Thursday, February 07, 2008

Spiffing tunes

Landed my spitfire in the lee of the down below the cliff. Rolls Royce supermarine engine hot and four guns spent. Gallston, the only survivor of my groundcrew, hanging on to the undercarriage all the way from Rory Bremner, was pricked atrociously by gorse as we landed but was still able to refuel the old girl with his saliva.

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I divested myself of my dress and pearls and popped the canopy. I stood naked with the wind in my ears and surveyed the bleak landscape before us.

Off away in the dim bleak distance was a standing bollock of a stone pub raised up against the lowering sky. It was raining over there, I could see the water slanting in thin lines from the emptying clouds.

"We'll walk!" I shouted in Gallston's ear.

"Yes sir," he replied, "what you said."

"Smart and tarty," I replied with a saucy wink, "I'll stand you a pint."

"What about the Germans, sir?" he asked.

"Fuck 'em," I said, "let's see if we can't drink as much mild as would make us piss a bucketful, you ugly cunt."

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