of the amount of cows there, the grasslands were full of shite. The plane suddenly banked and alarms were going off in the cockpit. “Chuff” said Knocker smiling as he was thrown about. “No, Chaff” said Teddy, pointing out the window and seeing the foil like Chaff floating to earth. “I said Chuff and I fcuking mean Chuff” reiterated Knocker and then it hit them, he had farted again. The co-pilot staggered in and explained that some nasty person had fired a missile at them but they had managed to avoid it, which did seem a bit fcuking obvious but they didn’t want to spoil his moment of glory. “Look at that” said Danny Boy, pointing at flocks of small birds attracted by the action. “Chaff Finches” joked Knocker. “Fcuk off” said Flabby and they settled down again for at least another forty-five minutes before they finally saw San Juan in the distance. San Juan was the capital of San Juan Province and was a thriving town or had been as all they could see was plumes of smoke. “That’s funny” said Diego. “I’m sure I turned the TV off before I left” he smiled, he was joking, the plumes of smoke were from chimneys as the grass had been cut and was now drying in huge plants. There was some evidence of some sort of conflict but if you don’t count the fact that, the MacFishburger was off MacDonaldo’s menu then, it was nothing really serious.

    They clambered out of the Herc, falling over as it hadn’t quite stopped yet and picking themselves up looked around. There were anti-aircraft guns in evidence and the good old fashioned but trusty Sabre system, the follow-up to the Rapier. There was some damage but the airport was obviously perfectly usable. A few hundred metres away as Argentina is metric, they spotted the RAF Herc. They hoped that all their kit was onboard. They had just a nail file between them as the fat AWAF had confiscated the rest and she was back in her billet combing her moustache after a long shift. They sauntered across to the RAF Herc and a solitary figure greeted them. It was the Loadmaster! “Here we fcuking go” said Knocker having had plenty of experience with ‘Loadies’ before. The Loadmaster saluted feebly and Teddy waved a hand nonchantly in return, not exactly a salute but then neither was the Loadmaster’s. The Loadmaster’s name was Dave. He was a civilian as ‘Loadies’ were now provided by the firm of Blistows, a Chinese subsidiary of Bristow’s Helicopters. He wasn’t Chinese but he did like crispy duck at least once a month. Dave explained that because of crew-time, the pilots could get out of bed or the bar for a further 72 hours but he could arrange the transfer of all the equipment. All he needed was a copy of Joint Services Form 1875470358, signed in triplicate with the pink copy initialled by an officer of at least the rank of captain and the blue flimsy counter-signed by a consulate or his deputy along with the Inter Service Transfer Form 115677B Part 4577, a passport, a UK driving licence and a Tesco Plus card as he collected the points. He said that all being well, the team should get their gear some time next week as long as the rains didn’t arrive and his pen didn’t run out.

    Dave sat in the back of the Herc holding a tissue to his bloody nose. Teddy was not happy but at least they were unloading their equipment. It was his mistake really as when Knocker and Danny Boy had said they would sort things out, he had given the go ahead. Dave had put up a fight but a flimsy is no match for Knocker in full diplomatic mode. “Hucking dastards” moaned Dave stuffing a tissue up each nostril. The kit was stuffed into the back of a lorry that Diego had provided, everybody jumped in and off they roared. The lorry roared through the San Juan one-way system usually going the wrong way but only Teddy in the front was able to see this. After twenty minutes or so of sheer terror and much praying, the lorry screeched to a halt at a large ranch type house. A large double garage was an ideal place to stash the gear except a couple laptops that were brought inside. The lorry, now empty of its cargo screeched off narrowly missing an old man and squashing two of his chickens.

    The ranch was an ideal location. It was private, it had broadband access and there was even a swimming pool though no water just a couple of lizards. Teddy binned the idea of a dip and checked the inside. “Don’t get too comfortable, we’re not staying long” he told the rest. “Set your kit up Nige” and Nige connected up the two laptops and switched them both on. He checked his emails, checked ARRSE and started looking for ways of finding the suppliers of Chavez’s ventures. They had to be in Bogezuela but where? Alternatively, maybe not Bogezuela, perhaps Argentina? They had been briefed back in Hereford but they were still really in the dark as the author was having real difficulty with the plot. “He should get his fcuking finger out” said Knocker, always up for a fight. “Half way round the fcuking world for fcuk all and working with fcuking Argies, the cnut must be pished” he ranted. “Can’t write a fcuking book to save his fcuking life, I reckon” he continued giving the author the chance to possibly steal the plot from another book. “My fcuking left bollick is more fcuking military than he is or ever was” once started there was never much chance of stopping him. “Well he was in the REME, so he was” interjected Danny Boy, feeling a bit left out and disappointed that the plot was going nowhere at the moment. “Dreamy fcuking REME” added Knocker, the veins sticking out on his forehead and halfway to a heart attack or at least a less significant role if he doesn’t shut the fcuk up.

    “Listen up then!” shouted Teddy, breaking up the argument though really it was just Knocker arguing with himself as the author wasn’t listening and neither was anybody else. “Right listen up, the plan such as it is, is to blow the bridge crossing the Rio Grundie river but AFTER the Bogezuelan troops have crossed it. They will be caught in a trap and with our or should I say their air power, they will wish they had stayed at home. Planes were already on standby at RAF Stanley and the penguins are looking forward to a few hours peace and quiet. Hugo Chavez himself is rumoured to be with the reinforcements and he is to be taken alive which is our secondary mission. Do you hear me Knocker? Alive!” Knocker mumbled something, a reply that involved sex and travel and then farted noisily. “Doesn’t sound like much of a mission, so it doesn’t” said Danny Boy. “Doesn’t sound like much of a fcuking story, Roy of the fcuking Irish Rangers, total shite” said Knocker constructively but acting like the total cnut that he is because its my story and he can either like it or fcuking lump it. “And what about the fcuking website then? Asked Knocker, a fair one but a tricky one. “Nige will stay here and try and locate the servers, the suppliers and anything else the author can make up in time to give the story any credibility” said Teddy hoping that it wouldn’t take long as he was dying for a pish. “Well it’s definitely not Tom Clancy” said Teddy and headed for the toilet. “So no fcuking Sean fcuking Bean then!” shouted Knocker just in case anybody in Argentina might miss what he said. “Thank fcuk for that” agreed Danny Boy who had never forgiven him for his accent in Patriot Games.

    So the vague thread of a plot explained to the troops, they settled down and did only what trained killers might do. Knocker whittled but got told off, as it was the table leg and the ranch was only rented. Nige posted on ARRSE and bought a USB stick that he decided to keep well away from Knocker when it came, as he would probably whittle that as well. Flabby oiled his MP5; Teddy brushed wood shavings off his white suit, as Knocker had been a bit careless while whittling and Diego tried to get a signal on the TV. They were due to leave in the morning so the kit was checked, double checked and then triple checked as Teddy had a bit of a bad memory and had totally forgotten about the double check. Teddy disappeared into one of the bedrooms and came back in full military gear, although Knocker did think the creases were a bit sharp. “Cut your fcuking ‘and off, they would,” he exclaimed to most of Buenos Aires who fortunately didn’t speak English or Knocker’s particular version of English.

    Chapter Three

    Nige was explaining to Teddy what he was doing. Using all his skill and knowledge and with loads of luck, Nige had found out that the web site was actually hosted by an Argentinean Media Company but that had quickly been superseded by a Bogezuelan media company. The web site had been designed using ‘Adobe Design a Shite Site for Chavs for Windows XP’ and using a few sneaky moves, Nige had found out that the registration details were embedded in the HTML of the web site design. Apparently the patch, SP2 does clear this problem up but luckily they had not upgraded. It was also an address in Argentina but just over the border from Bogezuela and the reasons were obvious or would soon be made obvious. Because of Chavez’s misrule, inflation in Bogezuela was running at 700% and despite having oil, they were struggling financially. Huge import duties were placed on foreign imports and made even the simplest Burberry item twice the price as in Argentina. Argentina wasn’t really interested in Burberry but was going through an economic boom and Burberry was actually made under licence in downtown Buenos Aires and two other factories elsewhere. Chavez had been pushing for economic agreements with Argentina but because of his left wing politics, they had refused to have anything to do with him. Even the dangling of the ‘oil carrot’ had not tempted Argentina. The days of Galtieri were long gone and Argentina was a huge manufacturing democracy and the largest producer of clothing outside China. They were the world’s largest manufacturers of gloves as the ‘Hand of God’ range had been a worldwide success particularly in Scotland but strangely not in England.

    Nige had a contact thanks to Diego and all action would be organized through an Antonio ‘Tony’ Rattin, the son of a famous footballer but also a member of the Argentinean Special Forces. All he had to do was say the word and the raids would go ahead. The reason that Chavez had invaded Argentina was really just flexing his muscles and trying to drag the Americans into the conflict such that it was but his hand had been forced when Argentina had cut off his supplies after some of his posturing. It was really a show as there had been very few casualties owing to the fact that despite the two attacks on San Juan, there had been very little serious action and action with a purpose. With no intervention, Chavez would probably just annexe any territory captured and would add several thousand square kilometres to Bogezuela. It also meant that he would control most of the clothing manufacture, as apart from Buenos Aires this was the centre of production. Wages were low, a work force was plentiful and apart from agriculture there was nothing else. So to sum it up, the invasion was really just to protect the web businesses that were multi-million dollar businesses and usually went straight into Chavez’s pocket. The actions of his brother had also caused problems for Argentina and drugs were now more readily available and street crime in particular had exploded.

    The idea to ask the British had mainly been the reluctance to ask the Americans and the absolute stupidity of even asking the Russians or the Chinese had mainly been down to Captain Diego Belladonna and his influence in what was still a military government. It was just they wore their uniforms less. The drain on the budget, keeping an active campaign for the return of the Malvinas was annoying several government members and the reluctance to declare war had swung the government to come round to Diego’s way of thinking. Give the Malvinas back but see what you can get for them first. HMG had jumped at the chance and despite the fact the British Army was active on every continent except Antarctica, which was a severe drain on resources, the request for help and assistance was looked on very favourably. So favourably that Knocker was stood in an Argentinean toilet flushing time after time checking to see if the water does go round a different way. Of course, with ten pounds of Knocker’s excrement, the water actually wasn’t going anywhere, which is why he was so glad he hadn’t brought those fluffy carpet slippers.

    It was the lull before the storm. Knocker sat in a pile of wood shavings and the table wobbled on its four heavily whittled legs. Nige tapped away at the laptops pretending to work but Lara Croft was nothing to do with Bogezuela and he really should have hidden it a bit better. “Can’t you do some fcuking work Nige?” shouted an annoyed Flabby. He wasn’t used to having somebody else calling the shots and between them, Teddy and Diego were making his presence there seem a bit superfluous. Danny Boy was dozing in a chair and Teddy and Diego talked quietly in the kitchen. “Sorry Nige, you carry on,” said Flabby feeling guilty at taking it out on Nige. “What’s up Flabby?” asked Nige freezing Lara in mid somersault. “I feel as things are slipping me by, Nige,” said a reflective Flabby. “I really think it might be time to hang up my MP5”. Nige looked at him amazed. Flabby was the most popular guy in the regiment, he was a fantastic advertisement for the regiment and a guy you could trust with your life. “I think I might go up and see Ryan after this is all over,” continued Flabby. “Need a holiday and a decent meal as well” he joked, picking at what looked fried turds in vomit, the meal that Knocker had thrown together or more likely thrown up. He spat out a piece of wood shavings that had somehow made its way into the potato and tried to cut one of the sausages. He pushed the plate away in disgust and the table collapsed sending plates, cups and last month’s copy of SAS Weekly onto the floor. “Knocker you cnut!” he shouted and Knocker slid out of the backdoor and hid in the garden.

    It was late in the evening when Teddy called them all in for a final briefing before they got some shut eye as it was to be an early start. “He’s changed his mind” Teddy addressed the group. “Who has?” asked Flabby suddenly wondering what the hell was going on. “I bet it’s the fcuking author, isn’t it?” asked Knocker fearing the worst. “Yep, he’s changed his mind but in fairness it is his story, it’s nothing like real life and just typing this shite means he can knock off a few extra paragraphs without thinking” Teddy told the group. “Situation fcuking normal there then, so it is” Danny Boy got in just before Knocker. “Right listen up,” said Teddy, very predictably. “Nige, you will be going along with Flabby and the rest. Diego and I will remain here and act on the information Nige has gathered. I’m sure you’ll manage without me Flabby” Teddy wasn’t as stupid as he looked and Flabby suddenly seemed a lot happier. “You’d better not lose my save game” said Nige but secretly he was glad of a bit of action. He had been on ARRSE and had got a severe hammering from somebody called ‘Biscuits_AB’. Flabby had sympathized but hadn’t been able to help; he’d already had a run in himself and come off a very definite second. “So the four of you will fly out in a special forces Huey, get dropped off, wait for the Bogezuelans to cross the bridge and then blow it. From then on, you MUST try and locate Hugo Chavez and capture him. The Huey will be waiting for your call and will pick the five of you up again”
    “Piece of pish” said Knocker, ever the optimist. “You frightened of getting your suit dirty, Teddy boy?” asked Knocker and Teddy suddenly reached out and grabbed Knocker by the throat. Knocker was a huge mountain of a man but he found himself in a vice like grip and for once in his life, didn’t say anything and he didn’t even struggle.

    “Flabby will do a better job than I ever would and the other mission is more suited to our talents” he looked at Diego but still held Knocker in the vice like grip. “You are a pain in the arrse, Knocker” he spoke through his teeth. “But, you are one of the best and we can’t do it without it you. Are you still in?” he asked Knocker just inches from his face. “Fcuking dead right mate” replied Knocker just about managing to speak but still not daring to move. Teddy released Knocker and sat down on the chair, which collapsed. “Knocker you fcuking cnut!” he shouted but Knocker was nowhere to be seen. The rest rolled on the floor with laughter and a sheepish Knocker eventually returned and joined in. Teddy laughed, Diego laughed but the bloke down the road didn’t as two of his best chickens had been squashed that day and they were so flat he couldn’t do anything with them. He liked chicken soup but road gravel did nothing for the flavour. He dug a hole in his garden and buried them but swearing vengeance on the lorry driver. The evening came to an end. The bloke down the road went into his house and poured a glass of wine, a nice Galtieri, not too dry but fruity in flavour and good with most meals or at the wake of a couple of chickens. Diego had rung somebody but since I don’t speak Spanish, I don’t have a clue about the conversation. He was to stay at the ranch; there were ample places to get your head down. Each found a bedroom or sofa or in Knocker’s case a cupboard and settled down for some sleep. Somebody woke Danny Boy to tell him it was time to go to sleep which didn’t please him much and eventually the ranch rattled with the sound of snoring and Knocker’s farting. Down the road, the bloke had given his chickens a suitable send off and on his way to his bedroom, tripped over the cat, knocked his head on the edge of the table and died sometime during the night. Not really important to the plot but the cat was well looked after by a neighbour.

    Morning broke and so did Teddy’s bed as Knocker had been sleep whittling. It was a rude awakening and made even ruder by the string of expletives that Teddy threw at Knocker. The team had their breakfast, Knocker listened to the snap, crackle and pop, Danny Boy had hash browns or hash blacks as Knocker had cooked it. Flabby just had a coffee and Nige had a shite now that Knocker’s pyramid of excrement had finally been blasted from the toilet. Diego stood outside and smoked a cigarette, as all operations were now non-smoking. Smoking can kill and it was a good job Smudge wasn’t here, he was usually on his second packet before breakfast. The transport was to pick them up at 05.30 and since it was now 05.35, Diego got on the phone and it did sound as though he was rollicking somebody. Nige could have translated but he was still in the toilet putting on his intimate deodorant. Diego and Teddy were to leave later but Teddy was keeping things close to his chest so I’m not sure exactly when. Finally, the same lorry as yesterday roared up towards the ranch and screeched to a halt. The four pulled their kit from the garage, threw it on the back of the truck and climbed onboard. After yesterday’s performance, nobody sat up front with the driver and with a screech of tyres, he roared off towards their pickup point for the Huey.

    Twenty frantic minutes later, they were stood in an army base and the familiar sound of a Huey was heard in the distance. Large furrows showed that the lorry was now long gone, as was most of the grass on what looked like a polo field. They stood with piles of kit awaiting the arrival of the Huey. A van appeared from nowhere and drew up right next to them. The rear of the van opened and a really hugely large woman in some sort of uniform asked them if they would like tea or coffee in perfect Argentinean, what else. Of course, Nige being a bit of a linguist was able to translate. It was the Argentinean equivalent of a Naafi wagon and like most Naafi wagons or some unscrupulous traders in Germany; they had a remarkable way of spotting and finding potential customers. They had not been using radios so that wasn’t how they had been found. Flabby made a mental note to one day possibly try and utilize the skills of Naafi wagon drivers. So four coffees, one tea, two egg banjos, a Ballisto, a Kit-Kat and an El Raider (Twix) later they finally caught sight of the Huey.

    The Huey landed and the pilot jumped out and had a coffee and a bacon sarnie. The co-pilot shouted something to the pilot and he brought him a mug of Bovril and a Cornish pasty. Flabby got the guys to throw the kit in the back of the Huey while he talked with the pilot. Fortunately, the pilot spoke English, as he was an international polo player and had been the UK many times before. Flabby tried to bluff it when the pilot asked him “How are the fillies in Hampshire?” but he didn’t really know anything about horses, especially not in Hampshire. The pilot laughed and stroked his immaculate moustache that was of course regulation droopy. The co-pilot stayed in the Huey and twiddled some knobs and things or so it looked like but was actually re-setting the tachometer. They jumped in the back of the Huey, fought for the best seat that actually was the pilot’s seat so they gave up and sat on the loose canvas stretched across a metal frame that will get your arrse numb enough for the Life Guards or so Knocker said. The door was slid shut, the co-pilot switched on the intercom but since they didn’t have headsets, it was pointless so he gave them some, told them to plug in the pigtail and the Huey lifted off towards the Rio Grundie. The Ride of the Valkyries played through the intercom as it always should and Knocker was sick on their kit.

    [align=center]TO BE CONTINUED[/align]
  8. The Wallops – Stories from long ago
    A novel by JRRR Waltkien

    Chapter One

    In days of old, way beyond the memories of our grandfathers who had Alzheimer’s anyway, there lived in the Wallops, a people called the Bobbits. The Bobbits were small folk, not human and in no way linked to any infantry regiments. The average Bobbit was only three feet tall and they lived in a shire called the Wallops. The Wallops was a wonderful land, fields of corn waved in the wind, babbling brooks sort of babbled and the birds sang from dawn to dusk in the woods and forests, which did make them unpopular so they were regularly trapped and killed. Bobbits lived in holes in the ground but with windows and doors and furniture. The Bobbits were extremely civilized and they lived a commune type existence where everybody helped everybody else unless they couldn’t be arrsed or it was the wrong time of the month.

    The Wallops was part of just left of centre earth and was nestled south of a great kingdom, The Keynes. They were ruled by a great king called Milton. Milton of the Keynes was a wise ruler and all his people were happy except about the extraordinary number of imitation cows in the kingdom. In Keynes they seemed to do everything in a roundabout way but basically they were a peace loving kingdom and all in all, very happy and contented. They were men folk or humans but they got on well with the Bobbits and traded with them on a regular basis. Bobbits loved pornography and the kingdom of Keynes was all too happy to oblige. The Bobbits provided the kingdom of Keynes with corn, wheat and timber though they did a mean sideline in wooden phallic symbols. They also couldn’t get enough of the Bobbit flat pack furniture that gave the Bobbits almost full employment, something to be proud of in just left of centre earth.

    To the south lay the kingdom of the Old Forest and eventually the sea. The main town in the Old Forest was Sowfampton, a trading port and the streets of Sowfampton echoed to the voices of a hundred languages as people from all over the earth congregated to trade, get drunk and just generally have a good time especially in Derby Road, the street of a hundred red lanterns. It was a boisterous place, an evil place but brilliant for electrical goods. The Old Forest did actually have a forest and it was coincidentally called the Old Forest. Rumours abounded about the Old Forest and some said that in its misty depths, man-eating ponies lived. It was all the stuff of myth and legend and actually, it had started when a sailor fed up with dried meat and ships biscuits had trapped, killed and ate a pony. He had been caught, the sheriff of the forest had caught him red-handed but the local newspaper had got wind of the story and the headline ‘Man eating pony’ had been published. The newspaper had been called ‘The Moon’ as it was printed at night but after a takeover by a newspaper magnate, a Mr Myrrh Dock, the printing had switched to daytime and the newspaper was thereafter known as ‘The Sun’.

    Between the Wallops and the Old Forest lay the town of Winchaster and while a happy and prosperous town; it was the home of one of the few armies in just left of centre earth. A barracks was in the centre of the town and the soldiers practiced and practiced. There hadn’t been a war for as long as anybody wanted to remember but the kingdom of the Old Forest retained the right to maintain an army as a deterrent. The soldiers were dressed in beautiful green jackets to blend into the forest so they were called the light infantry as the old forest was very dark and somebody had to carry a torch. Winchaster was a trading town and goods from Sowfampton would come up the road to be distributed from there as it had a massive trading estate. The flat pack furniture that the kingdom of Keynes didn’t take was sent from the Wallops to Winchaster and then on to Sowfampton as they had an Akea market there and Akea specialized in selling flat pack.

    To the west of the Wallops was a vast plain. It stretched for as far as the eye could see but as Bobbits had such bad eyesight that wasn’t that far at all. It actually stretched for many kilometres as Bobbits had gone metric many years ago. Well not totally, as a Bobbit was still considered to be three feet tall and the biggest seller in timber was 50mm x 25mm but it came in nine-foot lengths. Mythical creatures lived on the plain and while nobody had ever seen one, their footprints were left for all to see. They weren’t actually footprints at all but like two tracks and everything in the way of this mysterious creature seemed to be crushed in its path. On the edge of the plain were more humans who lived in a town called St. Windon. It was a new town but the people were bored as it all looked the same and everybody or almost everybody worked in the same place. A huge factory produced carts and the Honder carts were the dogs bollox as their advert used to say. The people were bored but they were civic, did things of their own accord and didn’t mind the acclaim.

    At the southwestern tip of the plain lived a strange people called Hippies in the Kingdom of Peace and Love. The capital was Glassonberry and it was a magnet for those that needed spiritual enlightenment or those that thought they could sell some. Courses in crop circles or how to run a pop festival in the mud were offered along with the entire stock of beads of just left of centre earth but you had to buy those, in fact you had to pay for the courses as well. Nothing was free here, everything had a catch and even free love was taxed by the kingdom. The Hippies or those that weren’t selling things used to climb hills and smoke a strange plant that they said helped them get in touch with reality. Getting in touch with reality is fine but falling to your death from a cliff brings you back to earth with a bump. Most of the Hippies’ lives revolved around hills, they either climbed them, made silly rude pictures on them or quarried them, hence coming down to earth with a bump. It wasn’t the Hippies that did the work in the quarries. Since the expansion of the common market, migrant workers from new member kingdoms had moved there to fill the vacancies that the Hippies were too lazy or too stoned to fill. They just smoked that strange plant, even during the interviews.

    The only scary part of just left of centre earth or the only bit that will feature in this epic lay in the east. You could travel to Handover, just half a day’s ride from the Wallops but Handover was too dull to be scary and it was just an insignificant market town on the border of civilization, as we know it. A bridge over the River Test was the gateway and it was locked at night. The last time they didn’t lock it, somebody stole the padlock, so it was always locked after that. In the east lay the real danger to just left of centre earth and all who lived in it, the kingdom formerly known as Mordor but now known as Crawley. Close by was the town of East Grinstead but evil work had been done one day long ago as the neighbouring town of West Grinstead had disappeared overnight. Bobbits used to scare their offspring to sleep telling stories of the horrors of the East, the large lump of wood that marked the border just by the bridge, the Eastern Block. Bobbits weren’t really that nice sometimes and they got a real kick out of scaring children but the worst, the most horrible story was about the rulers of the east, The Witches of Gatwick.

    The Witches of Gatwick were three sisters who getting the push from a theatrical production of ‘that play’ moved to the east and through much spilling of blood found favour with the then ruler and had risen quickly through the ranks. They were high flyers and from their humble beginnings, they had become advisors to the ruler of Crawley, David of Beckham. Originally, there had been four Witches of Gatwick, Emma, Scary, Sporty and Posh but Posh and David had fallen in love and after the marriage had just left the running of the country to the three remaining witches. Crawley and Gatwick didn’t have orcs or trolls but what they did have and in abundance were Chavs. They didn’t have cave trolls either but then there were the Disco Chavs. These strange creatures lived in a dark world of their own, usually only coming out at night but they were vicious creatures especially if plied with Alco-pops. Armies of Chavs and Disco Chavs were readying themselves for a fight and since the football wasn’t for another three years, they were ready, willing and able to cause a problem anywhere they were sent to.

    The bridge at Handover had kept the Chavs at bay but there were whispers of a full invasion of the Wallops and the other kingdoms. The Witches of Gatwick were not content with their own lands, it was the familiar theme of world domination. The Bobbits weren’t really capable of fighting, they were only three feet tall and did have a few swords, some bows and arrows and they could knock up a smart looking trebuchet in minutes few but nothing really significant. The Bobbits had paid a few mercenary humans known as Knight Riders and they patrolled the lands near Handover but even these highly trained human soldiers would be no match for an army of Chavs. But Bobbits did as they have done for centuries, got drunk, looked at pornography and hoped it would never happen as it usually never does and hadn’t so far. The Knight Riders were not happy as you can only have so many flat pack wardrobes and rumours abounded that even The Knight Riders would desert in the Bobbit’s hour of need, whenever that was going to be.

    It was at this dangerous time that Billy Cabbageleaf was due to celebrate his two hundredth birthday. Bobbits lived to a ripe old age, well into their three hundreds and Billy was just a youngster really and the worst possible age if you needed insurance for your cart. “Robbing fcukers” said Billy reading the quote he was got from the Gnawich Insurance Group. “Quote me happy, my arrse” he complained throwing the quote into the fire. The fire roared up and spat sending a red-hot ember onto the hearth, fortunately not burning his hearthrug. “That’s lucky” he exclaimed picking up the ember with the tongs and throwing it back into the fire. A dog barked in the distance and Billy repeated himself “That’s Lucky”. Lucky was the dog of his bestest friend in the whole of the Wallops, Fergal Raddishnose. They had grown up together, they had played football together, gone to school together and Billy remembered the first time he ever saw a porn book, it was with Fergal. “Happy days” he said to himself and rubbed his groin. “That’s lucky” he said to himself and walked along the corridor to the bathroom.

    “Fcuk off, I’m busy!” shouted Billy still in the bathroom and determined to be like on Mastermind. “I’ve started so I’ll finish,” he thought to himself trying to get back in the mood. “Open the door you tosser!” Billy jumped as somebody knocked the bathroom window and the booming voice put him off totally. He zipped up his trousers and screamed. “Get it off!” he screamed. The bathroom door opened and there stood Paul or to give him his full name Paul ‘the Grey’ Daniels. “You dirty little fcuker Billy” said Paul eyeing up the situation. “You do know it has to go down before it goes up? Asked Paul and Billy nodded still in agony. “Right here goes” and Paul whipped the zipper down and Billy collapsed on the floor holding his groin. “That’ll teach you, you dirty little shite” said Paul, not exactly brimming over with sympathy. Billy lay on the floor, his eyes full of tears and with one hand, he attempted to examine the damage. It appeared that nothing was missing so carefully and very slowly, he pulled up the zipper and rose gingerly to his feet. “Paul, how’d you like the journey?” asked Billy trying to regain some composure. “Not a lot” was the very, very predictable answer.

    Paul the Grey was a giant compared to the normal Bobbit. He was at least five foot tall and towered over Billy. That was really why he spent time with the Bobbits, he was a smug, vain sod who just liked looking down his nose at people but people were too tall so hence the Bobbits. Paul lifted off his wig, scratched his head and put the wig back on. He settled himself in a Bobbit size chair that broke so he threw it on the fire. “There’s evil about, Billy,” he said sitting on the table that fortunately took his weight. “Yes, it’s you, that was my favourite chair you sod,” replied Billy and not lying, he had knocked it off and knocked it up many years ago and even built it without the instructions and the little Allen key thing that had been missing anyway. “I mean in the East,” replied Paul looking serious. “What, East Wallop? Asked Billy as current affairs and geography had never been his strongpoint. “No fcuking miles further!” shouted Paul impatiently. “Is that the same as fcuking kilometres further?” asked Billy who did prefer the metric system to the Imperial one. “I fcuking mean in the fcuking East as in fcuking Gatwick or fcuking Crawley fcuking East!” exploded Paul in a rage and showing his skills at swearing. “Right” replied Billy trying to sound as though he had finally grasped the situation but his face was the perfect picture of a blank expression. “Magic” said Paul, again all to predictably.

    Paul ‘the Grey’ Daniels was a wizard and he fought for the side of good. He always paid his speeding fines and never told lies. He did swear far too much but everybody swore in the Wallops and there was every chance a baby Bobbit’s first words would involve sex and travel. Paul ‘the Grey’ Daniels had originally been Paul ‘the Black’ Daniels but he had washed his cloak in the wrong washing powder and at the wrong temperature and the colour had faded. He didn’t mind and have you seen the price of cloaks nowadays? Paul told Billy all about the Chavs in the east and Billy’s blood ran cold when Paul mentioned the Witches of Gatwick. “I think you are destined for a long and dangerous journey, my son,” said Paul rather sanctimoniously. “Am I fcuk!” replied Billy not mincing his words. “The future of all of just left centre earth will ride on your shoulders Billy,” continued Paul trying to install some sort of thought process in Billy’s slightly inadequate brain. “Will it fcuk!” replied Billy still not daunted. “It does matter what happens and it will affect you, your children and your children’s children and the whole of the Wallops will just be a passing memory if you don’t heed what I say Billy” continued Paul in the most serious voice he could muster. God, he wished Debbie was with him now in his hour of need. “Pardon?” said Billy who had been staring into the fire and trying not to listen. “It does possibly involve looking at pornography as well” Paul was playing his master card now and Billy pricked up which is allowed as long as its well after the watershed and he replied “When do we fcuking start mate?” “I’ll explain,” said Paul and they talked long into the night.

    Chapter Two

    The two of them sat round the fire and talked until quite late. Billy was tired but he took in every word that Paul said. There was to be a Council of War in Saulsberry, half a day’s ride from where they were and all of the kingdoms would be sending a representative to decide what to do about the threat of invasion from the Chavs. Even one of the Knight Riders would be there as they got double time at Councils of War or on Sundays or Bank Holidays. The two talked about the good old days, the days when men, Bobbits and even hippies had lived together peacefully much as they did now actually but the east had been a lovely place then before the influence of the Witches of Gatwick.

    It was saddening that things had come to this but Paul told Billy that he believed that even the Bobbits would play an integral part in what was going to happen. “But no fcuking elves” he said and Billy had to agree. Elves were a real pain in the arrse, little pointy-eared barstewards who did nothing but pout and sing stupid songs. They did have magical powers but by the time they had been through three verses of the latest Enya song, magical powers were too late and so were the elves. The elves lived in old tin mines in the far west, in a land called Eden. They always had some project on the go and sang about it until it bored the t1ts off you. Paul explained that they had contacted the elves but as yet, there had been no answer. “Probably writing a fcuking song about whether to come or not” explained Paul and Billy had to agree yet again. “Enya, more like fcuking Enema!” shouted Paul, pleased with the comparison.

    Talking of whether to come or not, Billy picked up his latest porn magazine ‘Dirty Debbie Does Grateley’ and flicked through the pages. “You won’t be needing that my son” said Paul rather pompously and excused himself with the words “I need a dump”. “Fcuking will” said Billy to himself and slid the magazine into his rucksack. They were due to leave in the morning and Paul had instructed him not to tell anybody. He would be missing his own birthday party, which was a real bummer with all the radish beer that he had brewed. Gallons of the stuff and not a drop would touch his lips. “Fcuk that” he said to himself or maybe it was the hat stand but he walked into the kitchen and pulled out a flagon of the beer, uncorked it and had a few swigs. He could feel the warmth as the beer hit the spot and because radish beer doesn’t care which spot it hits, he shouted out to Paul “Don’t spend all fcuking night in there!” followed by the important but very necessary “And don’t forget to pull the fcuking chain this time!” The last time he had been forced to shovel it out and yes, the radishes had benefited but the house had stunk for weeks.
    Paul had finished in the toilet. Billy was relieved to have heard the chain being pulled several times but thought he would leave it a minute or two before he brushed his teeth. Paul came back pulling his cloak out from between the cheeks of his arrse and sat back down again. “Do you know why I have chosen you?” he asked Billy. “Fcuked if I know” replied Billy not exactly making it easy for Paul. “Billy, listen you little shite. The whole of the future of just left of centre earth could depend on you. You are the key to the possible success or failure of this mission and the others are there to help but primarily they are there to PROTECT you,” explained Paul in great depth. “What’s primarily mean?” asked Billy trying hard not to look stupid but failing miserably. “Are you taking the fcuking pish?” asked a now very annoyed Paul.

    Paul stood up; he was in a rage now and forgetting the low height of the ceiling, banged his head on a beam, which didn’t improve his mood. From a pocket in his cloak, Paul produced a small black bag. He shook it and something inside the bag rattled, it sounded metallic. “What’s in the bag, Paul?” asked Billy, finally interested. “Balls” replied Paul and he looked at Billy.” Fcuk you then, I was only asking!” replied Billy who sounded annoyed as well. “You t1t, I meant there are balls in this bag” and he pulled out three silvery balls and held them in the palm of his hand. “I always thought you talked balls,” Billy was laughing as he said it. Bobbits liked a good joke but they didn’t mind crappy ones either, which is probably just as well. “These balls are Elvish balls,” explained Paul and Billy crossed his legs and visibly squirmed. “Elvish Preshley?” joked Billy who was not taking this seriously. “Paul raised himself to his full height, banging his head on another beam but grabbed Billy round the throat and lifted him up. Billy’s legs kicked in the air but he could tell struggling was useless. “Do I have your FULL attention Billy?” asked Paul. Billy just nodded but he was definitely listening now. He gulped trying to draw in some more air and smiled a pathetic smile. Paul put him down gently and sat down on the table.

    “These are Elvish balls Billy but they are the ONLY way that the Witches of Gatwick can be killed. They don’t like it up ‘em you see. I’m now going to sing you a long but important Elvish song that explains it all” Paul finished speaking, coughed a couple of times and launched himself into the song. Three hours later, Paul kicked Billy as he could see him nodding off. “So you see that these balls are made of heavy metal and only somebody who doesn’t mind a bit of AC/DC can use them to their full potential” Billy tried to deny it but Paul added “Look tosh, I’ve seen you looking at your porn mags, you’re an AC/DC fan, no mistakes. Plus I can read minds so get used to it.” So the proud owner of two startling pieces of news, Billy tried to come to terms with the fact that apparently, he liked his radishes planted in both gardens. He had suspected it really, that time at the swimming hole but he had thought it was just part of growing up. It would have consequences, his monthly porn mag costs would increase but then he’d always liked a bit of variety. “It wasn’t so bad was it?” he thought to himself.

    So finally went to bed and briefly contemplated today’s news. The fact that everybody was depending on him worried him and he hoped he would be up to the job. “Fcuk it, I’ll do my best, can’t do any more” he thought to himself and drifted off into a troubled sleep. Giant radishes chased him in his dreams and his legs twitched like a puppy’s while he slept. He was just getting to the dream about three giant metal balls when Paul woke him. “Get up you lazy sod” said Paul pulling at Billy’s arm. Billy lashed out but Paul was long gone, in the kitchen sorting through the breakfast cereal. “Haven’t you got anything that doesn’t have fcuking radishes in?” shouted Paul, throwing a box of Special L with added radish onto the floor in disgust. Bobbits ate, drank and slept radishes, which is why they were never as popular as say, for instance Hobbits. A type of Hobbit with extremely bad breath, not a very pleasant manner and they swore like troopers. Plus this one was a cloak lifter, Bobbits were not sweet and cuddly and if a story about Bobbits was ever made into a film, the merchandising would be a real test for the marketing department.

    Billy walked naked into the kitchen and scratched himself in various places. “Cover it up you little fcuker, I don’t fancy you” said Paul quite truthfully. Billy grabbed a dressing gown from the bedroom and covered up his hairy body. “I like your slippers” said Paul making polite conversation. “They’re not slippers, they’re my feet” said Billy admiring the hair between his toes. “What time does the party start?” asked Paul eager to get away before he ended up looking after the whole village. There was a knock on the door and Paul and Billy looked at each other. “Get rid of whoever it is” said Paul and crunched on his snap, crackle and radish cereal. Billy strolled to the door and pulled the heavy wooden door open with a creak. He put the creak down and there was Fergal Raddishnose, his bestest friend with his dog Lucky. Lucky was having a dump on Billy’s radishes but it was too late to say anything even “That’s Lucky” but then Lucky never did anything Fergal or anybody told it to do. “Happy birthday Billy” said Fergal and Lucky tried to hump Billy’s leg. Obviously, some sort of canine birthday wish but with a shake of Billy’s powerful leg, Lucky flew through the air and landed in the radish patch. “You’d better come in,” he said to Fergal who followed him in. The door slammed shut and they both heard Lucky yelp. “Can’t be lucky all the time” said Fergal philosophically and followed Billy into the kitchen.

    “Hello Paul” said Fergal. “Hello Fergal” said Paul. So that scintillating conversation over, they sat in the kitchen staring out the window. Paul’s chair creaked as his weight was a bit much for standard Bobbit furniture. “Ready for the pish up?” asked Fergal and Paul and Billy looked at each other knowingly. Paul kicked Billy under the table and how he fitted under the table was a miracle but he had dropped one of his balls, as he hadn’t tied the bag up properly. “I might be bit late” Billy tried to explain. “Late for your own party?” Fergal was amazed and a bit suspicious. Billy was dying to tell him but he knew that Paul would give him what for so he bit his tongue but that was too painful so just tried to keep quiet. “You’re up to something,” stated Fergal knowingly, he had known Billy for years and he wasn’t going to take any old crap, there was something going on and he wanted to know. Billy tried to deny that something was going on and he looked to Paul for help but Paul just looked out of the window.

    “Can you keep a secret, Fergal?” said Paul, still looking out of the window. “If it’s to do with Billy, you can trust me,” said Fergal truthfully, as they had grown up together and he saw Billy almost as a brother. “Billy is a cloak lifter,” said Paul expecting some sort of reaction from Fergal but Fergal just smiled and replied “Known that for years and he’s not choosy where he shoves his tadger” “You mean, you’ve known all this time?” said an amazed Billy. “Why the fcuk didn’t you tell me? I seem to have been the only one in the dark about this” Billy was glad to get if off his chest not that he had much of a chest. Paul interrupted the conversation “Will you stand beside him, whatever the danger?” he asked Fergal. “Yes, yes of course, as long as he leaves my arrse alone,” replied a determined Fergal, if there was something going on, he wanted a piece of the action but he wasn’t prepared to sacrifice his arrse, there are limits to a friendship and that was the limit in this case. So Paul explained it all to Fergal and he even showed him his balls.

    It was time to leave. Billy had packed his rucksack with all the essentials, radishes, water, porn, more radishes and more porn. Fergal had taken Lucky to a neighbour and was to meet them at Billy’s house in a few minutes. So as not to attract attention, they would be walking to Saulsberry, they could have borrowed some ponies or even rented some but it just would have possibly warned people they were going. So Billy oiled his feet, which is what any good Bobbit does before a long journey, went for a nervous pish and waited for Fergal to come back. Paul sat outside on the small patch of grass in Billy’s garden and did his yoga exercises. Fergal arrived back a few minutes later carrying a rucksack and he sat outside next to Paul who had just finished his yoga. “This is going to dangerous Fergal,” said Paul trying to warn him that this was not just a walk in the park. “You might even die,” he continued but Fergal’s spirit was not going to broken. “Could be worse,” he said though secretly his stomach was churning and even the butterflies had butterflies.

    So the three left towards Saulsberry. They took a roundabout way to avoid being spotted and managed to reach the edge of the village by one of the fields of Farmer Prescott, a fat, miserable farmer with a huge croquet lawn and two carts, when everybody else had just the one. He was human but only just and came from a human place far away, Billy couldn’t remember exactly but he thought it was the same name as part of a boat or ship. For years, Farmer Prescott had made their life a misery with his crop spraying and had chased them from his fields anytime they went near them. They were on the track but the field was on one side with the woods on the other. They heard barking in the distance and all thought immediately “That’s Lucky”. There was the sound of Lucky and also the sound of somebody or something crashing through the field with its crop of maize. The crashing sounds and the barking got ever nearer and the three waited with baited breath.

    Lucky appeared first followed closely by two other Bobbits and all five and Lucky fell into a heap of bodies. Billy was starting to like that but in the distance, he heard the voice of Farmer Prescott and he was getting nearer. They all picked themselves up as there was nobody else around to do it and they stood waiting for the inevitable appearance of Farmer Prescott. A large red-faced man crashed through the maze and collapsed onto the track. He wheezed where he lay and he did not look very healthy. Paul tried to pick him up but Farmer Prescott swung a huge arm narrowly missing him. He managed to dodge that telegraphed swing and ducking and weaving like a professional boxer, worked his way towards the lower torso of Farmer Prescott and with one swing of his foot, kicked him in the bollox. “You'll like it, not a lot, but you'll like it.,” said Paul and while nobody loves a stereotype, Farmer Prescott squirmed on the floor holding his injured groin.

    So while Farmer Prescott wished his balls were made of heavy metal, it was time for introductions. Paul of course already knew Lucky and Lucky was making his presence felt by trying to hump his leg. It didn’t last long as Lucky flew through the air and landed somewhere in the field of maize. The other two Bobbits who had supposed to look after Lucky were not known to Paul but Billy of course knew them both. The taller one, by half an inch was Nathaniel ‘Nat’ Beanpole and the fatter one by half an elephant was Cubby Broccoli. They both had rucksacks and it appears that the secret of Billy had not been as secret as was first thought. “We followed you” said Nat brushing the dust off himself. “I’ll protect you” said Cubby who was a bit of a mauler after too much radish beer. “My word is my bond” he said needlessly and spitting on the ground, in fact he was quite an expert on phlegming. “Well you can’t go back now I suppose” said Paul shaking his leg to try and get a persistent Lucky off it. “I think we’d better make tracks for Saulsberry” said Paul and after a swift kick in the nuts for Farmer Prescott, they started off on again on their travels. Lucky bit him on the nose and how they laughed. “That’s Lucky” said Nat and they walked on towards Saulsberry.

    Chapter Three

    “This isn’t the way to Saulsberry,” said Nat looking at his Reader’s Digest Book of the Track that never left his side. “We have to make a slight detour,” said Paul wondering why it took the Bobbits so long to notice. “Thick little shites” he thought to himself, somewhat ungraciously but fairly accurately. They walked along the track, the sun was shining and the birds would not shut up. Cubby threw stones at them but they just sang all the more. You would not have thought that just left of centre earth was in such grave danger, it was a perfect day or it would have been if they hadn’t have been walking for hours. The Bobbits were both hungry and thirsty and insisted on stopping for a bite to eat. So umpteen radish sandwiches, a few bottles of that famous radish beer later and the Bobbits were happy again. They wandered along the path intoxicated with the excitement of the task in hand, plus the fact that Bobbits really can’t hold their drink. Billy tripped over a tree root and the other three Bobbits almost wet themselves laughing. Bobbits are also not naturally sympathetic especially when half pished.

    Finally, they came to a large track, almost a road and they were surprised at the amount of traffic on it. The road was almost at a standstill with the amount of traffic. A few hundred metres down the road, a gypsy wagon had overturned and what seemed like hundreds of small children played around the overturned wagon dodging the traffic.
    “Fcuking caravans” growled Paul hoping that this would not hold them up. “This is the Lee Enfield Way,” announced Paul. “Lee who?” asked a rather perplexed Cubby. “Lee Enfield Way” repeated Paul, he who was all knowledgeable. “Why the fcuk?” asked a confused Cubby. “Show him, Nat,” said Paul leaning over Nat’s book and trying to find out their location. “There” said Paul pointing to the red line that was the road they were now looking at. “It’s the 303,” stated Paul but the Bobbits were none the wiser. The Bobbits stared at the map and smiled, not knowing whether to laugh or not but the effect of the radish beer had not diminished so they did have a little chuckle to themselves. Honour satisfied, Paul led them down onto the road.

    They made their way past the overturned wagon and headed onwards. The road was still busy but they made good time. They passed the village of Bulford and Paul warned them to keep to the road. “Bulford is a strange place with strange people living there. Camp by name and camp by nature” he told them and they looked at him with mouths wide open except Billy who was feeling strangely excited. Paul forced them onwards and Billy made a mental note to visit Bulford one day. He just hoped there would a chance for him to experiment with his new found sexuality. “We’re almost here,” said Paul as the Bobbits were grumbling, Nat had a blister and Billy was limping slightly due to treading on a cats eye. In fact he had trodden on the entire cat and the cat had not appreciated being trodden on and had reciprocated with its claws. “Claws for thought” joked Cubby but nobody was listening. In the distance, the traffic was backing up and they could see a huge stone block being dragged across the road. Directing this and less successfully the traffic was a tall figure dressed in white. “Fcuk a stoat!” shouted Billy. “It’s a fcuking Druid!” Billy was small even for a Bobbit but he had shouted so loud that the Druid had swivelled right round and was staring directly at him. Billy hid behind Paul but the Druid continued to look in their direction. “Paul, you old fcuker, how’s it dangling?” shouted the Druid and Paul waved a greeting in return.

    It took them a couple of minutes fighting through the held up traffic to reach the Druid. The Druid was even taller than they had first estimated and was resplendent in his white robes. Paul and the Druid embraced each other, they obviously knew each other but there were no tongues so not quite that well. “How’s it going you old scrote?” The Druid asked Paul, still almost squeezing the life out of him. “Great mate, just great” replied Paul trying to break free, this was starting to restrict his breathing. “Gentlemen, this is Stone, Oliver Stone” Paul introduced the Druid to the Bobbits. The Bobbits stood in awe of him especially as he was still squeezing Paul who was now starting to turn a shade of blue. Stone dropped Paul and the colour slowly returned to his face. “So what you up to Olly?” asked Paul looking round the huge site. “Just building a henge,” replied Olly not sure, if the rest knew exactly what a henge was. “Stone’s henge?” Paul played around with a possible name for this mammoth construction project. “You putting a roof on it?” asked Paul quite seriously. “Maybe later” replied Olly glad he had shelled out the extra for a project manager. So many questions, so much to do and he had been particularly bad on the Henge Phase at Druid’s College having just scraped through with a very low pass.

    They sat on the grass and Olly explained all about the henge, how it was all being constructed, how the rock was sourced and how it got here to just left of centre earth. “Got the rock from B&Q Carmarthen branch but the fcukers don’t deliver” explained Olly. A human dressed in a donkey cloak came up to them and whispered something in Olly’s ear. Olly replied and the man rushed off back to the main construction site. “Had to get the Paddi in,” he explained. The Paddi were a fierce warring tribe from far, far away but had excellent construction skills as long as they were kept at least one kingdom away from any alcohol. The Paddi wore heavy cloaks called donkey cloaks and they had red faces to match their red hair. Olly showed them all the architect’s drawing which did explain exactly where each room was to go and even showed the bedrooms with two of them en-suite.

    “You know why I’m here,” said Paul, now in serious mode. “Olly nodded and threw a stone at one of the Paddi, hitting him neatly on the temple. “Stop shirking!” he shouted at the poor Paddi who was now on the grass nursing a gash on his temple. “I fcuking told you this was a hard head environment!” he shouted at the Paddi and two of the poor Paddi’s mates rushed up and dragged him away out of range of Olly or so they hoped. “You have to keep on top of them,” he told Paul and Billy’s ears pricked up which was quite painful but he was having feelings elsewhere so hardly noticed it. “You can come with us?” asked Paul and Olly nodded looking serious. “I have to go,” said Olly and they all clapped and danced around with happiness except Paul who just smiled, very smugly. “I said I have to go” Olly repeated and pulling up his long white cloak, let go of a curly one onto the grass. He wiped his arrse with some nettles that took any hint of a smile off his face but finally finished he held out a hand for Paul. “You can bollox” was the fairly predictable reply to this gesture and Olly rushed off to wash his hands. “You won’t get a finer man than that,” Paul told the Bobbits and they moved away from what Olly had left on the grass. Even the Bobbits were looking a bit green and a diet of mainly radishes can produce some serious smells.

    So they left the construction site and headed for Saulsberry. The traffic did get back to normal once the Paddi had erected that stone and even the gypsy wagon got righted as they had called out breakdown assistance. The intrepid six now, headed for Saulsberry just stopping for something to eat in a roadside eating establishment run by dwarves. “You can’t beat little chefs,” said Billy as they all tucked in to a hearty meal. So the meal finished they continued their journey and soon, the huge spire of Saulsberry could be seen in the distance. It was a bit posh for a hotel and conference centre to have a spire but it was a five star facility. They followed the river towards the hotel and soon they were stood by the ‘No Elves” sign at the entrance to the hotel grounds. They checked in, the rooms had been pre-booked and the Tidworth Suite was ready and available for the Council of War. They each made their way to their respective rooms and Olly even chose one with a roof. So washed, dressed and after a quick snooze, they assembled in the Wiltshire Bar for a cocktail before dinner. As they sipped their respective cocktails, they heard a rumpus at reception. Paul stood up and walked purposely towards reception. The hotel security staff were trying to throw out somebody and this somebody was not too happy on going. Tall, pointy eared and only on verse sixty-seven of “The Ballad of the Hotel Lobby”, it could only be one thing and it was. It was an Elf.

    The rumpus in the hotel lobby had calmed down a bit and the hotel manager was there trying to talk the Elf into leaving. Rather than singing, the Elf was using human speak and had already told the hotel manager to ‘Fcuk right off’ three times. Paul asked the Elf whom he was but was told to ‘Fcuk right off’ as well. The Elf still not singing which has to be a record for an elf introduced himself. “I am Legoland, son of Arafat, son of Borrowmore, son of Peters and Lee, son of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich” Paul suddenly realised that he knew this Elf or had known him when he had been much younger. “Dave?” The Elf looked at Paul and you could see he was either struggling not to sing or trying to remember where he had seen Paul before. “I knew your father, Dave,” Paul explained and you could see the recognition growing on Dave’s face. They embraced each other, again no tongues and the hotel manager was a bit pished off as he got caught in between. Extracting himself, the manager pointed to the ‘No Elves’ sign behind reception. “What if he signs the no singing clause?” Paul asked the hotel manager but the manager had his jobs worth hat on. “Either he stays or we go,” stated a very determined Paul. Elves were a real pain in the arrse but if you stop them singing, they can be quite useful. So after a few minutes of persuading and signing the no singing clause, Dave was booked into the hotel. The clerk at reception asked his name for the records. “I am Legoland, son of Arafat, son of Borrowmore, son of Peters and Lee, son of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich or just plain Dave,” said Dave, happy to get a room for the night. “Dave” confirmed the clerk “That’ll do nicely sir” he said with a very wide but false smile and handed over the key.

    They all ate in the John Constable Dining Room and made their way to the Tidworth Suite for the Council of War. Present were of course was Paul and the four Bobbits, Olly the Druid who they had picked up on the way and the latest member, Dave the Elf who still got dirty looks at reception as while he didn’t sing, he did whistle a bit too much for the hotel’s liking. They sat themselves down around a huge oblong table. They could have had a round table but the Arthur Suite had been already booked so they had settled for the next one down. Two of the hotel security staff were on the door and announced all those that entered. The next to enter was announced as Hugh Ferninglystall-Whittingstallworthy from the Hippy Kingdom, a master chef, martial arts expert, keen fisherman and expert on square crop circles who greeted all in the customary Hippy way “Peace”. Chubby was heard to say “Peace off” but very softly and only Billy managed to hear it. The next to enter was announced as David Hasslehuff of the Knight Riders who was relishing the double time. He had left the border near Handover under the capable hands of his deputy. Not much was known about him as the Bobbits had hired him thanks to an advert in a newsagent’s window.

    The next to be announced was the champion of Milton of the Keynes and a mighty warrior. He stood a good head taller than anybody in the room and even the ripples on his rippling muscles rippled. He was dressed in leather from head to toe which was really a fetish but nobody would have dared mentioning it. He carried a huge axe that had already totally pished off the hotel manager as he had scratched the laminate flooring and left some nasty scratches on some of the chairs. His name was Tarquin but nobody made a comment, nobody even dared. The last to enter was a Captain Tom Sharpe from the Light Infantry in Winchaster. He was an expert in tactics, logistics and the parlour game of charades. He had brought his torch and had already produced a three hundred page risk analysis on the current situation but had unfortunately left it in the barracks. Apologies had also been sent from the people of St. Windon but Honder were introducing a new line and they didn’t want to miss out on the overtime.

    So with all seated, Paul addressed the chair but as the chair was totally unresponsive, he addressed those seated. “Gentlemen, these are grave times” Paul went on to tell of the three heavy metal balls, how Billy was now a bit of a cloak lifter, that his hotel room wasn’t that good and that food was pretty damn good here. He again warned Dave the Elf against singing and to maybe cut down on the whistling a bit and that they ALL would have to head eastwards to kill the Witches of Gatwick. Nobody spoke, they all just looked at each other but Billy didn’t fancy anybody so contented himself by blowing kisses at one of the security staff. “Billy, stop mincing!” shouted Paul and everybody looked at him. The Knight Rider asked if the double time extended to the killing of the Witches of Gatwick and Paul assured him that somehow he would be paid. The Knight Rider, David gave them all the assurance that he would now carry out the task in hand to the best of his abilities but especially at weekends and bank holidays. “I’m in” he said and they all looked at him. “Mercenary fcuker” thought most of them but Billy looked him up and down a bit and thought he had particularly nice arrse.

    The Council of War drew to a close and they headed towards the Wiltshire Bar for a well earned drink. They were to meet again in the morning and then they were all going to leave on the life or death mission of killing the Witches of Gatwick. They all sat in the bar, some talked, some drank, some drank too much and one annoying one wrote a song but fortunately didn’t sing it. “Will you stop that fcuking humming!” shouted Billy, suddenly feeling brave after three radish beers and the fact that all assembled there were to protect him. Some stayed in the bar but the Bobbits made their way to bed, pished as usual. Billy blew a kiss goodnight to the hotel security guy and headed up the stairs to his room. He suddenly felt very safe but after undressing, reading his porn mag and brushing his teeth, he lay in bed and his heart felt heavy and a shiver ran down his spine. Somebody or something was watching him and it was talking to him. He lay there now very frightened and then it dawned on him. He jumped out of bed, turned the TV off and went back to bed. Morning would come soon enough and he needed some sleep. He drifted off and had a lovely dream about railway engines going into tunnels.

    [align=center]TO BE CONTINUED[/align]
  9. Chapter Four

    The Huey still smelling of sick and worse still Knocker’s sick headed towards Rio Grundie, not exactly as the crow flies but avoiding possible contact with the enemy. The four of them talked in the back but very quietly hoping the author wouldn’t hear them. They were always so critical of the author or one in particular was and he sat very close to the partly open door. One change of direction and he would possibly fall out so he spoke up a bit and rapidly changed his tune. “Why the fcuk are we doing this?” asked Knocker, it just HAD to be Knocker didn’t it? “Argentina does have the muscle to sort this out on their own,” explained Flabby. “They could wipe the floor with the Bogezuelans but it would destabilize the region as other countries would take sides and even take part. There was some wheeler dealing in the UN and because of the Falklands issue, HMG decided to get involved or to ask to get involved. Of course the bloody Yanks were pushing them all the way,” he continued. “The Argies have just been playing a holding game until we can hopefully get hold of Hugo Chavez and kill plenty of hamsters with one stone” Knocker was taking all this in but don’t bother asking him questions about it later.

    The Huey continued its journey and the smell of sick was quite bad in the back, despite the door being partly open. “Sorry about that, boys,” said Knocker trying to wipe down the kit with a small packet of wipes from the glove box of the Huey. The smell of sick mingled with the smell of disinfectant and a vague hint of orange blossom. It kept their mind off the journey and it meant they could get some feeling back in their numb arrses. Knocker made rude comments about numb arrses and the Household Cavalry but nobody was listening as the Ride of the Valkyries was on its nineteenth repeat and anything was better than listening to Knocker. The Huey swerved violently and they all ended up in a heap on the floor. The co-pilot gestured to them and they looked out the partly open door and saw a long line of troops, armoured vehicles and surprisingly an ice cream van. The Huey sped off trying to get as much distance between them and the troops who had been taking pot shots at them. Fortunately, the ice cream van had distracted the troops’ attention, so nobody had been ready and there wasn’t enough time to think of a SAM let alone try to fire one.

    So they knew that Bogezuelan troops were already in Argentina or at least an advance party, as they hadn’t seen Hugo Chavez amongst the throng, unless he had also taken to selling ice cream. The Huey flew on for a further ten minutes and they felt the pilot ease off and they saw him looking for a convenient place to land. In the distance, they could see the Rio Grundie river and could just make out the bridge they would have to blow. The Huey pilot finally found an area the size of Essex that was safe to land and the four piled out and ran for cover. The pilot called them back and they shook his hand and that of the co-pilot but in fact, he was trying to bring their attention to the fact that their kit was still in the back. They all helped to unload and drag the kit into some cover except the pilot and co-pilot who were keen to get off. They hid in some scrub as the Huey lifted off and headed back. “Right lads” shouted Flabby and they all looked at him expectantly whatever that looks like. “Let’s get the kit and us to the bridge or pretty close” they picked up as much as they could and dragged, lifted, carried, kicked the kit and themselves to a good vantage point close to the bridge.

    “Set ‘em up Danny Boy” said Flabby, not ordering another drink but telling Danny Boy to fit and set the charges on the bridge. For Danny Boy, this was a walk in the park as his undercover work in Northern Ireland had taught him all the ins and outs of explosives and how to make things, that go ‘bloody great bang’ in the night. So off bimbled Danny Boy with Nige to help or actually carry everything and probably do all the bits that involved getting wet. Flabby and Knocker were keeping an eye on things from opposite sides of the bridge. They didn’t want Danny Boy and Nige getting surprised handling enough PE to blow up the bridge. They didn’t mind the bridge blowing but timing was important, as they wanted Hugo Chavez to be on the Argentinean side when it went up. “Caught like a rat in a trap” was the way Teddy had described it. “All fcuked up and nowhere to go” was Knocker’s version and Flabby preferred that one. Danny Boy and Nige were wiring up the charges on the bridge and running the command wire back to their vantage point. He would have preferred to have used the wireless version but one call from a mobile and the PE you are holding could send you to the middle of next week or further. Plus the thing ran on batteries and army batteries remained fully charged only until you needed them and you could be jumping up and down on the t1t and nothing would happen if your battery was dead.

    Danny Boy and Nige were finishing off by kicking dust onto the wire to cover it and they kicked their way back to the vantage point throwing up a cloud of dust that could be seen miles away. Fortunately there was just the four of them in the area, though they still weren’t sure when the rest of the Bogezuelan army was coming through. They had already seen the advance party so guessed, roughly twenty-four hours. They would just have to sit it out, hurry up and wait as they called it. Everybody thought it was non-stop action in the SAS but they did spend a large amount of time doing nothing or seemingly nothing, it was quite usual to have to play the waiting game and you weren’t paid extra for it. Flabby and Knocker returned to their vantage point and Flabby double-checked that the bridge would go when required. “A piece of pish, so it is” assured Danny Boy. Nige tried to dry his trousers as he had been right in thinking he would be doing the ‘wet’ bits. “Feels like pish, so it does,” joked Nige, grinning at Danny Boy. He was pish wet through but the heat of the day was drying him out, though a large cloud of steam wasn’t exactly tactical. Flabby hoped he would be dry before the Bogezuelans came through. Flabby took the first watch while the rest just settled down as best they could.

    The time passed, they took it in turn to keep watch. Knocker had an adventure while answering a call of nature, having disturbed some kind of large snake that tried to attack him. That would have been fine but Knocker was in mid shite and with trousers and grundies round his ankles, not at his most manoeuvrable. Knocker had managed to pull out his knife, while trying to do the paperwork and trying to keep the snake from biting him where he was vulnerable. It had been a mammoth contest and Knocker had finally succeeded in decapitating the snake but not before the snake had bitten him. Heading back to the rest, still not properly dressed, he had insisted that somebody had to suck out the poison. There had been NO takers but fortunately, the snake hadn’t been poisonous. Oh, how they had laughed as Knocker had described the contest, blow by blow, bite by bite and finally he got his clothing straight though he did prefer to stand after that. Snakebites can be deadly and that was a lucky escape for the three of them. Knocker just had a very sore left cheek.

    So approx. twenty hours after they had been dropped off, a cloud of dust was seen far in the distance on the Bogezuelan side of the bridge. Knocker had spotted it as he had stood on guard. Danny Boy wired up the final connections for the charges, pressed the ‘self test’ button and the ‘battery low’ light shone but only just. He whipped out spare batteries and exchanged them, pressing the button again and the green ‘ready’ light came on briefly and then went out. He exchanged the batteries again and this time the green light shone bright and clear mainly because he had wound the handle a few hundred times and the solar panel had been erected but carefully as it could give their position away. The green light was glaringly bright but he was ready and he knew that one press on the t1t and the bridge would be no more. The dust cloud was getting ever closer and Flabby looked through his binoculars and could just about make out individual vehicles and the infantry beside them. He also thought he could make out an open topped jeep with the mother of all droopy moustaches sitting in the back but it was just his eyes playing tricks or so he thought, as the figure seemed to be wearing one of those bloody hooded tops. No moustache could be that big and that droopy. It all became clearer as the procession got closer and despite the figure being hooded, he knew it was Hugo Chavez and that was one hell of a moustache.

    The procession got ever nearer and Flabby tried to guestimate the numbers but they wouldn’t keep still so he gave up. The lead vehicle, an AMX-13 light tank trundled over the bridge and stopped. Flabby saw a head appear from the turret and the head seemed to be looking around. Not the best light tank, as light tanks go but still a formidable adversary. The head that of course was complemented by a droopy moustache peered all around and appeared to be talking into a headset or Flabby hoped it was a headset as people who talk to themselves are less predictable when it comes to a conflict. The head disappeared with most of the droopy moustache and the AMX-13 trundled on. The rest of the convoy followed shortly afterwards and Flabby could see what they were up against, various armoured vehicles but mainly jeep type vehicles with some sort of light cannon on the back. A couple had chain driven machine guns, which wasn’t good news as even in the hands of an amateur, they could do serious damage. Strangely at the very rear and not particularly well protected was the hooded figure of Hugo Chavez who was seated in the passenger seat of a jeep with just a couple of hooded soldiers in the back to keep him safe. This was good news or so Flabby thought, as they could probably be easily separated from the main convoy.

    The convoy finished crossing the bridge and slowly disappeared into the distance. Flabby knew they had to blow the bridge soon as every minute that passed made their task of collaring Chavez harder. He gave the order to Danny Boy who was winding the handle as the sun had gone in and the solar panel was now useless as were the fresh batteries he had just put in the detonator. Danny Boy wound the handle like a man possessed until the faintest glimmer of a green light appeared and pressed the t1t. Nothing happened so Knocker took over and the orange ‘Overload’ light shone but he slowed it down until the green light shone bright and clear. Danny Boy pressed the t1t and the world erupted around them as chunks of concrete flew through the air. Peering through the dust and picking smaller lumps of concrete from his hair, Flabby could see a huge gap where the bridge had once been. “One down, one to go” said Nige, quite content to state the obvious. “Right, let’s move!” shouted Flabby as in the distance a couple of the jeeps were on their way back to see what the commotion was. Finding a convenient grassy hillock, the team waited for the two jeeps to get into range and Danny Boy pulled the rocket launcher from his back, primed it, making sure the powder was dry, briefed Knocker when to light the blue touch paper and settled down with the first jeep in his sights. Actually he didn’t do that, he just switched on, waited for the blue screen as this rocket launcher hadn’t yet been updated to Linux, switched off, banged it on the ground a few times, switched back on and then entered his user name and password.

    “What’s the fcuking password again?” shouted Danny Boy as the rocket launcher flashed ‘Try again tosser’ on the LCD screen. “Herford” shouted Flabby, strange that he was shouting, as he was right next to Danny Boy. “What do you mean Herford?” asked Danny Boy. “Silly fcuker couldn’t spell Hereford,” explained Flabby and Danny Boy entered the password. This time he got the welcome screen and he entered the ‘Firing’ menu. Looking through the sight, he locked onto the first jeep using the ‘Lock onto first jeep’ option and pulled the trigger. The sight told me that it was best to load the launcher first so Knocker quickly stuffed one in and the whole manoeuvre was repeated. Danny Boy pulled the trigger and two seconds later, the jeep rolled onto one side at speed in a ball of fire as if they had been using the same stunt team as the A-Team. But this was real life and people die or can do so Knocker reloaded for Danny Boy and after some very complicated menu navigation, Danny Boy had the second jeep in his sights. He pulled the trigger again and the second jeep blew up in exactly the same way as the first making it so much easier for the production team and the stuntmen if this ever got to being made into a film or in Ireland and Scotland, a fillum.

    Danny Boy switched off the rocket launcher eventually as it had to install all the updates it had downloaded. So after three restarts it was finally switched off. The team headed in the direction of the convoy but were ready for any eventuality, as they knew the two jeeps would be missed. Suddenly realising this and feeling a bit of a cnut, Danny Boy turned on the rocket launcher again and Knocker shoved one up the spout just in case. They headed off in the same general direction for about ten minutes when suddenly, the AMX-13 was spotted heading back towards the bridge. Why the AMX-13 should be spotted remained a mystery until Danny Boy adjusted the sight’s contrast and the spots disappeared. Danny Boy switched to light tank mode and entered the appropriate details into the database. The sight showed a picture of a Flymo lawnmower so Danny Boy re-entered the details and this time the picture of an AMX-13 was visible. Ok, it was a French one but French or otherwise, the Arrsebuster missiles were capable of blowing the crap out of most things and they didn’t really care where the thing came from or if it was made under licence somewhere. The AMX-13 had spotted them and was heading in their direction. Rounds whistled around them, which frightened Knocker, as he hated rounds especially buying one. Danny Boy waited and waited, a round thudded into the earth next to where he kneeled but he waited for the green light so he could pull the trigger. Flabby cried out, twice in fact. Once as a round cut a neat hole in his sleeve and blood trickled from fortunately just a graze. Fortunately nothing serious but he was deadly serious when he shouted in Danny Boy’s ear “For fcuk’s sake, will you shoot the fcuking thing NOW!” Slightly deafened but still with the AMX-13 in his sights Danny Boy finally saw the green light and pulled the trigger. There was a whoosh, followed by a whoosh and then a bit of a bang and a few more big whooshes and then some little whooshes as the missile tore into the tank and blew the crap out of it. The AMX-13 or what was left of it burned and it was obvious, the crew had burned as well. Flabby thought he could smell something burning, apart from the tank of course. It smelt like burning moustache he thought. “Right let’s go and get that fcuker Chavez” he shouted and they headed off in the direction of the convoy.
  10. Chapter Five

    They tabbed it towards what was left of the convoy, still a formidable force if droopy moustaches were anything to go by. They could still call in the RAF who were on standby at RAF Stanley and at that very moment, pilots were sat in their aircraft playing uckers with the ground crew. “What do you reckon boys?” asked Flabby trying to gauge if they needed the Crabs or not. “Fcuk ‘em” said Knocker predictably. “Sure we don’t need those fcukers, so we don’t,” replied Danny Boy stroking the Arrsebuster launcher, which is allowed. “We can handle this lot no probs,” replied Nige eager to get in a bit of action. “And I bet the fcukers won’t move until they’ve finished their game of uckers,” said Knocker scathingly but surprisingly accurately. “Right then, let’s go and kick some arrse,” decided Flabby following the democratic principle or so the others thought. Actually, that had been his decision and he was just glad they agreed with him. “Makes it so much easier,” he said to himself and they set off in pursuit of the rest of the convoy.

    Using what little cover there was, they made their way until they could just make out a dust cloud and it was settling, which meant the convoy had stopped. They crept closer looking for a good vantage point that usually is a grassy knoll. The SAS have great belief in grassy knolls and have even been known to take their own. There had been that embarrassing time when the inflatable version had been taken on a job and somebody had forgotten the foot pump. Three days later the thing still hadn’t been inflated and three of the four troop members had been lying prostrate on the ground due to trying to inflate the thing. The fourth had been Smudge Smith who had absolutely no puff due to his chain smoking but even he had given it his best shot. But failing miserably, he had started on his second pack of cigarettes and prayed for a foot pump, a passing cyclist or anything that would help to inflate the thing

    So a convenient grassy knoll appeared and the four sought cover with an excellent view of the convoy. The convoy was in all round defence positions with the vehicle carrying Chavez in the middle of the circle and it was reminiscent of those old cowboys and Indians films. They could smell food; the familiar odour of something burning got their juices going. They had been living on compo rations and they really missed Ryan. What he could do with compo was something just short of a miracle. Flabby bit into his ‘Mousey Crunch’ bar from Canberry’s and fortunately or unfortunately depending on your point of view or sense of taste, didn’t find any mouse. He did have a ‘Turkish Surprise’ bar as well but was genuinely frightened what he might find, so he stuffed it back into his pocket for later, much, much later or even later than that.

    Danny Boy was banging the Arrsebuster launcher on the ground to clear an internal error and apart from him being electrocuted twice, it seemed to be working. “Remember we want that Chavez fcuker alive,” reminded Flabby and Danny Boy with the Arrsebuster finally working was entering data into it. He punched the ‘enter’ button and the launcher whirred and chuntered computing the best shot, it did remind him that the hard disk needed defragging but he ignored that as he would probably have to bang it on the ground a few more times yet and that usually got rid of THAT message. There were probably a dozen vehicles and approx. a hundred men and heavily armed but the Arrsebuster had given them a 92.4% rate of success once it had computed all the data entered. It did suggest that the best day to attack would be a Wednesday and today was a Thursday but Flabby didn’t think it mattered that much. Still nicely hidden, the team made their final preparations and the adrenalin flowed as Knocker had crushed the bottle when he had lain down. “Shouldn’t need that fcuker anyway,” said Knocker and threw the empty bottle away.

    Danny Boy pulled the trigger and the Arrsebuster whooshed into life. Several vehicles burst into flames and swarthy men with singed or burning droopy moustaches flew through the air. Knocker reloaded the Arrsebuster for Danny Boy and the launcher whooshed into life again. The scene they looked down on was sheer carnage as burning vehicles crashed into each other or ran down infantrymen or both. “Come on Nige!” shouted Flabby leaving the other two to sort out the convoy as Chavez’s vehicle was seen to drive off heading back towards the blown bridge. Flabby and Nige tried to anticipate the vehicle and head it off while the other two literally blew the crap out of what was left of the convoy. Danny Boy was loading the Arrsebuster himself and Knocker was picking off the infantrymen who ran around like headless chickens. Any large group got an Arrsebuster up them, which is definitely bad for the health as they were finding out to their cost.

    Flabby and Nige were just ahead of Chavez’s jeep, they could see it tearing down the track, a droopy moustache half beating Chavez to death and close to doing an ‘Isadora Duncan’ by getting caught in the rear wheels and either strangling him, pulling him out of the vehicle or giving the closest shave he would have in his life. Somebody in the back was talking frantically or frantically talking, it was just too far away to tell. “The fcuker’s calling for help!” shouted Flabby and let off a few rounds, narrowly missing the vehicle. The vehicle swerved trying to avoid Flabby’s rounds and sped off again with Flabby and Nige in hot pursuit. Nige finally had the vehicle in his sights, let off a couple of rounds and the vehicle lifted in the air throwing out the occupants onto the ground. The vehicle somersaulted a couple of times, rolled a few times and came to rest upside down, close to the river. As the vehicle was probably American, it exploded in a ball of fire and burned fiercely. Flabby and Nige were there like a shot and dispatched Chavez’s former fellow passengers with a couple of shots. Chavez sat on the ground, his hood now down; you could see his face or what face wasn’t covered by the mother of all droopy moustaches. “Too late Eenglish peeg” said Chavez sounding like a Mexican bandit and just too stereotypical to be believed.

    Back at the massacre, things were going well for Danny Boy and Knocker. Danny Boy had given up on the Arrsebuster as there weren’t any large enough groups to fire any more missiles and there wasn’t a vehicle left that wasn’t burning, on its side or roof or both. They were just finishing off the stragglers and it was a cross between a Benny Hill sketch and a fairground shooting stand with those ducks that never fell over when hit. The stragglers here WERE falling over when hit, in fact they were falling over BEFORE they were hit which made them all the harder to finish off. Finally, with some persistence and the convenient but necessary ignoring of a white flag, the last of the stragglers were sent to meet their maker. The vehicles just burned sending plumes of smoke into the air and it was probably this smoke that had attracted the attention of the first artillery shell as with a scream and an earthshaking explosion, it landed rather too close for comfort to Danny Boy and Knocker. “Fcuking leg it!” shouted Danny Boy, heading towards the bridge and Flabby and Nige. “Do you think I’m fcuking stupid?” asked Knocker and not really expecting an answer as he tore past Danny Boy at a rapid rate of knots.

    Back at the river, Flabby and Nige had heard the shell going over and had twigged that the frantic talking on the radio had been to call up the artillery. They sought what cover they could find and Chavez was dragged along by his hood and Flabby kicked him into a depression in the ground, which led to a depression in the depression, but Flabby didn’t give a fcuk about Chavez. Alive they said but even after a good kicking, he’d still be alive, perhaps only just but that wouldn’t be his problem. Nige was already on the comms and within a couple of minutes, uckers pieces were scattered across the pan at RAF Stanley as four Tornados took off heading for their location. They flew over RAF Mount Pleasant but resisted the temptation to stop at the Naafi and headed for Flabby’s location as fast as they could. They had clearance from Argentina but it would still take at least a couple of hours before they were there. The Tornados ate up the distance as the pilots relaxed and played Tetris while the sat nav and cruise control took them to their destination.

    At Flabby’s destination, things were hotting up. Danny Boy and Knocker had made it safely back to Flabby’s location and they all tried to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. The shelling had stopped but in the distance they could see bridge laying equipment making its way towards the Rio Grundie and it wasn’t just that, a whole armoured column was accompanying it. Even with the Arrsebuster, they wouldn’t stand a chance but just to prove a point; Knocker gave Chavez a kick somewhere delicate. Chavez cursed in Spanish and Knocker kicked him again just in case he was talking about him. Danny Boy had the Arrsebuster ready, Nige had already contacted the Argentinean Special Forces to get picked up and a Huey was already on its way. It was hoping that either the Huey or the RAF got there before the bridge laying equipment had done its job. Flabby and the team tried to make it as difficult as possible, several bridge layers were now floating down the Rio Grundie and their bridge laying days were well and truly over. Danny Boy sent across the odd Arrsebuster but the database had refused to accept bridge laying equipment and the effect on the equipment was negligible. It slowed them down but didn’t stop them and just wasted precious Arrsebuster missiles.

    The gap across the Rio Grundie was getting less and less, despite the best efforts of the team. Several bridge layers had paid the ultimate sacrifice and were now floating down the river but the armoured column had been giving covering fire. Flabby knew that as long as they had Chavez, then they weren’t in direct danger of being shelled but the various rounds that flew over their heads told them that the Bogezuelans were deadly serious. Then with a whoosh, a bang, a slight whoosh followed by a fizz, a bang and a huge whoosh, the bridge laying equipment exploded in a ball of fire and toppling sideways fell into the river. Frantic bridge layers jumped wherever they could, some to dowse the flames and some just to escape their bridge laying duties. Suddenly they just weren’t as keen as they had previously been. The area that had been occupied by the Bogezuelan armoured column was a huge ball of flame and Flabby and the rest finally heard the Tornados fly over, turn and come back in to let off another salvo. The shelling had stopped earlier but the artillery was no longer capable of anything else as the Tornados dropped their bombs and fired their missiles.

    In just a few short minutes, it was all over, as the flames subsided, they could see a large cloud of dust heading away from the bridge or where the bridge had been or was going to be. Knocker kicked Chavez in celebration, who just grunted this time, he was learning. “Crabs, don’t you just love ‘em!” shouted Danny Boy and the four celebrated the end of the threat. Knocker continuing celebrating by kicking Chavez again but Chavez knew when he was beaten and kept quiet. Despite the sounds of the carnage on the other side of the bridge, they heard the familiar sounds of a Huey and rushed to a patch of open ground, waiting to be picked up. The Tornados had done the damage and armoured vehicles burned merrily on the far side of the river and the rest had obviously fled. This part of the mission was over and they sat on the ground and waited for the Huey.

    The Huey arrived in a couple of minutes and they all piled in. Knocker threw Chavez right into the back and touched his Heckler O’Koch as a warning. Chavez said nothing but he knew he was well and truly stuffed so with as much pride as he could muster, pulled himself onto a seat and belted up. The Tornados finished at the Rio Grundie, headed towards San Juan and finished off all their munitions on the Bogezuelan forces there. It was enough to change the balance and soon after, the Argentinean forces managed to capture almost all of them without a shot being fired. They just didn’t seem to have the stomach for it anymore and San Juan was now safe. The Huey continued its journey towards San Juan and below them, they could see the remnants of the Bogezuelan force rounded up and sat on the ground like Glastonbury but without the mud, or the stage, or the chemical toilets, or the bands, so in fact nothing like Glastonbury at all.

    The Huey landed close to the airport building and Chavez was now handcuffed, Knocker always carried a pair just in case, he truly believed in safe sex. Teddy and Captain Belladonna were there to greet them. “Nice job chasps” said Teddy, trying to be humorous but just annoying Knocker. Chavez was led away, his hands now tied by tie-wraps as Knocker didn’t go ANYWHERE without his handcuffs. Flabby told Teddy all about their adventures and Teddy nodded like one of those dogs on your parcel shelf, the ones like back in good old days, when men were men, sheep were never nervous and your dad drove a Marina or an Allegro. “Bet he’s done fcuk all!” whispered Knocker but being heard several kilometres away. Teddy just looked at Knocker, one of those long withering stares but Knocker ignored it, scratched his groin and farted a couple of times. “We’re going to have to do something about Knocker” said Teddy to Flabby who was smiling, Knocker always made him smile. “What like promote him?” asked Flabby and Teddy snorted in disgust and disbelief. He’d heard of Knocker’s attempt at Families Officer, as subtle as a kick in the nuts were the more polite comparisons doing the rounds. “Right listen in” said Teddy and everybody ignored him so he repeated it, only louder and everybody stared his way, not doing an impression of him staring but looked in his general direction. “This is what happened THIS end” started Teddy and the rest settled down for a long story.
  11. hahaha - if you scroll up and down real fast, it makes your eyes go funny!

    Guhuh - uhhuh :D
  12. That was a post from The Guardian's Literary Critic.

    Well at least it was positive.

    I think.
  13. lol, definately positive, i've found a way to make my head go all funny and not waste the office tip - ex, which really annoys my boss. :D
  14. Mistersoft,

    You have FAR too much time on your hands! :D

    I on the other hand do not and am looking forward to reading this thread in work when I'm on watch!!!