One pissed off woman

 

 

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 smashed 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 which 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 which 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 stall holder 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 oused 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 micro surgery. 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 we 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 gobsmacked, the accuracy of her diagnosis. He had seen doctors and he had seem 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 anesthetic, 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 weere 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 rotory 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 bullet 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 which 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 which 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 well briefed and it wasn’t the strange action it seemed.

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 air sickness 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 which 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.

 

The average age of the 199 men on board HMS Ardent was 23 on the 21st May 1982 when she was sunk in action after supporting the landing of British troops onto the Falklands, twenty two men died that day. The video below is a tribute to the men and women of the British Military - Army, Royal Air Force and the Royal Navy who have given their lives over the years, with an emphasis on the current conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. To all those who were too young to die - You are missed. Rest in peace.     At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them.

 

 

 

 

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 Guiness. 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 attache, 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 attache 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 attache said he would be at the airport in half an hour if he could get his Kebabstani 4x4 to start.

The attache 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 attache 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 attache 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 Russsian 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 independantly 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 attache 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. Prengergast 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 t**t!” 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 firebucket 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 Snoppy 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, it’s 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 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’s 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 derranged 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 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 was 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 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 which actually means they didn’t do anything at all. A nineth 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 liason 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, Esmerelda 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 quicktime 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 poessessed, 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 wizz 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 chainsmoked and even managed enough time to have a cigarette in between chainsmoking. 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 lacky 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 Landrover 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 which 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 singlehandedly 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 stewardess 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 stewardess 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 could either 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, continously. 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 soilitary 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 disptached 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.

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 Iranistans 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 billlions 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 Rambos 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 itinery” 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 itinery? 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 longjohns 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, Sundried 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 Tescos 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.

To be continued...

 

 

 

 

 

 

LCpl Quirk 9 sqn - 3 Para Battle Group

The BBC has been showing top-flight rugby for decades, so you think they would have perfected the broadcasting of live rugby.

Their coverage in the 1980s and early 1990s was just what you wanted. All the action was shown without the clutter of meaningless statistics, the irritation of pointless, lengthy replays and with a wonderful lack of 'atmospheric' close-ups of the action. In other words, they showed you the game.

Why then has the last few years of rugby coverage on the BBC been so VERY unspiffing?

I watched my first live game of rugby on the BBC of the 2006/07 season last weekend: Cardiff Blues vs London Wasps. Well done BBC. You've managed to continue to utterly fuck up the way rugby is covered.

I'm very grateful that you informed us that the Wasps' pack are 0.3kg heavier per player. That is truly a wonderful thing to know. I'm looking forward to pulling that little gem of information out again in the future when I'm down the pub.

You know what else would be interesting to know about the forwards? How they perform in the bloody lineout.

You know? The lineout? That little thing that restarts the game and plays an ever so small part in the way the game ebbs and flows.

Why is it that twenty years ago when the BBC had less cameras at a match did they manage to show us every lineout in a game? Now, thanks to their 'creative' decisions, we only occasionally see them. In its place they often choose to show us close ups of the backs. That's great. I'm glad the director of their outside broadcasts deems it more important to see a close up of one of the centres than to show us an actual lineout. Good work. You are really earning your pay check there Mr. Outside Broadcast Director.

And, on those special occasions when they choose to allow us to witness a lineout, we tend to get one of their 'atmospheric shots' with the camera almost on the shoulder of the hooker. Great. Now I can't see if the lineout throw is straight, or who actually lifts the jumper or catches the ball. But gosh! With that camera angle I really feel like I'm part of the game. I'd better get my gumshield quickly. What extreme and innovative coverage. Thanks.

Or, when they are not treating us to that 'extreme' angle, we get a shot of the lineout from the roof of the bloody stadium. The roof! Great, that really helps me enjoy the game more than ever. I love watching what looks like a bunch of ants running around. Spiffing.

Oh, and then we have the way the BBC covers scrums. It may seem very clever and fancy to the BBC to show a close-up of the ball in the scrum at the number eight's feet, but I would actually not mind seeing how the scrum is going as a whole unit.

Or, maybe, just maybe, if you don't mind, getting some perspective of how the backs are lining up or some wider context of the field position of the teams. But at least when you decide to not give us those viewpoints and show a tight close-up of the ball it looks 'cool', eh?

Oh, and just a bit of free advice to the BBC: replays of inconsequential moments (all three of them) should be over before the action starts again. Some of us fans have an interest in restarts, drop-outs and set-pieces. Weird, eh?

Here's a tip, for free, for any of the BBC outside broadcast directors who may come across this article. If you start showing a replay whilst a scrum is being set-up, cutting back to the action when the ball is in the hands of the fly-half may be a little too late? You fucking idiots.

A friend of mine had his pet gerbil die on him the other day. He buried it in the garden. If it will help the BBC, I'll gladly tell him to dig it up and send it to you to replace your outside broadcasters. Even in its decomposed state (and full of maggots) it could probably do a lot better than most of them.

Anyway, looks like the BBC plans to continue regressing in its live rugby coverage for another season. The glory days of its rugby coverage long behind them. But at least I know the Wasps forwards are 0.3kg heavier on average than the Cardiff forwards. Thanks. Thanks a million.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I just sat down to read a paper on the Strategic Defence Review (SDR) - I know what you're thinking and, Yes! My life is THAT exciting! Anyway this is the opening paragraph...

"The Future Strategic Context for Defence

A Lesson from History

In 546BC, Croesus, King of Lydia, was considering the possibility of mounting a pre-emptive attack across the River Halys against his increasingly threatening Persian neighbours. Undecided how to act, he consulted the Oracle of Apollo at Delphi on his prospects for success. "Croesus, if you cross the Halys you will destroy a mighty empire" came the divine response. Delighted, Croesus proceeded to launch his attack, only to suffer a shattering defeat. His empire was annexed by the Persians.

Accurately predicting the future course of military events is a tricky business."

 

...No shit Sherlock! Please tell me we don't pay these jokers for this toss?

...I was just trawling through some blogs, as is my want, and I stumbled across a piece of comedy gold. The blog was written by a guy call Dave. Dave had been away for a while due to the fact that he was blown up on a tube on 7th July. He wrote a long but absolutely beautiful, moving piece about what happened, how he felt and how it's changed his life:

 

(1 comment)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh for fuck's sake!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AVERAGE: Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. 

EXCEPTIONALLY WELL QUALIFIED: Has committed no major blunders that we know of to date.

ACTIVE SOCIALLY: Alcoholic.

ZEALOUS ATTITUDE: Too opinionated.

CHARACTER ABOVE REPROACH: Still one-step ahead of the law for now.

QUICK THINKING: Always offers plausible excuses for his errors.

TAKES PRIDE IN WORK: Conceited.

TAKES ADVANTAGE OF EVERY OPPERTUNITY TO PROGRESS: Buys me drinks.

TACTFUL IN DEALING WITH SUPERIORS: Knows when to keep his mouth shut.

APPROACHES DIFFICULT PROBLEMS WITH LOGIC: Delegates.

NOT A DESK PERSON: Really thick.

EXPRESSES SELF WELL: Can string more than two sentences together in one go.

SPENDS EXTRA HOURS ON THE JOB: Miserable home life – Wife screwing everyone.

METICULOUS IN ATTENTION TO DETAIL: A real pain in the arse.

DEMONSTRATES QUALITIES OF LEADERSHIP: Should keep his mouth shut more.

MAINTAINS PROFESSIONAL ATTITUDE: Arsehole.

KEEN SENSE OF HUMOR: Knows lots of dirty jokes.

STRONG ADHERENCE TO PRINCIPLES: Can't be bribed with drink.  

SLIGHTLY BELOW AVERAGE: Stupid.

OF GREAT VALUE TO THE ORGANIZATION: Turns up on time usually.

ALERT TO ALL DEVELOPMENTS:   Crew room gossip.  

HARD WORKER: Usually does it the hard way and the wrong way.

ENJOYS WORK: Needs to be given more to do.

HAPPY: Delusional.  

COMPETENT: Is still able to get work done if hungover.

CONSULTS WITH COMMANDING OFFICER OFTEN: Crawler.

WILL GO FAR: Relative to me of course!

SHOULD GO FAR: As far away as possible.  

VERY CREATIVE: Always finds reasons for not having done things.

USES RESOURSES WELL: Can fix things with string and glue.

DESERVES PROMOTION: He's looking over my shoulder as I'm writing.