Flabby sat in The Grapes in Hereford and waited for the rest of the lads to turn up. It was a sad day. The news that five British service personnel had been killed in Iraq was on the TV and Flabby mentally switched off and supped his pint. In his line of work, it was quite common for the odd mucker to go missing but it never got any easier. LB was in his pocket and nibbled at some nuts that Flabby had thrown in to keep him quiet. Not that hamsters are noisy but in LB’s case, they tend to bite less. Flabby was waiting for the rest of the old troop to pop in. They did it every so often but today just seemed more poignant than ever. “RIP boys” said Flabby to himself and LB crunched on a nut but then hamsters are not renowned for their sensitivity.

Danny Boy was the first to drop in. He was only ten minutes late, so right on time not to buy the first drink. “You heard the news? asked Danny Boy. “Yer, bummer isn’t it,” replied Flabby. Flabby ordered Danny Boy a pint and they sat down. The landlord brought the pint over and placed it in front of Danny Boy. “You ok Danny?” asked Ron, the landlord. “It’s just the news and my piles are playing me up, so they are,” replied a very truthful Danny Boy, telling Ron a darn sight more than he really had wanted to know. The pub was called The Grapes but he didn’t want to be reminded of it like that.

The door burst open and Knocker’s head appeared round the door. “Get in you barstewards!” he shouted and two smocked individuals wearing balaclavas were thrown into the pub. “Fcuking Walts!” shouted Knocker at the two individuals, who were now grovelling on the floor. Rikshaw followed them in and aimed a kick at one of them. “They say they’re SAS,” he said laughing at the sight of the cowering Walts on the pub floor. “We don’t want any trouble here,” said Ron, wondering what he actually could do

about it if he had to, probably nothing except dial 999 and run away. “They’ve just come back from Iraq,” Rikshaw told the gathering. “Fcuking people die there and this pair of cnuts think they can pull some woofer pretending to be something they fcuking ain’t” he continued angrily. “Knocker, take them to the gents and show them the errors of their ways,” said Flabby. Knocker dragged the two screaming and kicking Walts towards the toilets and then let go as one pished himself. “Get a job and get a fcuking life!” shouted Knocker fighting for grip on the pish soaked floor. “Now fcuk off!” he screamed at them and they didn’t refuse his offer and fled for the door and disappeared outside.

The rest eventually turned up and they all sat round a circular table. “The knights are fair drawing in,” joked Jock. They knew it was Jock because of his accent but they couldn’t see him as Smudge was already on his second pack of cigarettes. He still worked for the NHS and had managed all the quotas that had been set for him. Thousands of people had given up smoking but he hadn’t. “It’s my only vice” he said, picking his nose, scratching his nuts and farting. He lit another cigarette and the other side of the room became just a distant memory. Ryan thumbed through his latest cookery book, peering through the nicotine fog that Smudge was responsible for. He had been chosen to cook for the Queen’s nosh up in the Mansion House and was worried that he would forget a tin opener, quite important when it’s a four course compo menu.

“How’s Cherie?” Ryan asked Flabby. “Still ugly” replied Flabby. “No you twonk, your Cherie, your ex-wife?” asked Ryan again. “And still fcuking ugly is what I said” replied Flabby. His love affair with Challsea had broken down. He thought they might have managed to mend it but then he had received a postcard from her. “Weather lovely, glad you’re not here” had been written on the card. She had run off with an animal feeds sales representative. He had provided all the hamster feed for the personal hamsters that each trooper now carried and had taken the servicing contract a bit far when he had dipped his wick in Challsea. Flabby had known nothing of it. He hadn’t even suspected when he had found sunflower seeds under the pillow and then one day she had left without even a note. Still he had the job and that kept him going. A replacement for Challsea had been found and the regiment’s hamsters were now knocking spots off previous records. The wheels were upgraded due to a couple of minor fires after a virtual hamster cage meltdown and the food had been sourced from an alternative firm.

“Makes you think” said Flabby as the sad news about the five British servicemen came on the TV again. They couldn’t see the screen as Smudge was now onto cigars but they heard every sad word. “It’s at times like this, I turn to people like Owen or Brooke” said a reflective Flabby. “Isn’t he injured?” asked Knocker. “Wilfred Owen” said Flabby wondering at Knocker’s lack of sensitivity and a brain. “Broke a fcuking metatarsal” carried on Knocker, mainly to himself. “He wrote some wonderful stuff,” said Flabby. “Maybe at Liverpool but he’s shite at Newcastle” carried on Knocker. “If you go for a pish and stub your fcuking toe, you don’t shout out about your fcuking metatarsal do you?” he continued. “Meta fcuking tarsal my fcuking arrse, it’s a fcuking toe!” he ranted. “And Brooke has done fcuk all worthwhile since Blazing Saddles” there was no stopping Knocker now. “And that gambling twat from Man U has broken his as well” he ranted. “Tripped over his fcuking chips no doubt” Knocker was in full rant mode now. “They’re all fcuking poofs,” said Knocker, famous within the regiment for his tact, sensitivity and understanding.

Rikshaw bought another round and the nine supped their pints in relative silence as Knocker had finally vented his spleen, which was quite messy, but at least it was quiet now. “Have you heard this shite about 49 Para? asked Knocker. “It’s all a spoof” said Flabby not really feeling like explaining that it was all made up. “They’re all fcuking spoofs” carried on Knocker regardless. “That barsteward author doesn’t like me,” said Knocker heading towards a nasty incident if he’s not careful. “The shite he wrote about me,” he continued. “He just wanted to make people laugh,” said Ryan. “Fcuk all chance of that” he continued. “Ultimate Farce, now that’s funny” ranted the now TV critic. “Its different writing a ‘fillum’, so it is,” said Danny Boy. What the fcuk’s a ‘fillum’? “asked Knocker. “A film” said Nige. “But he said ‘fillum’” said Knocker. “Ay, a ‘fillum’” said Jock. “But what’s the difference between a film and a ‘fillum’?” asked Knocker. “It’s the same fcuking thing,” said Rikshaw. “For fcuk’s sake, leave it Knocker!” shouted Flabby. “Meta fcuking tarsals and fcuking films and fcuking ‘fillums’, it makes no fcuking sense to me” ranted Knocker. “At least we agree on something,” said Flabby and the group returned to a deep and thoughtful silence.

Thoughts again went to those who would not be coming back from Iraq. “Feel sorry for the friends and family” said Knocker, as he was the regimental Families Officer. “I’d like to say a poem,” said Knocker. The rest looked at him in surprise, Knocker was not the most sensitive soul and poetry was not one the things you might associate with him. They waited in complete silence. “Come on then Knocker” said Nige. “Come on what?” replied Knocker. “Well say your poem,” replied Nige. “I didn’t say I knew one, I just said I’d like to say one” replied a rather upset Knocker. “Something in my fcuking eye” said Knocker and rushed off to the toilet. The rest looked at each other in total surprise. They’d never seen Knocker so upset before or even showing the slightest hint of emotion. “RIP guys” said Flabby and raised his glass. “RIP guys” said the rest and raised theirs. They could hear Knocker shouting from the toilets “Mister Softy author bloke, that’s the best thing you’ve ever written for me and finally we agree on something” The sound of Knocker blowing his nose echoed throughout the pub and the muffled words “something in my eye” were heard even in the bar.