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
Mistersoft
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,
diabolically inaccurate, grammatically inaccurate and prone to bad
spelling and speling mist-aches.
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, including 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 (
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
“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 to 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
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
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
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 meant 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
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
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
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
‘Jock’
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
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
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
Kebabstan although a Muslim country, was a modern country
and because once somebody found a puddle of oil then the
Nige called Flabby over as there had been a message from the
Boss back in the
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 and
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
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
“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
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
“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
“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
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
“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
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
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
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
“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
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 yet 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.
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 he was just
grateful that this job was on as there was going to be plenty of new material
for another blockbuster. He had heard just before the job that a TV company was
even going to make a film of his youthful exploits but hopefully not the
He was still well and truly down memory lane when a crackle
on the radio brought him back to reality. He put on the RedGum headset, not
army issue but one that Prendergast had brought from them from the Carphone
Bazaar in Falafel. It worked with all mobiles and even the new army issue
secure transmission radio or secure army radio for short. Nobody knew what the
radio was really called as it had gone into the
He put on the RedGum headset which was in fact a motorcycle helmet with a speaker and a microphone in it and a large box that contained the receive/transmit electrics complete with valves. The RedGum was not the official name for it but just the fact that usually those who had to carry it for long distances almost always bled from the mouth and sometimes the ears and nose as well so hence RedGum. The radio remained silent and not wishing to break radio silence, Flabby waited patiently. It was then he noticed Rab C chewing at the battery of the radio. He had apparently woken and feeling hungry, had escaped from the safety of Flabby’s pocket and started on the radio. Flabby picked him up, only being bitten the twice and put him back into the warmth of the sick bag and field dressing combination in his pocket. He also dropped in a few peanuts he had filched from the Puma and Rab C not taking kindly to having his breakfast dropped on his head, tried to bite him.
He checked his watch and amazingly it was still working. In a few minutes he would be able to get his head down and Ryan would be taking over. It was warming up bit fortunately they had some shade from the sun. The night had been comparatively cold but bearable but then he had brought a packet of his favourites with him. He loved to suck a fisherman’s friend; he would suck a fisherman’s friend at any and every opportunity and couldn’t see why people made fun of him sucking fishermen’s friends. The holiday in Lowestoft once they had been reunited had been almost totally ruined as they had managed to get a quick beer in a harbour pub and his loud request if anybody had wanted to suck a fisherman’s friend had got them thrown out of the pub but he had made two very close friends who were almost impossible to shake for the duration of the holiday and especially in the gents toilet.
He woke Ryan and Ryan stretched and farted, then farted and stretched, then scratched himself and farted again. Flabby put his finger to his lips as Ryan’s farts were quite loud and residents of downtown Falafel were outside wondering what was going on and the office of KGB Gas Inc got so many calls that their switchboard crashed. Flabby moved his finger from his lips to his nose trying to block out the stench. Even a week at Porton Down hadn’t been as bad as this though he’d never had a cold since. It was then that Flabby saw movement in the distance. A small boy faraway or it could have been a large boy closer but Flabby wasn’t sure. He pulled a pair of binoculars from the cave and scanned the horizon. The small boy, he had been right first time was a shepherd or trainee shepherd and a herd of goats followed him or he followed them, Flabby wasn’t quite sure but the boy was coming their way.
Ryan woke the rest of the team and they all stood to, lying down behind the small knoll. Silencers were fitted to the Heckler O’Kochs and knives were made accessible and Flabby sucked his fisherman’s friend noisily. The boy came closer leading the goats or the goats were leading him, it still wasn’t clear who or what was in charge of what or who. They didn’t want to kill him unless they had to. Even a trainee shepherd would be missed eventually, it was best to just sit it out, so they waited. The tension was unbearable; Flabby slobbered on his fisherman’s friend, Ryan farted though quieter this time and Rab C slept on contently. “Oasis” said Ryan quietly. Flabby scoured the horizon with his binoculars looking for the telltale sign of palm trees or American tourists or bars of Turkish delight but saw nothing but grass and scrub. “Oasis” said Ryan again, this time pointing to the boy. Flabby trained the binoculars on the boy and was surprised to see him much closer and making gestures at them with two fingers. “See I told you, just the bloke in Oasis” said Ryan.
There was nothing for it. They gestured to the boy to come closer but the boy was quite content with his two finger gestures and stayed with his goats that munched at the grass and scrub with total disinterest. It happened so quick, Flabby was still looking through his binoculars but the rest were taken totally by surprise as the goats stampeded and milled around in front of them. Not wanting a goat bloodbath, nobody opened fire but Flabby felt the blade of a knife sticking in his back and it was his own knife but just piercing the skin hinting that it meant business. “Don’t shoot or I kill him” said the trainee shepherd, now calling all the shots. The boy was leant over Flabby and even if they had opened fire, the boy’s weight would have sent the knife into Flabby. Flabby didn’t move and just to make sure he didn’t Rab C bit him hard. The fact the boy spoke such good English was surprising and the fact that he had outflanked and outsmarted four of the best in the regiment was somewhat disturbing but pride comes before a fall, so they say.
“Who are you” asked the boy pressing slightly harder on the knife. Flabby tried to make himself as small as possible and Rab C agreed and bit him again. “We’re here to do a job” said Ryan not wanting to give too much away. “What job?” asked the boy twisting the knife slightly. “You’re not Americans?” asked the boy. “No, we’re not Americans” replied Ryan honestly and thankfully. “You’re not pigging Irish?” asked the boy. “No, we’re definitely not pigging Irish” replied Ryan; again honestly glad Danny Boy wasn’t here. “Why do you have Irish assault rifles then?” asked the boy. A bit of a tricky question this, thought Flabby feeling the point of the knife breaking his skin. “Because our government couldn’t afford anything better” said Ryan almost too truthfully. “Oh, you’re British, aren’t you” said the boy handing Ryan the knife, handle first.
The boy’s name was Tarquin Peregrine Arbuthnot Ali Akbar
Farhangdoust-Ffoulkes but he preferred to be called Ali as the register at
school used to take half an hour and twenty minutes of that was usually devoted
to him. His father had been British and his mother Iranistani but they had died
in an accident involving a runaway camel and half a ton of explosives. His
father had been head of security at a large mining operation but insurgents had
killed his family using a camel suicide bomb though the camel had actually been
trying to run away at the time and had been feeling quite upbeat about things
at the time until somebody had strapped the explosives onto him and then
definitely got the hump. Ali had been brought up by his grandmother who owned a
goat hire business but had installed a deep hatred of insurgents into Ali and
also a great respect for the British. She also had a 20Mbit broadband
connection as she loved Celebrity Come Dancing but this had enabled Ali to
educate himself and he had been contacted by somebody with a stripey tie to
work for the British intelligence services. He knew all about the
Ali told them that the nearest Iranistani military presence
was about twenty miles away which confirmed their intelligence but there were
helicopters recces from time to time but they were in second-hand former
Russian Hips which barely made it to their location and certainly never made it
back and were serviced by Aeroflop which meant that if you needed a new part,
you either had a whip round or held a raffle. The
Ali suggested they move to his grandmother’s home until it
was time to move. She was away with the goats as they were due for their
So they packed up all the kit and threw it on Knocker’s
back, who protested noisily, so they took it off item by item until he didn’t
and made their way towards Ali’s place. The goats followed or led, depending on
how they felt at the time. These were goats that weren’t for hire or rent and
therefore didn’t have to have the annual
The team threw their kit in the barn and camouflaged it by
throwing more kit on top. Ali said that they seldom got visits from the
military and since everybody knew that the goats were away for an
2 lbs. of goat meat
1 Onion (chopped)
1 Tomato (chopped)
1/4 Jalapeno
Garlic
Calorific (Paprika for example)
Vinegar
1 T Butter
Cumin
Wash the goat meat in lemon juice
and then put it in a bowl with boiling water on it to lose the smell. Put in
the pan with all the ingredients (if possible let it marinate for one or two
hours). Then turn the heat on until it starts to cook. Add water to cover it
all. Keep checking the water. You don't want a soup, but you also don't want it
to be without sauce. One tip: if you stick in a fork and see the meat is soft
and there is plenty of sauce, you don't need to add any more water. Just let it
cook and let the sauce get thicker. Serve with potatoes and white rice with the
sauce over them.
It sounded delicious and he rushed off with his knife to be better acquainted with one of the goats. Flabby joined ARRSE but was called a Walt by a couple of hundred angry and irate ARRSErs and left the site very disappointed. Smudge stood outside and smoked cigarette after cigarette, the pile of dog ends getting higher by the minute and Knocker got fixed up with some bint who advertised on some site but was a military sort as well or so she thought. He had said that he was Iranistani; well he didn’t have much choice as you had to put in your current location and he was in Iranistan. She hadn’t wanted anybody English that even Knocker thought strange.
Flabby felt quite proud doing his job, hoe could see the terrible squalor that the Iranistanis lived in, the terrible hardships they endured. He felt proud that the British PM wanted to rule the world or come a close second to the Americans. He’d been involved many times in conflicts where an evil dictator would be removed and democracy introduced. Ok, the following civil wars weren’t part of the plan but it’s the thought that counts as his mother used to say. He flicked from the news, which was the usual rubbish of the day. Dennis Dumfries had appeared on Small Sister, the reality TV show and had acted like a dog and tried to hump some other non-celebrity’s leg live. “What’s the world coming to?” he said to himself wondering why people would watch such rubbish.
He found the Heckler O’Koch website and switched the
language to English. He could speak Irish but was limited to “Fcuk off you
barsteward” or “Eat this you biccy fcuker”. He’d had some good times in
“Fcuk, do I need a holiday” he thought and by chance found a site for a hotel in Crossmaglen. He checked the rates and was pleased to see that the rates included a full IRA breakfast. “Not bad” he said to himself, provisionally booking a week in late September. He imagined meeting the boys in the bar and this time he wouldn’t be trying to shoot them. A nice day out watching the Gaelic Football, which totally confused him as apparently only Catholics can play it and then back to the bar to fight with the locals, sounded like fun to him.
Ryan knocked up his goat with vegetable sauce and it was washed down with glasses of Iranistani Sauvignon Blanc from an excellent year as the nuclear testing had produced a particularly fine grape harvest, almost a thousand Iranistani men had their testicles shrivelled up like prunes but a good year for wine. “No pain, no gain” said Flabby squeezing his legs shut and waking Rab C who yawned, stretched, licked his testicles and bit him. Flabby gave him some food and stroked his back, ignoring the fart and the attempts to bite him. He checked his watch and was happy to see it still working despite not having jumped up and down on the spot for ages, at least twenty minutes now. They had about six hours before darkness would enable them to proceed and he told the team that some shuteye would be a good idea. He wondered how Team Bravo was doing and settled down in the barn on some bales of straw and drifted off into a peaceful sleep until Rab C bit him. He pulled the sick bag out of his pocket and laid it gently on a convenient bale of straw thinking “Get me now you barsteward” and drifted off to sleep again. Rab C licked his bum and drifted off as well.
Chapter Six
Team Bravo after being dropped off and going into the
compulsory all round defence position had found a small cave under a rock
overhang that would give them ideal cover during the day. It seems that if
there was such a thing as God, he was on their side as small caves under rock
overhangs were readily available in the desert enabling Special Forces in all
desert areas to hide during the period of daylight. There had even been the AA
Book of
Danny Boy looked out into the darkness and had much the view that Flabby had just scrub and a few bushes. The night vision goggles gave the desert an eerie glow but at least you could see what was making that funny scratching sound. It was a particularly fine example of a red fox (Vulpes Vulpes) which was scratching its bum and licking its testicles. All nature seemed to do this but usually only when a camera was pointed directly at it. Danny Boy heard the scratching sound again but from behind him. It was Rikshaw, whose erection had finally subsided and he was finally able to lie on his stomach again. It had been comical watching him trying to aim his Heckler O’Koch while wobbling on his erection. He had managed it in the end by digging a hole in the desert floor where the erection would fit. Rikshaw scratched himself in his sleep and Danny Boy continued to scan the horizon.
It was a couple hours until dawn and they would be spending the daylight hours resting up before heading for the first target area at nightfall. There hadn’t been time to move on after they had been dropped off and the method of operation now was to take stock of the situation, take stock of your location and then move on. You could do it the old way, it made a better book but that was debatable and lessons had been learned in the first war in Iraqistan and the seventy-three novels written about it plus the hundred or so reference books as well. He remembered Lofty Wiseman’s wise words about survival in the Iraqistan desert, not enough to make a second volume to his survival guide but very valid here. “Take a fcuking jumper” he had memorably said. Danny Boy had his jumper on and he was glad he had. “Good old Lofty” he whispered to himself.
Danny Boy remembered his time in the French Foreign Legion
or French Foreign Legion, as he’d never learned to speak French. Many, who
joined, did so to forget but Danny Boy did so to try to remember, as it had
just been a normal stag night.
Strangely, while everybody seemed to join the legion to forget, Danny Boy actually left the legion to forget. He had been posted to Laudun after completing his training, he hadn’t realised at the time but then Laudun was a bit further from the beach. He managed to walk the 94.7 km to the beach for a swim before breakfast but never seemed to get back much before the evening meal. This of course produced a lot of shouting that Danny Boy couldn’t understand. They did even try talking to him in English but then they couldn’t understand him. It was on the way to the beach that Danny Boy was picked up by a girl in a 2CV. Usually Danny Boy wouldn’t have accepted a lift from a 2CV; it’s a bit like three up on a motorbike and without a sidecar. She was something special and she could actually understand him. She was a speech therapist and a freelance translator so could understand every word he said and he could understand her and it was love and potential intellectual conversation at first sight but just in case, he fcuked her first.
Their relationship developed mainly because she was the only
one he could talk to and because he knew, he was falling in love with her. He
used to get a nagging feeling just like when your Swiss army knife opens in
your pocket and not having a Swiss army knife; he knew it must be love. The
relationship really got in the way of his life in the legion and the shouting
got worse as he was never there. His unit was posted to the
She was buried close to the beach where they had spent so much time together and he paid for a headstone ‘Here lies Jacqueline de Gaulle’, he knew he’d seen that nose before. He wondered if she had thought he was British as another De Gaulle had been fcuking the Brits for years. The legion released him even though he didn’t quite realise it and his vomit stained civilian clothes were handed back to him, along with a healthy bank balance and Danny Boy walked out of the legion to try and forget. So his chapter in France over, Danny Boy finally got directions to the airport and jumped on the wrong plane and ended up in Belfast not Dublin.
He first put his healthy bank balance to good use and sorted
out a flat close to the city centre. Because of his southern accent, he
couldn’t really live in a Protestant area and because he was a Protestant, he
couldn’t really live in a Catholic area and he wasn’t sleeping in the botanic
gardens either so sorted out a suitable flat. Not cheap but nicely neutral. He
then joined the then Royal Irish and passed out wearing his Corbeen with pride.
He rose rapidly through the ranks; his experience with the legion had given him
a good start and he made good use of it. He broke numerous unwritten laws and
volunteered for anything and everything and was at the Royal Tournament in
He got deeper and deeper and spent time undercover in
Of course joining the regiment put an end to all this and he
could never serve there, as he was known but he had great delight in Colombia,
bringing to the government’s attention the presence of an IRA cell, that were
there to train the FARC rebels. He had also been sent to
Danny Boy dreamed on, still alert but thinking of writing a book himself but then he would have to leave the regiment and worst of all would probably have to appear on the Richard and Judy show. He didn’t mind Paul O’Grady as you could have a good swear on his show but all those book signings and wearing your balaclava back to front, he wasn’t sure about that. He dreamed on but then heard something, a vehicle of sorts but far away in the distance. The desert carried sound so far but he estimated it was a couple of miles away. He quickly woke the others and crawled round so he could get a view over the rock overhang. He scoured the distant desert with his night view goggles and finally spotted an Iranistani 4x4 with an open top and he thought two occupants. “What is it?” whispered Taff. Danny Boy made the sign for a vehicle. “How many occupants?” whispered Taff again. Danny Boy held up two fingers. “I was only asking, fcuking Paddy barsteward” whispered Taff not so quietly. “Two military occupants you fcuking sheep shagger” replied Danny Boy, his whispering not so quiet now. “Well that’s alright then, no it’s fcuking not! Which way are they going? asked Taff still trying to whisper. “They seem to be coming our way” replied Danny Boy and slid back down to underneath the rock overhang.
They crouched below the rock overhang, safety catches were off, holsters were unbuttoned, knives were released and Jock crunched on his bag of Maltesers. “Suck them you tosser” whispered Danny Boy and Jock rustled the bag, pulled out a Malteser and popped it into his mouth. The sound of the vehicle was louder now and it seemed to be heading their way. It got louder and louder and then it stopped. They could hear voices talking Fartsi, the main Iranistan language. Nige of course could understand them but the others only picked up the odd word.
“Fcuking Ramadan” said the first soldier (S1). “I’m fcuking starving and I’m dying of fcuking thirst as well” he added. The timing of the job had been deliberately picked to coincide with Ramadan and as this was the third week then the military would not be at its best. “Fcuker it is” said the second soldier (S2). “And there’s mosque parade on Friday as well” he added. “Get the Ginsters out then” said S1. “What flavours you got?” he asked. “Sheep’s eyes or ram’s penis” the other replied. “Give me the sheep’s eyes, I like something to crunch” decided S1. “And a bottle of Puke Light as well please” he asked. “Fcuking mosque parade, I’d rather be on my knees behind the missus. It’s the wrong time of the month and it’s the only chance I get to plug the other hole” he admitted and Rikshaw got an erection.
“What do you think of this shite about the Yanks and the
Brits invading?” asked S2. “Load of bollox I think” said S1 knowingly. “Ok,
we’ve got something nuclear but my fcuking watch is nuclear and I’m not going
to throw that at
Nige realised that this was dynamite. The PM of Iranistan
was being blackmailed into letting the IRA use the country as a centre for
their
“I need a pish” said S1, finishing off his Puke Light. They heard him come to the edge of the rock overhang and heard the sound of a zipper and some fumbling. Danny Boy didn’t move, even when the first drop hit him, he remained motionless. “Dirty fcuking barsteward” he thought to himself as the pish rained down on him. He could feel it running down the inside of his shirt and he could taste the saltiness. Finally, S1 finished. There was a sound of shaking and a couple of drops hit Danny Boy on the forehead, then the sound of fumbling again and a zipper going up this time. “Fcuk that was good” said S1.”Better than a wank” he added. Danny Boy for what little he could understand thought if he hadn’t just pissed on my head, I could maybe grow to like this guy. “Right let’s fcuk off” said the talkative S1.”Your turn for the smokes” added S2 and they heard the voices get quieter as the two walked towards their vehicle. They heard the sound of doors slamming and the engine starting and the vehicle drove off. “I’m in Marlboro country” shouted one of the soldiers in English and they were gone.
Danny Boy rushed out into the open and tried to wash off the pish, pretty hard to do with one water bottle, he rolled in the sand but it just stuck to his pish soaked smock. Nige tried to explain to them exactly what had been said, not made any easier by the fact that Danny Boy was still rolling in the sand. “We have to tell Flabby” said Taff, realising the implications of what had been said. This changed everything and if they were still going to go, they now weren’t sure which targets if any could or should be taken out. Rikshaw still with erection powered up the secure army radio, donned the Redgum headset allowing twenty minutes for the valves to warm up and called Flabby.
Chapter Seven
Danny Boy was in a quandary, actually, he was in the
Iranistani desert but he was still in a quandary. He had to let Flabby know but
he knew that everything would be monitored and the fact that they now had a
different itinerary might upset the Americans who had a secret itinerary.
Rikshaw was still waiting for his valves to warm up, not his own personal
valves but the valves of the RedGum headset. He knew Flabby would be moving off
at nightfall and he had to somehow talk to him before then. He talked it over
with the rest. Taff agreed with him, that they should not continue with the
job, as the reasons behind it were maybe not known at government level.
Prendergast knew but what action had he taken. He was MI-something and not to
be trusted. They had received no orders to cancel the job, so as far as
Danny Boy squatted on the desert floor and using the torch, peered over their map. He had worked it out that they were approximately 30-35 miles from Flabby and there was now thirteen and a half hours until Flabby would move off. The Puma was capable of 163mph but he hadn’t been flying that fast with them on board and he hoped his calculations were correct or vaguely close to correct. Suddenly he felt something pushing at his rear end and jumped up in surprise. He quickly shone the torch where he had been crouched and spotted a large mound of earth being pushed up under the desert floor. He thought he saw a pair of eyes and tiny hands. “Fcuking moles so it was” he shouted and stamped on the mound and he thought he heard scurrying from underneath his foot. “What the fcuk did you do that for?” asked Taff. “It was only a fcuking cute little hamster” he added. “I thought it was a mole so I did” said Danny Boy. “I’m Irish and you know how we Irish, always deal with our moles so we do” he added somewhat ambiguously.
So the excitement over and a possible friend for Rab C
obliterated, they carried on discussing what to do. “You can turn that fcuker
off now so you can!” said Danny Boy to Rikshaw, shouting as the RedGum headset
renders the operator virtually stone deaf. Fortunately, they hadn’t actually
reached Flabby yet, the valves were glowing in the dark and Rikshaw had tried
two or three times but had heard nothing but static. I bet that’s Rab C chewing
the fcuking battery, hamsters can be such predictable creatures sometimes. Rikshaw ripped off the RedGum headset and
combed his hair. “I reckon we can do the 30-35 miles in the time but we are
going to have to lighten up in more ways than one so that fcuker can go for a
start” said Danny Boy pointing at the RedGum headset lying on the floor. “I
think we can lose the radio as well so we can” he added. “What about the
explosives and detonators?” asked Taff. “I don’t think the job is actually on
our end and if we don’t reach Flabby in time then he should have taken care of
the
Taff agreed with Danny Boy, Jock still didn’t mind as long
as there was a fight in it somewhere, Nige was still not quite decided but was
leaning on the side of Taff and Danny Boy and Rikshaw combed his hair and
nodded. They didn’t quite know why he was nodding but that was good enough for
them, so motion carried and it was nice to see democracy at work in the Army.
Danny Boy would have ordered them to carry out his wishes but it’s nice to do
things in the democratic way. That’s what they were fighting for, the
democratic principle. Where a tiny minority decides what to do but because they
were democratically elected, the electorate think that those in charge are
following their wishes. That was democracy in a nutshell or the branded version
of nutshells they had in the
So all the surplus kit was buried, the detonators well away from the explosives and the radio was made inoperative or more inoperative than it usually was. The RedGum headset was thrown with great relish and force by Rikshaw and a family of mouse like hamsters made it their home and lived happy ever after until a red fox ate them all. The main thing was water as trogging through the desert in the heat requires a great intake of fluids otherwise you end up looking like David Hasselelhof or Rita Sullivan from Coronation Street or a combination of both. It was still over an hour until sun up and they could make a good start before the heat would inevitably take its toll on them. So the map was checked, the compass was switched on, the new Cassio compass with built in Mp3 player and Teterris for compasses and all run on Mirosoft Wendoes FT (Fcuking Tiny). Danny Boy punched in the coordinates, got a blue screen, rebooted, reinstalled the backup, got another blue screen, updated his anti virus and they were off.
They made good time; the compass showed an internal error
but did sometimes tell them they were heading in the right direction. They
marched or ran for a couple of hours in the comparative cool. They hadn’t seen
a living soul; the terrain was relatively easy with just scrub, the odd tree but
fairly flat. The sun was getting higher in the sky and it was starting to warm
up. The temperature gauge on the compass read ‘Hi Score 87,000 Jock’ but that
was the wrong screen so with a press on the touch sensitive screen, it read
‘80’, which Danny Boy took to be Fahrenheit. They had a few minutes rest, a
mouthful of water and on they went. All the team were doing fine so far, this
was just a walk in the park so far for them with all their training. Danny Boy
remembered trogging through Brecon Beacons with a pack the size of a domestic
fridge, he should have been in
Back at Ali’s grandmother’s place, Team Alpha rested still totally unaware of the shocking developments. Flabby was curled up on the straw and was still asleep but woke suddenly as the radio crackled. “Fcuking Rab C again” he thought and drifted off back into a deep sleep. Rab C was in fact in a corner on a bale of straw and was on the pull. The Syrian hamster is one of the biggest hamsters and the Afghan/Iranian mouse like hamster like the one Danny Boy had tried to squash, was one of the smallest and Rab C had a nice small babe of a hamster in his sights. She had already complimented him on his testicles so he licked them just to make sure they were clean, plus he enjoyed licking his testicles and thought I won’t be able to lick them forever so make the most of it while I can. It had been known that when two hamsters mate that the female will kill the male and Rab C knew this all too well and told his female friend that if she tried any of that shite then she’d better look elsewhere if she was after a good humping. The female agreed and thought that in today’s modern society that all hamsters should be equal, Rab C agreed totally, as long as he could go on top.
An hour passed and Rab C’s testicles were not being licked but were being put to far better use. Rab C was just sorry that hamsters didn’t smoke as there was nothing to do after making love, so they just did it again. He asked her if the earth had moved for her and she replied that it had as they had fallen off the bale of straw but had continued on the floor of the barn. Rab C bit her neck, it wasn’t as good as biting a finger but at least she couldn’t get away. They made small talk while they were joined and not at the hip and Rab C found out her name was Hamas. He thought that maybe I should have asked that first but all’s fair in love and war, a well-known hamster saying. She was one of a family of five thousand, seven hundred and forty one and her mother was dead as she had passed away trying to think of a name for her new sister and after over a thousand, the strain was just too much for her. So she was an orphan but definitely not alone. Her father had died of testicle failure many weeks ago but she still missed him especially when she used to sit on his knee but she did question if that was a correct father daughter relationship but he had just said “You’re a fcuking hamster, bend over and get ready for it”. That’s why she wasn’t a virgin but then David Attenburgh had come round with a film crew and taken all the virgins away as they were, what was it he had said ‘an endangered species’, that was it.
So while Rab C humped, Team Bravo trogged through the desert
in the
They continued through the featureless desert. It was
totally featureless apart from small caves and rocky overhangs and rocky
outcrops that shined in the sunlight with seams of possibly valuable minerals sandwiched
between the layers of rock. The desert was really not bare even though it was
supposedly featureless, grass grew and small shrubs and even small trees and a
rare buzzard flew overhead and they saw pheasant and twenty-one of the
twenty-two different species of rodents and a bear in the distance and deer and
hedgehogs and yes, this was a featureless place. The sun shone down mercilessly
on the five men, totally alone in this inhospitable place, this featureless
place except for a small jeep and a lorry and “Oh fcuk, down” cried Danny Boy
as he spotted the vehicles. The five dropped as if hit by a stone but there
weren’t any stones about so they obviously hadn’t been hit by one and it would
have to be five stones not one. They tried to find cover. Danny Boy peered
round the three blades of grass, he had crawled behind and thought “I’m
fcuked”. Fortunately, due to their prevalence in the desert and a lack of
imagination from the author, a small cave with a rocky overhang was very close
and the five crawled towards it. Something whistled above Danny Boy’s head and
“It’s not fcuking whistling
The occupants of the vehicles had obviously spotted the team
as you wouldn’t really open fire on somebody you hadn’t spotted, would you? The
team were in their familiar position of in a small cave with a rocky overhang.
Danny Boy made a mental note to tell the Boss that maybe they should have a
small cave with rocky overhang simulator back at
The stand off went on for what seemed hours, actually it was
only a quarter of an hour when the team heard somebody shout “Do any of you lot
know anything about DVDs?” and in English. Rikshaw could have built a
“Don’t shoot old boy” said the Iranistani officer in
English. He said something in Fartsi and the occupants jumped out of their
vehicles with weapons held up high, walked a few yards away, carefully laid
them down on the ground, moved well away from them and stood in a bunch. The
officer then very slowly pulled his pistol from its holster and handed it Danny
Boy. “Don’t want any accidents, old boy” he said. “I’m Heshmat Sharafi” he
introduced himself in perfect English. “And that’s Reza, Amir, Ghada, Ali,
Jalal, Mehdi and the fat one over there is Hassan” he added. “I presume you are
SAS, chaps” he added sounding more British than most of the team. “ I was
educated in
Rikshaw had given Heshmat’s portable
Danny Boy wasn’t quite sure if he should trust Heshmat totally but when Heshmat asked him casually “Can I drop you off anywhere?” then he relented and explained the part about the copy facility but conveniently left out the bits about the nuclear facility and the barracks and the missile bases and the rest. So the team piled onto the vehicles and made their way towards the area where Team Alpha had been dropped off. “They’re probably with Ali” said Heshmat who was also a Celebrity Come Dancing fan and had hired the occasional goat there. They drove on for a while passing small cave with rocky overhang after small cave with rocky overhang until they saw a large sign in the distance. Hurtz Rental (Goats Division) blazed away in two-foot high neon. The vehicles were still flying white flags and Heshmat jumped out and walked towards the building with his hands raised.
Inside the barn the shite had really hit the fan as the approaching vehicles had been spotted. Rab C was still humping Hamas for all he was worth but the rest were ready for any sort of action and anything that needed the faintest hint of cocking had been cocked which meant keeping Knocker well away from the goats. Flabby saw the Iranistani officer walking towards them with raised hands and wondered what was going on. “I’ve brought some friends of yours” said the officer in perfect English and waved for Danny Boy’s team to come forward. Flabby was flabbygasted as his old mother used to say. The fcuking enemy had brought the other team to him and what stories they were telling. It was going to be a bit of an informative pish up tonight and the job was going to have to be seriously rethunk or thought about all over again.
Rab C was still stuck on/in Hamas and had a headache; he actually ached in other places but carried on with his mission. “Just one more time, then I’m definitely getting some sleep” he said for the twentieth time.
Chapter Eight
It was party time at Ali’s grandmother’s place and even the Iranistani officer Heshmat joined in the proceedings with all of his troops. All that is except Hassan, who really hated being called ‘fat’. He knew he was fat but just didn’t like it being constantly pointed out. He had not had a British university education; in fact he hadn’t had an education at all until he joined the Iranistani army. They had taught him all he had needed to know which meant they hadn’t taught what he didn’t need to know but since he hadn’t been taught that bit either then he didn’t know what he hadn’t needed to know as he didn’t know because he hadn’t been taught that.. Hassan was confused, a very confused person and very bitter. He resented Heshmat, his officer and he hated the fact that they had collaborated with the sworn enemy. He knew that their illustrious PM had worked in a bagel bar but he also knew that the PM had not washed his hands, was a serial nose picker and had spat in the dough at every possible occasion. “I’ll show them” he said to three blades of grass and a goat glanced at him in surprise.
The party was in full swing, Flabby had downloaded Agadoo by Black Lace and the dulcet tones of one the regiment’s favourites blasted out through the PC speakers. The Iranistani Sauvignon Blanc flowed like water, which was quite appropriate as it tasted like water as well but got you pished eventually. Flabby had decided not to post a guard as Heshmat had told him that his was the only patrol in the area and unless another patrol got seriously lost then there would be no unwelcome guests at the party. Flabby relaxed on two bales of straw and picked up Rab C who was prostrate on the ground, stroked him and used him as a pillow. Rab C didn’t struggle, he didn’t bite, he didn’t care, he was exhausted and he was going to get married. He wasn’t sure which was worse. He had seen the human equivalent of marriage and it didn’t seem that happy, nobody licked their testicles and nobody even tried. He had once seen Flabby’s wife Cherie with the milkman but still no licking of testicles. “Come on give it to me big boy” was obviously a term of endearment between housewives and tradesmen and he wondered why all the humans gathered round the kitchen table eating as he had seen more than one tradesman with Flabby’s wife and all the Isit Bonk in the kitchen cupboard hadn’t got rid of one particularly nasty stain on the kitchen table. Obviously some sort of ritualistic behaviour thought Rab C, he could be quite deep when he wanted to be.
Hamas had left to ask her guardians if it was allowed for her to marry outside her sub species. One guardian had pointed out that it would be a mixed marriage and the children might get a hard time at school as they would be neither one thing nor another. Hamas replied that as hamsters didn’t go to school then it wouldn’t really be an issue. He agreed and humped her as is the tradition. She moved from guardian to guardian and was dutifully humped by each and every one as is the tradition. She wondered if she could be pregnant and nipped to the hamster equivalent of Boots for a pregnancy test kit, she had asked the pharmacist and he had humped her as well. She used the kit and she was delighted to find out she was pregnant and celebrated by the letting photography club hump her as well. She had found a quiet dark space to try the pregnancy test kit but it had been the darkroom and the club had been developing its latest batch of photos. They had finished and turned the light on and found her there. The next move was fairly predictable, as is the tradition.
In despite of the party and the dulcet tones of Agadoo for the twentieth time, there was still the important matter of whom or what the teams were going to take out. Heshmat had sworn his silence and “Scout’s honour” was good enough for Flabby. He really didn’t see Heshmat going back and bubbling them. Heshmat was making his excuses as he would have to report in soon and all except Hassan had enjoyed the party. Hassan was still outside looking overly sly and suspicious as if a director was making a film and a bad one at that. He rolled his eyes, which always helps to look shifty, and jumped on the back of the truck with a final devious glance at Flabby and the teams. The scene had been set and Hassan was acting a good part albeit grossly overacting. Hassan’s favourite actor was Jean Claude Van Driver, the Belgian martial arts star and he used the same acting technique, pout and flex your muscles or in his case flex his fat. When it came to dialogue the directors would usually say “For fcuk’s sake don’t speak, you’ll ruin it”, so Hassan remained silent but moody and pouted even more, Jean Claude would have been proud of him. So Heshmat and his men left in the two vehicles and for Flabby and his men, there still remained the serious decision of what they were actually going to hit.
The American troops were poised to invade Iranistan but the
mandate was not clear now. Danny Boy’s team could not now hit their targets so
the invasion was effectively off. It was just whether they hit the nuclear
facility and/or the
Heshmat and his men drove back to their base singing along
to ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ by Jeff Beck. Heshmat even switched off the volume to
see if the men were singing along with the chorus. He had remembered that from
his time in
They arrived back at their base, Heshmat put a coin in the
meter and the lights came back on. The radio emitted nothing but static and he
reached in the fridge for his can of Young Strange and Peculiar Badger and
Sheep’s Arrse Real Ale with built in widget. Because the electricity had been
off, the can was nice and warm, just as it should be. He pulled the ring pull
and it broke. He reached in his desk drawer for his twelve in one utility tool,
made in
The men parked the vehicles in the double garage and wandered off to their billets to shite, shower, shave or watch Father Ted who was huge there before it was time for evening meal and then off to get pished at the local bar. Hassan was on a mission, he watched Father Ted, he wasn’t missing that for anything but he was waiting to make a report of his own and needed Heshmat to finish his real ale and bugger off somewhere or anywhere so he could call in. Heshmat sat sipping his real ale and doing the Times Crossword. He finished it in ten minutes, two seconds faster than yesterday. The radio made a strange sound, repeated pulses boomed out on the radio. “Morse, it sounds like Morse” he thought. He looked round the office; posters covered the walls, the Pirelli Calendar, that one of the woman tennis player where her arrse is showing, the other one of the woman tennis player where her arrse is showing and a poster of machine guns throughout the ages. He went from machine gun to machine gun, he knew them all but then got stuck on one, it was always this one he couldn’t remember. “What is that one?” he said to himself. “I know it, it’s on the tip of my tongue” he said to himself again thinking that he was talking to himself a bit much and had better watch out” Then he remembered, “Lewis!” he shouted.
Heshmat finished off his real ale and rushed to the toilet.
He sat in trap two wondering why they couldn’t brew beer like that in
Iranistan. The imported Puke beer was a lager and it was cold, crisp and
refreshing and nothing like the real ale he preferred. He pebble dashed the pan
with the real ale and was reminded of the Dutch lager that reached the parts
other beers didn’t reach. His real ale would soon be on its way to the Honorary
Colonel Gaddafi Sewage Plant, I bet the Dutch lager can’t do that. While he did
the paperwork, Hassan sneaked into his office and fired up the radio. If this
had been a film then the director would have had a choice of either having
Hassan speaking Fartsi which in fact would be him saying ‘Yashmak” over and
over again. There would be subtitles of course but in the cinema you wouldn’t
see them as you are always behind somebody exceptionally tall or a woman with a
hat or both, so the repeated ‘Yashmak’ would mean nothing. On the
Of course, those problems aside, there are still the
problems for the screenplay writers to find a connection for Hassan with
somebody in high up places to make the story work. You can’t have him
permanently damaging his lips by pouting for the last few minutes and looking
shifty until it hurts. Stretching plot credibility to its limits, Hassan spoke
on the radio. His mentor when he had been educated by the army had been a high
ranking officer of the
So Hassan explained to Colonel Nasrollah Kheder what had gone on, what was going on, the fact that Heshmat had not gone back for the empty shell case, that he had collaborated with the enemy and that he had bought pirate DVDs or at least the one. The Colonel said he would make a few calls and sort things out and the words “Who’s been a naughty boy then?” were heard over the radio. If this had been a film, the actor would have had severe headaches for weeks after all the eye rolling and Hassan’s lips would be dragging on the floor due to over pouting. Hassan switched off the radio, gave a jubilant leer to nobody or nothing in particular and made his way to the billet to catch up on Countdown, He liked Carole Vorderman and had always wanted to shove his own personal vowel up her consonant.
Back with Flabby, the party had come to a premature end as
the wine had run out. “Thank fcuk” said Jock, sat on the toilet. Flabby had
talked it over with the other eight and they were all in one mind that the
The problem for Flabby now, was what to do with Rab C. He had been with them all the way and forgiving him for all the finger biting, he had grown quite attached to him. Of course he didn’t know Rab C’s plans as he couldn’t communicate with a mere hamster but he had seen Rab C humping the life out of another smaller hamster and thought that it had to be better than running round a wheel for ten hours a day. It was sad, it was like Born Free but then Elsa was a lioness, didn’t have testicles and even if she had, she wouldn’t have constantly licked them. So Flabby decided to leave Rab C, he asked Ali to keep him informed and email him from time to time. Flabby stroked Rab C who had almost recovered and made several attempts to bite him. “There you go big fellow” said Flabby and put him on the ground. Another hamster appeared from a corner and ran towards Rab C. They almost seemed to embrace and then ran off towards a hole in the barn wall. They stopped, Rab C stood up on his back legs and it was if he was waving and his eyes appeared watery. Flabby sniffed and blamed his hay fever even though he didn’t have hay fever and watched as the two hamsters ran through the hole in the barn wall and disappeared. The other side of the barn wall, they stopped and Hamas whispered to Rab C naughtily. “Come on give it to me big boy” and Rab C obligingly humped her, as is the tradition. Back in the barn, Flabby cursed his hay fever again.
Heshmat finished off pebble dashing trap two and after half
an hour of wiping, tried to flush the toilet. The chain came off in his hand so
he fixed it back on and pulled again. The cistern made a noise similar to
Heshmat’s stomach while he had been in full pebbledash flow but did nothing
else. He tried again but not even a noise and looking down at his handiwork, “I
can’t leave that!” he said to what had previously been the contents of his
stomach. He reached for the cistern but the ceiling was too low and he couldn’t
get his hand in to feel what was wrong. He pushed up a ceiling tile and tried
reaching down, “I now know how a gynaecologist feels” he muttered to himself.
There was plenty of room above the false ceiling so he climbed up using the
toilet roll holder, the catch on the door and the top of the door. He carefully
found his footing and peered down into the cistern. The ball cock had
punctured, he knew this as his house near
As he re-found his footing, the door of the toilet block suddenly opened and he was just going to say something when all hell let loose. Even on his perch above the false ceiling, he was covered in splinters as somebody with a machine pistol made Gruyere of the door to trap two. He froze as he looked down on the bullet-ridden door and then he heard the sound of a large boot kicking the door open. “Don’t look up” he prayed as he saw an Iranistani Special Forces trooper check the trap. Fortunately the trooper did not look up and Heshmat had he not already been would have shite himself. “What the fcuk do I do now?” he asked himself but unfortunately he didn’t have an answer so didn’t reply. He could hear gunfire from outside and wondered what was going on. It wasn’t the British and the trooper was definitely one of their own but somehow he didn’t quite feel so trustworthy of one of his own after the show he had just witnessed.
Hassan sat on his bed watching Countdown. He was imagining
what he and Carole were going to get up to and reflecting on how bad Des Lynam
is and it was a shame that Richard Whiteley died and he had even wanted to
visit
Heshmat stood on top of the false ceiling over a slightly bullet ridden trap two and pondered. Pondering is always good when you don’t have a clue what to do as you can ponder away and it seems as though you are actually doing something about the situation. Actually you’re doing fcuk all. The sound of gunfire had stopped and Heshmat pondered a bit more. He managed to get down, being very careful not to put his foot in the toilet bowl as the toilet had still not been flushed. His stomach was knotted with fear and looking into the bowl made him violently ill. He threw up what little was left of his stomach contents and added a couple of dry heaves just to feel worse. He tried to peer out of the window but it was too high and it was frosted glass, which he thought ironic considering the distance to the next building of any sort. It was totally silent outside and he pulled the outside door open slowly and very carefully. He edged outside and examined the scene.
There was nothing to see and he wondered where the gunfire had come from. He checked his office and apart from a wrecked radio there was nothing. He wandered into the accommodation blocks and tried room by room but there was nobody to be seen until the last room. “Consonant, consonant, vowel” came from the room and he pushed the door open slowly. Hassan lay on the bed with two holes in his forehead and with the need to call in a medical expert, he pronounced him dead, very, very dead indeed. Des Lynam announced a commercial break and Heshmat watched an advert for earwax, mobility scooters and some pad for a woman that turned her into a ballet dancer despite the fact she kept pishing herself. Heshmat didn’t want to get old but at least he had the chance to try. He switched the TV and video off and walked outside. In the distance he thought he caught a glimpse of Amir and he called out to him. “Get tae fcuk” drifted across the desert and Heshmat knew what to do. He knew which way Kebabstan was, so quickly picked up some food, some water bottles, threw everything in a kitbag and headed off in the general direction of Kebabstan.
Flabby and the other eight were ready to go. They said their goodbyes and thanked him for his hospitality and to pass on their respects to whatever MI department he was working for. So everything done and dusted, all kit checked and no Rab C to bite him, Flabby called out for the team to move on out, in best wagon train fashion. He’d always wanted to say that, so Flabby was a happy teddy. They walked towards the copying facility at a brisk pace, the heat of the day had subsided and it was now almost pleasant.
They had been walking for about three hours when they came to a large sandy flat expanse between two rocky sections with a gorge at each end. It was like nature’s football stadium and Flabby and team rested in the centre circle. Suddenly lights lit up everywhere shining on them, blinding them at first but as their eyes grew used to the bright light they could see faces peering at them from all sides. Through the gorge at each end trundled what looked like a T-72 tank followed by another. The sound of helicopters overhead was deafening and Flabby recognized the familiar sound of a Cobra, then another and a jet screamed overhead. “I would think it extremely wise to put your weapons down gentlemen” demanded somebody through a megaphone. “My name is Colonel Nasrollah Kheder of the Iranistani army and I demand you surrender” added the voice.
Flabby could see they were caught like rats in a trap and they did not stand a chance against such superior odds. “I think he means it” he said to anybody who was listening. “We’re fcuked” said Jock, probably the shortest but most accurate summing up of the situation. “ Ok, weapons down” said Flabby and they went through the process of disarming which took some time but fortunately Colonel Nasrollah Kheder was a patient man. “He was a smug barsteward” as Jock would later say but at least he was patient. The nine stood in the lights, hands in the air and large piles of weapons on the floor.
The weapons were picked up by Gollum like creatures that were actually Iranistani Pioneers and taken well away from temptation and arm’s reach. The nine were put into the back of truck and handcuffed to a rail. They were then driven to the nuclear facility which took half an hour. Flabby looked out onto the desert or as far as he could see as it was dark and reflected on where they went wrong. He didn’t think they had made any mistakes but then things happen that are beyond your control sometimes. They arrived at the nuclear facility, they knew that because a big sign welcomed them to the nuclear facility and in English as well as Fartsi. A large warehouse to the side had an open door and the light shone out over the desert.
They were taken to the warehouse and the interior was painted a rather familiar shade of green. Posters were on the walls of well-known figures, Adams, Kelly, Maskey, Dana, Niall Quinn and Michelle Collins. Flabby thought they fcuked up big time there. You order a poster of one of the leaders of the 1916 uprising, get a couple of letters wrong and you get Michelle Collins, still she’s not bad, I’d give her one.
Boxes of DVDs and
Chapter Nine
“Colonel Nasrollah Kheder wasn’t a bad lad, he was a murderer, a cheat, a liar and their captor but he wasn’t a bad lad” thought Flabby. They had been held in the warehouse amongst all the boxes and smashed peripherals. Flabby crossed his legs; they weren’t getting near his peripherals. So far it had all been very polite and courteous and lashings of ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ but Flabby had been in this situation many times before and was always ready to expect the worst. Colonel Nasrollah Kheder had been on a radio, talking to somebody for over quarter of an hour now and the debate, if it was a debate was getting quite heated. Finally it ended and he threw the radio down on a desk in a fit of temper. “Temper, temper” thought Flabby, smiling inwardly. How you smile inwardly remains a mystery but Flabby managed to. It must be in the SAS training or something to do with your sphincter but I wouldn’t try it in public without lots of practice first.
“Right you can fcuk off now” said the Colonel. Flabby was flabbygasted for the second time in this book (?) and wondered what the catch was. “There’s no catch” went on the Colonel, reading Flabby’s mind. Grab what you need but NOT any weapons and fcuk off” repeated the Colonel. Smudge stubbed a cigarette out and looked surprised. “No buts, just fcuk off” said the Colonel yet again. Flabby not wanting to miss the opportunity told the eight to pick up what they needed and, what was it? “Fcuk off” he said and Jock instantly wanted a fight and Knocker had to be restrained from head butting him. They walked out of the door into the night and started walking. They stopped a couple of minutes later as this was the way to Tehrun, so they retraced their steps and walked back in the opposite direction. Flabby turned on the Cassio compass and after beating Jock’s high score, managed to plot a course to the Kebabstan border.
The walk was uneventful which saves on the typing and the imagination and they finally saw the big ‘M’ that denoted the border or not so much the border but where you could get a burger and fries at the border. They were held at the border as the SAS do not usually carry passports and after a couple of phone calls, Prendergast bribed a few officials and blackmailed another and via the phone told them to get something to eat as transport would be dispatched to pick them up. They waited under the big ‘M’ in the fast food restaurant. Flabby had a double camel’s cheeseburger with fries and a squirrel milkshake, Ryan had nothing as he was copying down the menu on the back of a serviette and the rest had various other dishes that were either too boring or too inedible to describe in great detail. They reflected, it was dark and Flabby could see his face in the window but they reflected on what had happened and wondered what was going to happen. They were in the hands of the Gods or more likely the author, which is definitely not the same thing.
Flabby finished being sick in the toilet, it was just the great relief after living with all the stress and the tension and physical energy they had expended and the squirrel milkshake had been off. There had been an outbreak of squirrel flu where the burger chain obtained their squirrels and an exclusion zone had been put round the area where one infected squirrel had been found. The squirrel actually had gone there to die as there is such a thing as the squirrel’s graveyard and it’s not a thing of legend or Rider Haggard books. So the exclusion zone actually had achieved nothing as ten miles down the road, if there had been a road, infected squirrels lead quite a normal life except for the squirrel flu of course. He hoped that this lesson would be learnt but he very much doubted it. It was all ‘IFs’ and if your aunt had balls he’d be your uncle but Flabby had an uncle that was a cross dresser so he was a bit confused but at least he had got rid of the squirrel milkshake.
The transport arrived. “They’re taking the fcuking pish” said Danny Boy as the 2CV pulled up. Nine of them plus driver attempted to fit in the 2CV and a customer at the burger bar phoned up the Mackeson Book of Records but ten in a 2CV is woefully short of the record. Danny Boy was touched, with ten in a 2CV, you can’t fail to be touched but he remembered Jacqueline and got an erection causing more space problems. Fortunately the roof was off, it hadn’t been a convertible but Knocker had ripped it off in temper and it lay in the burger bar car park where a family of hamsters claimed it as their own and built a lovely nest.
It took them five long days to get back to
So finally the brave boys were back in
The PM wanted the IRA taken out for no other reason than his ratings were at an all time low. He was quite honest about it for the first time in his political career and his advisor Campbell McAlistair had advised him to follow this route, he was well paid for stating the obvious. The health service was in decline as doctors and nurses were being laid off and Fred the porter was having trouble with his new multi-skilled role. He didn’t mind doing the operations, it’s just he didn’t like wearing the nurses uniform; he just didn’t have the legs for them. The schools system had been changed so illiterates had more choice where they could be illiterate and it was the year of the illiterate as reported in the newspapers but then being illiterate, the illiterates couldn’t read that. The government had banned the 4x4 and the roads were blocked solid with the emergence of the 6x6 and the 8x8. The school run had been banned but the ban had not covered PSV vehicles and the 6x6 and 8x8 came into that category so the situation at school run times was worse than ever.
So the plan finally came down to
Team Alpha comprising Flabby, Ryan, Smudge and Knocker would
concentrate on the
Logistics wouldn’t be a problem for Team Bravo as there was a Coop round the corner so easy to stock up on provisions. Provisions of a more secretive nature could be brought in by the ice cream vans that did not look out of place in the area. Drugs, cigarettes, booze and even ice cream were sold by the vans and therefore wouldn’t arise suspicion. The area did have active members of a loyalist terrorist organisation ending in ‘F’. There had been much infighting so the ‘F’ was the only thing that remained as the organisation transposed from the UVF to the LVF to the FVF to the FFF and back to the UVF again. The other team would not have it as cushy as Jonesborough was a staunchly republican large village and mixing would not be easy. An English accent would instantly alert suspicion except on a Sunday when all and sundry were selling their wares. Channel No 5 made of diesel, Hugo Bosss distilled from waste oil and plenty of pirate DVDs of the bloke in front at the cinema were readily available. Smudge would have no problems fuelling his habit as it was the cheapest place for cigarettes in the province or not the province depending on your religious or political viewpoint at the time.
The timings were set and even Flabby joined as his watch was still working perfectly, It was still set to Iranistani time but he adjusted it, not easy to do while you are jumping up and down on the spot. Flabby managed to see his wife and the kids before he went and he told them how brave Rab C had been and showed them the scars. The cam net his wife had been knitting didn’t seem to be progressing but the house was newly painted and decorated. Cherie told him that the decorators had been in and that the estimate had been too good to refuse so she had readily accepted it and anything else the decorators had to offer. Flabby wasn’t sure about his wife, he had known another Cherie and she had been a right slapper but he didn’t think all Cheries were like that, just the ones in the legal profession as this one had been a legal secretary. Esmeralda and Bert were pleased to see him but sorry that Rab C hadn’t come back. In fact they hadn’t missed him and had wondered why he hadn’t been eating his food. They planned to buy some fish, at least his cage wouldn’t go to waste. Flabby spent his first night in a bed for sometime and cuddled up to his wife. They fell asleep in each other’s arms but Flabby was woken during the night as his wife started talking in her sleep. “Paste me there big boy” was a strange thing for her to say but Flabby loved his wife and he did trust his wife, a bit.
The following morning, he woke, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, for now and he could hear his wife downstairs. He wandered down the stairs and heard the backdoor slam. He walked into the kitchen and saw his wife tying up her dressing gown. “Just paid the milkman” she said pulling her nighty down. The kids followed a few minutes later, not in paying the milkman but into the kitchen and Cherie cooked them all breakfast. “Can we have our pocket money now, Dad, just in case?” asked the kids predictably. Flabby laughed. “Mercenary little barstewards” he muttered under his breath. “It’s not as if they are yours” muttered Cherie under hers. “Are we adopted?” asked Esmeralda. “Can we be?” asked Bert.
Flabby left his happy family and gathered his kit together and came back downstairs and dumped it in the hall. He said goodbye Cherie who asked him if his life insurance was fully paid up and he was so grateful that she still cared. The kids had to go to school and they rushed off to bully somebody with a text message and left Flabby and his wife to say their goodbyes alone. They kissed passionately, then they actually kissed each other, it helps to practice first. Flabby walked out the door, remembering to open it this time and jumped in the Fiat Seicento. Cherie undid her dressing gown, pulled up her nighty and sat open legged on the chair, waiting for the decorators.
Flabby drove towards the Sterling Lines while a well-endowed decorator humped Cherie and “Give it to me big boy” echoed throughout the house. The decorator’s mate patiently cut in the magnolia while waiting for his turn. Flabby drove on narrowly missing a convoy of decorator vans heading in the general direction of his house. He tooted his horn and Joe raised something but then remembered where he was, put it away and raised the barrier. It was a hive of activity as there was a job on and he walked into the regimental office and swapped greetings with some of the staff. “The Boss wants you” said one of the clerks. “But I’m married” said Flabby. The clerk laughed even though he had heard that joke nine hundred and three times before and continued shuffling paper for no apparent reason. He handed Flabby a postcard, it was from Heshmat, 'Weather lovely, wish you were here' and the postmark was Bridlington. "Fcuk he can move when he wants to" he said to himself, totally impressed.
Flabby wandered into the briefing room and apart from the
two teams, the room was empty. They all swapped greetings even though nobody
collected them and each found an empty seat and sat down. They chatted about
The Boss came in, unaware of the problems with the author but full of the brown stuff or briefing material as he called it. It was the usual briefing what to do, who to take, who not to take, local tourist spots, the budget and advertising logos. Since the sponsorship deal the cap badge of the regiment had M&S incorporated into it so they were now the M&S SAS. The Boss taking Flabby to one side told him that the Families Officer would be visiting Cherie as he had heard of her errant ways and had wanted a stab himself. “At the case, at the case” he added. He then called the nine together and reached into his pocket. They had seen him do that before but it was usually the trouser pocket but this was different. “I’ve heard about Rab C” said the Boss. “I thought you might need a mascot” he added pulling out the cutest baby hamster you could ever wish to see. “Yes but what the fcuk do we call it?” asked Ryan and the cute baby hamster bit the Boss on the finger.
As you’ve probably already
realised, the action will move to
Darn (sounds like Darn) = Darn
Darn (sounds like Darn) = Darren
Barn (sounds like Barn) = Barn
Barn (sounds like Barn) = Baron
Barn (sounds like Barn) = Barren
Pind (sounds like Kind) = Pound
Dine (sounds like Wine) = Down
Kinety (sounds like Ninety) =
County
Tirty (sounds like Dirty) = Thirty
Tree (sounds like Tree) = Tree
Tree (sounds like Tree) = Three
Tick (sounds like Tick) = Tick
Tick (sounds like Tick) = Thick
Nigh (sounds like Nigh) = Nigh
Nigh (sounds like Nigh) = Now
Garding = Garden, of
So if ‘The Baron of County Down,
Darren now owes thirty-three pounds to a thick Mick for three trees in his
barren garden’, then it sounds like this:
The Barn of Kinety Dine, Darn nigh
owes tirty-tree pinds to a tick Mick for tree trees in his barn garding.
I hope this clarifies the
situation. The use of ‘so it is’ is equivalent to the Essex ‘innit’, the
American ‘you know’ , the hippy ‘man’ or the German ‘nicht wahr or oder’ and
should follow every sentence or statement and the tense can be changed
accordingly.
Chapter Ten
Flabby sat in the briefing room, stroking the baby hamster. “What do we call it?” asked Ryan. ”Fcuked if I know, ask the author” said Flabby dropping Challenger sized hints. “Apparently we were hoping somebody would post a suggestion” he added. “But Uncle Ho posted something” said Jock, joining in the conversation, making it more difficult for the author to keep track who was saying what to whom. “Yeh but the author didn’t take any notice of that and Tosser is definitely NOT going to be the baby hamster’s new name” said Knocker getting involved and confusing the author further. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see if anybody else posts a name” said Rikshaw philosophically but getting the author out of a deep rut. “I’m just going to sort out me menus while we have a few minutes to wait” said Ryan enabling the author to go for a pish and then hang out the washing. “There is more after the recipes” said Ryan. “Yer but it’s all shite” said Knocker looking pretty damn certain to be the first casualty. “It’s still shite” said a determined but marked man called Knocker.
Irish stew
Ingredients
Extra virgin olive oil
4 large New Potatoes
3 Carrots
2 large onions cut in wedges
Asparagus
Turnips
Lamb loin chops
Balsamic Vinegar
Fresh Chives
Veal stock
Grill the lamb chops until golden brown on each side. Cook the asparagus and
add to the potatoes, carrots and turnips. Reduce the stock until it covers the
back of a spoon. Add a dash of the balsamic vinegar and season with salt and
pepper to taste and also some butter and chopped chives. Pour the sauce into
the cooked vegetables. Arrange vegetables on to a plate and place the lamb
chops on top.
“More shite recipes” said Knocker still determined to annoy the author.
Beef in Stout
Serves four
Ingredients
2 1/2 lb shin of beef
2 large onions
6 medium carrots
2 tablespoons flour
Salt and pepper
Butter
1/2 cup dry cider
1/2 pt stout with a little water
Potatoes
Method
Cut the beef into chunks and peel and slice the onions and carrots. Add salt
and pepper to flour then toss the beef in the flour and brown quickly in hot
fat. Remove the beef and fry the onions gently. Put beef in to the saucepan
again and add the carrots and the cider and stout. Bring to the boil, reduce
the heat to a very gentle simmer, cover closely and cook for 1 1/2 - 2 hours.
Check that the dish does not dry out, adding more liquid if necessary. Serve
with boiled potatoes.
‘Yer, champ on this you bitch” joked Knocker.
Champ
Serves four
Ingredients
8 medium potatoes, peeled
bunch of scallions
1/4 pt. Milk
Salt and pepper
3 knobs of butter
Method
Peel and boil potatoes until cooked. Simmer the spring onions in milk for about
5 minutes. Strain potatoes and mash. Add the hot milk and scallions, salt,
pepper and the butter and mix in.
“Another shite recipe, 101 uses of a fcuking potato, part 72” interceded Knocker, not knowing what interceded meant.
Irish Potato Soup
Serves six
Ingredients
6 medium potatoes
1 large onion
2 oz butter
2 pints vegetable stock
1/2 pint milk
1 tablespoons chives or parsley
Nutmeg
Pinch of salt & pepper
1 teaspoon of corn flour
Method
Peel and cut potatoes in quarters and finely slice the onions. Melt butter in a
saucepan and add the Potatoes and Onions, cover and simmer for 10 minutes
(don't brown the vegetable). Add the Stock, Salt & Pepper and Nutmeg, Stir.
Cover and bring to the boil stirring continuously. Reduce heat and simmer for
30 minutes, until vegetables are soft, stir occasionally. Remove from heat and
put through a sieve, and return to the saucepan. Stir in the milk and corn
flour and bring to the boil, stir continuously. Remove from the heat, serve
with a sprinkling of chives or parsley.
“Itsh sh’all shite” said a very pished Knocker after three gallons of the Irish coffee.
Irish coffee
Serves 6
Ingredients
1-cup whipping cream
Sugar
6 cups of hot black coffee
6 measures of Irish whiskey
Method
Whisk the cream with 1 tablespoon of sugar until soft peaks form. Set aside.
Make black coffee in separate mugs. Add 1 teaspoon of sugar and a measure of
whiskey. Top with lots of whipped cream. Serve immediately.
“Shamrocks my arrse, its fcuking clover to me” said Knocker, sobering up slowly.
St Patrick Day Cookies
This is a basic and simple sugar cookie recipe.
All you need is a round pastry cutter to make the leaves of the shamrocks.
Makes 12 cookies
Ingredients
2 1/4 cup self-rising flour
1/2 cup butter
1-cup sugar
2 eggs, beaten
1-tablespoon vanilla
1 tablespoon milk
Drops of green food colouring. Just enough to turn the mixture green!
Method
Sift flour. Cream butter, sugar, eggs. Add vanilla and milk to the flour. Blend
all ingredients and then add the drops of green food colouring. Place dough on
a lightly floured board or dry countertop.
Sprinkle some flour over the dough and roll to about 1/2-inch thick. Cut out
three circles with the pastry cutter and overlap the circles into a shape of a
shamrock and place on baking tray. Bake at 300 degrees for 10-15 minutes.
Knocker’s puking in the bog,” said an apologetic Ryan. “But he’s almost sober now” he added.
Irish Cream Cheesecake
Serves 10 Servings
Ingredients
24 oz Cream cheese, softened
2 cups of vanilla crumbs for base
1/3 cup of butter, melted
1/2 cup Sugar
3 lg. eggs
2 tablespoons of flour
1 cup Irish cream liqueur
1 teaspoon Vanilla essence
1 cup white chocolate, grated
Method
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Combine the crumbs and butter in a
medium-size bowl. Press on the bottom of a 9-inch spring form pan. Bake in oven
for five minutes. Remove and set aside. Cream the cheese and sugar.
Beat in the eggs, flour, liqueur
and vanilla until smooth. Pour mixture onto
crust and bake for 40 minutes. Turn off oven and leave in oven for another
15 minutes.
Remove from oven and let cool.
After cheesecake has cooled, sprinkle white
chocolate on top. Refrigerate overnight.
“Fcuk I feel rough,” said Knocker, deserving everything he
got. “He’s a sneaky barsteward,” said Flabby. “What do you mean?” asked Jock.
“He just nicked those recipes off the
It was nine in the morning, even by Flabby’s watch and jumped up and down on the spot to keep it going or so he hoped. The un-named hamster bounced up and down in his pocket and threw up its last meal of corned beef sandwiches with branson. “What the fcuk’s branson, fcuking Richard Branson?” asked Ryan? “He means Branston as in the pickle,” said Nige. “Give him a break, he must be tired” said Jock. “Leg, arm or neck?” asked Flabby still jumping on the spot. They could hear the Agustas revving up on the pan and they were doing final checks before departing for RAF Aldergrove. They wouldn’t be having the fun of turfing Bennies off a Tristar but would be flying direct. They collected all their kit from the appropriate departments, Flabby picked up some nice socks from The Sock Store, which had a branch at Sterling Lines. Ryan bought an Arrran sweater and the others bought various small and useless items from various small and useless stores. So armed to the teeth, sporting brand new socks and an Arrran sweater, Flabby, Ryan and the illustrious other seven jumped in the back of the Agustas and waited while a crewmember did the safety demonstration.
Using all the author’s technical knowledge, the pilots switched on the power and the co-pilots jumped out with the starting handles, perhaps borrowing from the film Airplane or perhaps not. The engines roared into life and the pilots twiddled various buttons as they had been taught that if there are many buttons, they must be twiddled. The pilots engaged the rotary overhead dump valve, the cyclic bilge pump, switched on the UHF/VHF/UVF radios, slipped the clutch, let off the handbrake and engaged the rotors remembering to check that they had rotors fitted. So with the iPod engaged, the Agustas taxied to the end of the short runway and changing to second, lifted off and set the Sat Nav and the cruise control. A third crew member sat in the back with them blowing up the flotation gear, available in packs of one hundred, in different colours and from a well-known stationery store.
The pilots followed the A438 for a while or the Sat Nav told
them to and then narrowly missing
There was transport there to meet them and the two teams
piled the kit and themselves into separate anonymous white vans. Team Alpha
headed off on the comparatively long drive to Jonesborough with Flabby driving
and Team Bravo headed for
The flat comprised of a large living room and was number one in the smelling of stale urine charts. There was a bedroom, a bathroom and a separate toilet. A gas fire in the living room was the only heating but they didn’t use it as the gas prices had gone up three times since they had been there. There was furniture of sorts and Danny Boy pulled out the SAS laptop, you could tell it was an SAS laptop as somebody had picked off the Delle badge and stuck an SAS one in its place. He placed it on the desk and connected it up. They had broadband there so no waiting until Christmas to get an email, with all the technological improvements, the email should be in well before Easter. He booted up the laptop and checked his Ginsters private account. He surfed a bit, got bored, switched it off again and went to sit on a rather dubiously stained armchair, tripping over the wireless broadband connection cable.
They knew it had been a drinking den or ‘shebeen’ so imagined that there would still be some keys around for the flat. They also knew that the there were still local players or Loyalist paramilitaries and no matter how hard they fought amongst themselves; they would no doubt be interested in the newcomers in the area. The team knew they needed a breakthrough and history had proved that the paramilitaries had actually talked to each other while still engaged in trying to bomb the shite out of each other. Maybe a little local knowledge might help and maybe the local knowledge might have knowledge of where to get your brand harry spankers copy of Terminator 4. They thought they might get a visit but were ready for it. Forearmed is forewarned and foreskin is in the Rabbi’s pocket.
It was evening, the night crawlers and the Neds, the local
Chavs would soon be out but the team settled down and watched TV on their
mobiles. They watched
It was deadly quiet apart from the night crawlers and the Neds who moved onto another street as this one wasn’t biting and silence prevailed yet again. Taff kicked in his sleep, chasing something or being chased and he made bleating noises, so no guesses what he was chasing or being chased by. Jock tried to kill the residents of the mattress and failed and the others just snored or farted or both together. It was deadly quiet apart from that. Jock heard it first, strange as he was the furthest away but he couldn’t mistake the creak of the stairs leading to the flat. In an instance or even quicker, he had woken the rest and with pistols or Heckler O’Kochs complete with silencers ready, they awaited their visitor or visitors.
One either side of the door and the other three covering the door directly, they heard a key slide into the lock and it turn. The door opened slowly and Danny Boy stuck a pistol in the visitor’s throat and beckoned him to come in. Keeping the gun at his throat, he escorted him to the back of the room and beckoned him again, this time to sit quietly. Taff had taken Danny Boy’s place at the door and they heard the stairs creak again so the visitor had not been alone. A face appeared in the doorway and Taff just like Danny Boy, stuck his Heckler O’Koch in the man’s throat and leaving out the guided tour, escorted him to the back of the room as well. He was also invited to sit down and having a gun in his throat, decided to accept without sending back the RSVP card. Nige had taken Taff’s place at the door and they waited but it was totally quiet now. They waited a further few minutes and then Nige stuck his head out of the door, very carefully and very slowly trying to see if anybody was waiting for his turn but it seemed that the visitors went around in twos.
Nige shut the door and switched on the lights. The two
visitors were still sat down each with a weapon stuck in their respective
throats. “Who are you and what are you?” asked Danny Boy, not recognizing
either of them. Taff searched them and found a mobile and a handgun on each.
“Well you’re not estate agents so you aren’t” said Danny Boy but then reflected
as he’d had some dealings with some right cowboys before but they weren’t
usually armed. Taff found a wallet on each of them and pulled out a driving
licence complete with compulsory photo id. “This is William McEttridge,” said
Taff, pointing to the first visitor. “And this is William McFettridge” said
Taff, this time pointing at the second visitor. “Well you’re not Catholics are
you so you’re not” declared Danny Boy. The fact that a large proportion of the
Protestant population is called William proved this, not written in stone but a
pretty safe bet. “I’ll ask you again so I will,” said Danny Boy. “What are
you?” he repeated waving the handguns at them. “You’re not fcuking
Taff and Jock dragged a struggling Billy One into the bedroom
and the rest got to work on Billy Two. Billy Two opened up easily and quickly.
He told them that he was a member of a Loyalist paramilitary group but Special
Branch was actually running him. At the present time, with the feuds going on
in the Loyalist hierarchy, he wasn’t quite sure what his organisation was
called but it definitely ended in an ‘F’. He also said that even the ‘F’ wasn’t
anything definite, as he didn’t know if it stood for ‘Fighters’ or ‘Force’ He
had been put in by Special Branch to report on Billy One and all his
activities. They told him a censored version of the IRA’s activities in
Iranistan and he knew that most of the pirate
Taff and Jock pulled out Billy One from the bedroom. He didn’t really need pulling out but if this ever gets to film, then it looks so much more dramatic. “You’re not going to fcuking believe this” said Taff eager to tell all so why delay things. “Our Billy is a Special Branch run mole who reports on the activities of your Billy” said Taff, wishing that the other one’s name was Eric or Ron but not Billy as it confused Nige and the author had a hell of a time keeping track of which Billy was which. The two Williams looked at each other and then began fighting. The team talked things over as Billy kicked Billy but Billy bit him, causing Billy to thump Billy in the face, annoying Billy who retaliated. “At least we’ve got a break,” said Danny Boy just as Billy hit Billy with the chair. Billy collapsed on the floor and Billy stood over him breathing heavily. Billy collapsed on top of Billy and the team carried on talking.
They separated the two exhausted Williams who had got over the fact that they had been spying on each other. “I wonder if there are or were any paramilitaries at all,” said Rikshaw, showing his analytical mind but his failure to grasp the current situation. “I bet they were all fcuking Special Branch and you had twenty moles or plants spying on one single solitary paramilitary,” he said sardonically. The two Williams had promised not to fight and also promised to find out about the manufacture and the distribution of the pirate material and let them know as soon as possible. They had also promised not to tell Special Branch as they wanted things to be kept hush-hush and secret and Special Branch were not top of the list on secret keeping. That was also the reason that nobody south of the border had been told of anything as it was rumoured that the Garda had a very small minority who weren’t to be trusted. “Better safe than sorry” thought Danny Boy.
The two Williams made their way back down the stairs. They had been given their mobiles and their handguns back and the team sort of trusted them to supply the information they required. It would be a waste of time trying to track them down if they didn’t deliver as you can’t just ask the first passing person that “I’m looking for Billy” when half the population is called Billy or seems to be and the name was probably false anyway. The team tried to get some sleep for the rest of the night and Jock decided against the bed, which meant Nige got bitten to death by the residents of the mattress. Morning came quickly which is a stupid thing to say but morning arrived and the sun shone in on the flat warming up the room and making the stale urine smell almost unbearable. Danny Boy woke, his mobile was on vibrator mode and he’d been having this lovely dream. The screen showed that Billy was calling; he didn’t know which one and basically didn’t care as long as he found out what he needed. “Yer ello” he said using his voice procedure. “Yes I know its fcuking Billy so I do,” he shouted, not really needing a mobile phone, as Billy was only two streets away. “Right ok, thanks Billy so it is” he said and pocketed his mobile. “The Irish Gift Shop so it is” he said to the rest of the team smiling.
Rikshaw picked himself up “Bloody wireless broadband
connection cable!” he shouted and booted the laptop, then booted it up. Using
some official secret government site or it could have been Yellow Pages, he
found that the Irish Gift Shop had shops in
Chapter Eleven
Team Alpha had arrived in Jonesborough in the late afternoon
and had unloaded the van. They were sitting in the living room discussing the
news they were watching on the TV. A Royal Signals soldier had been killed on
Slieve Donard and they had almost flown over it. “Poor sod” said Flabby. “Yer,
it’s a bummer, RIP mate” said Ryan. They also discussed the shooting of Denis
Donaldson in Donegal. “It fcuking wasn’t us, was it” said Smudge, lighting up a
fistful of cigarettes. “You do know smoking will kill you” piped in Knocker
recovering well from annoying the author. “So will working for Special Branch”
said Smudge, unimpressed with Knocker’s apparent care for his welfare. “I
reckon it was the Iranistanis” said Flabby. “Well we can’t blame the Irish here
or can we?” he added. “Well, he certainly didn’t electrocute himself, did he?”
joked Ryan. “Or drown himself under a running tap” he added getting a bit
carried away. “Or flushed himself to death in the toilet” he continued,
dragging the very last piece of humour from the incident. “It’s them fcuking
journos” said Knocker. “I wouldn’t trust any barsteward who took my picture
with an
The house in Jonesborough was in an ideal location. It was on the hill out of the village and had an excellent view of anybody leaving or entering the village. It was a two storey building and had superb all round views of not just the road but the fields as well. On a clear day you could see the furniture as this was an area that was susceptible to fog. The van was safely tucked away in a small barn and didn’t need the battery of anti-theft devices that Team Bravo had needed as sheep are seldom a problem when it came to vehicle theft. That’s all they could see out of the upper storey windows but what the sheep were doing on the upper storey was anybody’s guess. “ I bet they’re republican sheep” joked Ryan, pointing to a large group of sheep in one corner of the field. “And I bet they’re Loyalist sheep” he added, pointing to another group in the opposite corner of the field. “So what are they? asked Knocker, noticing a handful of sheep in the middle of the field. “Dissidents, fcuking dissidents” said Ryan but then thought it could have been the government as well or Peelers or even them, they were well used to being stuck in the middle.
Flabby stroked the baby hamster. The official naming ceremony hadn’t been carried out yet. He had phoned the RAHC, the Royal Army Hamster Corps and spoken to a Major Burrows, trying to get advice on how to sex a young hamster. “Hamsters are like cars” the Major had said. Flabby had asked him if make or type was important but had been told not be so fcuking stupid and not interrupt him while he was explaining. “Hamsters are like cars” repeated the Major. “When hamsters are young, you can’t tell them apart even using the ball peign hammer trick” he had carried on and Flabby had crossed his legs in sympathy. “They’re the same but in the case of the males, the balls drop and stick out to the rear” he had whittled on. “So you’ve got your car and you go to bed and in the morning, it’s as if some fcuker has attached a caravan to the car and that’s when you can really tell them apart” he had concluded. Flabby was a bit confused but thought he understood what the good Major had been on about. He checked the hamster’s rear end and didn’t notice anything strange, nothing sticking out at all, no caravan and not even a trailer tent.
Smudge was dropping ash all over the SAS laptop as he checked his emails. The fact they had managed to get a wireless connection was amazing considering how remote they were but the former army watchtowers had been put to good use and mobile coverage had increased dramatically much to the joy of the IRA Business Division and hundreds of sheep. Ryan was in the kitchen and his knife was performing magical things with a leek. Actually he was just slicing it, which isn’t that magical and the fact he cut his fingers twice makes it seem even less magical. He was knocking up a meal from a recipe he had found on the internet and as always likes to share the recipe but the first question he had to ask himself was “What the fcuk is a scrod?” He’d heard of scran and a scrote but never a scrod. Ryan used cod instead as there was a compo tin labelled cod in their rations and they had managed to pick up a few essentials in Newry on the way down. Coincidence or what?
Braised Scrod with Leeks,
Potatoes, Thyme, and Cream
Ingredients
4 leeks, carefully rinsed, trimmed, and thinly sliced
2 tablespoons unsalted sweet butter
1-1/2 cups light cream
1/2 cup chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme, or 2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves
1/3 cup chopped fresh Italian parsley
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground white pepper
1-1/2 pounds new potatoes, parboiled (see notes), drained, and halved if large
1-1/2 pounds fresh scrod fillets, cut into 1-1/2-inch chunks (see notes)
Instructions
Gently cook the leeks in the butter in a 4-quart heavy-bottomed casserole until
the leeks are soft. Add the light cream, chicken broth, herbs, and seasonings,
and simmer 10 minutes uncovered. Add the potatoes, cook 5 more minutes, then
add the pieces of scrod and stir so that the scrod is covered with the hot
sauce. Cover and simmer gently 8 to 10 minutes or until scrod is cooked. Place
in a heated tureen and serve in large soup plates.
Note: Cod, haddock, pollock, hake,
halibut, or catfish may be used in place of the scrod. Parboiled means cooked
in boiling, salted water for 10 minutes.
Yield: 4 servings
The four tucked into their meal, keeping an eye on the road
and watching the evening rush hour in full swing with at least two cars driving
into the village or it could have been as many as three. “Had a hard day at the
office dear?” mimicked Ryan. “Much extortion today or was it just drug
smuggling?” he carried on, his voice remarkably high; maybe it wasn’t just his
fingers he had cut with the knife. “Here’s your IRA pipe and slippers dear,” he
continued, his voice almost disappearing off the scale. The rest imagined the
scene, a roaring fire and in the fireplace for once, the faithful gundog at his
feet instead of the faithful gunman who probably wouldn’t have been at his feet
unless they had fallen out of course and then he definitely would have been at
his feet and probably would have been dead as well. The innocent faced
children, all ginger tossers and covered in freckles and reading An Phoblacht
for their homework or watching the Best of Gerry Adam’s speeches on
Evening fell and so did Knocker as he’d slid on the plate that
Ryan had thrown at the TV. “Fcuking Countdown” he uttered under his breath
picking up the pieces of the broken plate and then himself. It had been decided
that Ryan and Knocker would go cross-country and monitor the Murphy farm for a
few hours during the hours of darkness. Knocker limped off to put on his
darkest black camouflage kit and make himself up using the Shane Warne Cosmetic
Company eye make up. The white bar eye make up was compulsory for cricketers.
The regiment had ordered the black and it was ideal to compliment the SAS
moisturiser, foundation and cam cream. It came with a brush, an eye pencil and
matching lipstick all in a handy pocket sized compact complete with signalling
mirror. A real multi tool and you felt one wearing it but it was a tactical aid
or so it said on the brochure and on the advertisement on TV and was actually
available through the regimental online shop with free delivery to all
Ryan and Knocker stood in the living room, ready to leave. Knocker preferred the darkest black camouflage kit but Ryan preferred the darker variety as it highlighted his eyes better. The camouflage kit came in dark, darker or darkest varieties and it was just a matter of personal preference really, as it didn’t really make much difference to being seen at night much. They had their mobiles switched onto vibrator mode, mainly because they enjoyed the buzz it gave them but a secondary benefit was that nobody would hear them unless they picked up of course. They were armed of course and both had night vision goggles, the new Pervo goggles as recommended by many a peeping tom and both had the Cassio compass that was more than a compass as one trooper had navigated back to safety from a hostile country using just the blue light that the internal error screen emitted. Knocker was carrying a parabolic listening device so hopefully they could eaves drop the Murphys in mid conversation and maybe learn something important. So everything was checked and double-checked and Ryan pulled up his flies as his white SAS underwear had been showing and they were off.
It was only a few miles to the Murphy farm as the crow flies but it was night and they had a river, a railway line and a road to navigate before reaching it and most crows were sensibly perched on a branch for the night. They walked across the field, tripping over a sheep that could have been a republican one as this was the correct corner of the field unless the dissident ones had moved to their left or in fact the republican ones could have changed places with the loyalist ones and it was a loyalist sheep. However, it was a sheep and it made sheep like noises when two SAS troopers fell over it. It made stranger noises when Knocker kicked it but it could have been accidental, it probably wasn’t but it could have been. They carried on through field after field. They managed to navigate the river without any serious problems, Knocker got a wet foot but then he was glad to wash off what had been on his boot after kicking the sheep, the sheep had been standing in a funny position. They navigated the railway line and crossed the road, looking carefully each way before crossing safely, not running but walking. Knocker was proud of his Tufty Club badge and still wore it on special occasions. They could see the lights of the Murphy farm in the distance and managed to find a comfortable hedge if such a thing exists with an excellent view looking down onto the farm.
Knocker positioned the listening device aiming it towards
the farm but all he got was interference or what he thought was interference.
He positioned it slightly away from the toilet as he’d realised that ‘Gripper’
had been on the toilet and something hadn’t quite agreed with her judging by
the sounds he got through his earpiece. There were three cars parked outside
the farm, all with
The surveillance went swimmingly as the regiment often say which actually means that Ryan and Knocker sat there while Slob, Gripper and Little Slob sat in the large kitchen and didn’t really say very much. Every time Gripper went to the toilet, which was quite often and she was very loose, the Slobs talked about Niamh and dirt boxes and that was about all. A TV was in the kitchen and Ryan and Knocker listened to A Touch of Frost, Chris Tarrant on TV then some sex problems show with Toyah Wilcox lisping her way through ‘thex for thomeone who taketh it up the dirt boxth’ and ways to intensify your ‘orgatham’ and ‘oral thex’. Ryan and Knocker got ‘thick’, sorry sick of the Murphy’s uneventful evening. Little Slob went to bed and the other Murphys put the cat out and did the usual end of evening things, like make the cocoa and cuddled up watching Toyah ‘thay goodnight and thleep tight’. Ryan and Knocker decided to call it a night or an early morning and started the trek back to Jonesborough arriving just in time to see Flabby going up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire as Knocker’s mum used to say, bless her little cotton socks. Ryan heaved with the excess of sentiment and puked up his evening meal over a convenient sheep never knowing if it was a republican, a loyalist, a dissident or just a plain old sheep.
Knocker stayed on watch while Ryan coughed up the last lump of his evening meal and made a mental note to always ask about traceability the next time he had lamb or mutton. Ryan staggered up the stairs and fell into a deep sleep but did climb into bed first. They each took turns to keep watch just in case, something Smudge didn’t mind doing as he always saw sleeping as a great waste of smoking time. He managed to smoke eighty-two cigarettes in a two-hour period, beating his previous best by three and then handing over to Flabby, gently coughed himself to sleep. Ryan took over after him and then it was virtually morning and Smudge started coughing, so it was morning, the sound of a lung or what sounded like a lung, hitting a wooden floor is as good as any alarm clock.
It was early o’clock as Flabby’s watch had stopped, so he jumped up and down on the spot to wind it up again. Ryan thought he was doing PT so followed suit and rushed to the toilet to be sick again, Knocker ignored everybody even himself and Smudge sat on a chair and smoked half a packet of cigarettes washed down with a cup of tea and then the other half of the packet of cigarettes. Flabby sat down exhausted but the watch was fully wound now. He set it to the right time taking the time from the TV and pulled out a packet of cornflakes from the cupboard. He poured a bowlful and reaching in his pocket put the baby hamster into the bowl of cornflakes. The hamster bit him in gratitude, bit him because it was a bit late, bit him because they weren’t Kloggs and only own brand, bit him because there was no sugar, bit him because there was no milk then just bit him. “Just like Rab C” said Flabby sucking his wounded and well-bitten fingers. “Right we have to name this little fcuker,” he said determinedly.
Flabby turned the TV down and then turned it back up again. Prince Harry was passing out at Sandhurst later that day and Smudge’s ears pricked up as he heard the word ‘Sovereign’ as he had used to smoke that brand many years ago. “He’s joining the Household Cavalry and yes Knocker we know you think they’re all poofs” said Flabby and Knocker went back to ignoring everybody but even more determined to ignore people now, he was a moody bugger sometimes. “Fcuking one pip wonders” he muttered to nobody in particular but making sure everybody heard it.. “He’s still got to go to Bovington yet,” said Smudge dropping ash in the cornflakes really pishing off the hamster who made valiant attempts to bite him. “I wonder if he’ll ever join the regiment?” asked Ryan. “Fcuking hope not, it’s bad enough being sponsored by M&S” muttered Knocker still as moody as ever. “I suppose we’ll be by fcuking royal fcuking appointment” he carried on, pishing everybody right off with his negativity but still making them laugh. “Shut the fcuk up Knocker, we’ll hopefully let you kill somebody soon” said Flabby, knowing Knocker was not the best at playing waiting game, in fact most games, unless they involve killing people.
Right this little fcuker gets a name if it fcuking kills me” said Flabby determined to get this out of the way and blaming the Boss (and the author) for putting him in this predicament. What about naming him after somebody famous?” suggested Smudge trying to light another fistful of cigarettes up. “Why the fcuk don’t you go outside and do that?” asked Knocker peering through the cigarette smoke in the kitchen. Smudge jumped up, opened the back door, stepped outside, lit his cigarettes and rushed back inside, slammed the door, sat back down and puffed on each cigarette alternatively. “Is he taking the pish?” asked Knocker. “The fcuking hamster!” shouted Flabby trying to get their attention and keep it for longer than a nanosecond. “We could call him Tony,” suggested Knocker. “Will we fcuk” said Ryan and Flabby almost together. “We could call him Blair, sorry Bliar” suggested Smudge. “Nah, too predictable and too obvious” said Ryan. “And too much like the truth” added Flabby. “We still don’t know what sex it is” added Smudge peering at the hamster’s rear end but seeing nothing but corn flakes. “That Bliar is a lying barsteward” said Knocker as if he knew him and he did. “What about KT as in KT Tunstall?’” suggested Smudge. “Yer or PG as in PG Tips?” joked Knocker but still not helping much. “We could call him after Bliar after all” said Flabby and they all stopped what they were doing and looked at him, except Knocker who was still sulking and looked out of the window. “We could call him LB” he concluded. “What’s LB when it’s at home?” asked Knocker. “Lying barsteward” said Flabby and using the democratic process, pulled rank and told them that the new baby hamster would now be known as LB. He stroked LB amongst the cornflakes. Flabby wasn’t in the cornflakes but LB was and still munching away. In appreciation of his new name, LB bit him on the finger. “Little barsteward” said Flabby and smiled.
Flabby’s mobile went and he could see it was Danny Boy.
Flabby had been just about to ring him to tell him about the Irish Gift Shop
but he waited to hear what news he had. Danny Boy told him about the two
Williams and how they had obtained the information and that the Irish Gift Shop
was the front for the pirate DVDs and CDs. “Now there’s a fcuking coincidence”
said Flabby and told Danny Boy about the surveillance on the farm and how they
had obtained their information. Danny Boy suggested that they would concentrate
on the two
Chapter Twelve
Flabby was on the phone, he thought he was uncomfortable. He
stood up and picked up the phone from where he had been sitting. LB was fast
asleep, curled up amongst the cornflakes and covered in ash as Smudge had been
using the bowl as an ashtray. There had been frantic phone activity for about
an hour as Flabby had arranged what was going to be one of the biggest police
and military operations, the Province had seen in many a year. The Irish Gift
Shop in
Corned Beef and Cabbage
Source: Compo Cooks
Serves 4-6
There are those who will inform
you that corned beef and cabbage is an American invention, unknown in
RECIPE INGREDIENTS
2 medium yellow onions, peeled
6 whole cloves
3 1/2-lb. piece corned beef,
preferably bottom round
3 large carrots, peeled and cut
into thirds
2 bay leaves
8 black peppercorns
1 medium head green cabbage
4-6 russet potatoes, peeled and
halved
Salt and freshly ground black
pepper
Hot mustard (optional)
RECIPE METHOD
Stud onions with cloves. Rinse corned
beef in cold water to remove brine. Put beef in a large pot and add onions,
carrots, bay leaves, peppercorns, and enough water to cover. Bring to a boil
over high heat, cover, and reduce heat to low. Simmer for 2 hours, skimming
occasionally.
Wash cabbage, remove core and any
torn leaves, then cut into 6 wedges. Add cabbage and potatoes to beef, then
cover and simmer until potatoes are tender, about 25 minutes.
Transfer beef to a cutting board
and cover with a plate weighted with heavy cans (weighting makes meat easier to
slice). Transfer onions, carrots, cabbage, and potatoes to a platter. Remove
cloves from onions. Strain cooking liquid, discarding bay leaves and
peppercorns. Return liquid to pot and cook over high heat until reduced by
one-third, 20-30 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
Return vegetables to stock and
heat through for about 5 minutes. Remove plate and cans from meat and cut
across the grain, in 1/4"-thick slices. Arrange beef and vegetables on
warmed platter. Moisten with stock. Serve with additional stock and hot mustard
if you like.
MAKING HASH
"I love making
breakfast," writes Compo Cooks executive editor Jamie Ovular. "Not
every day, of course - but give me a lazy weekend and watch me! My favourite
breakfast dish is corned beef hash, topped with perfectly poached eggs.
Sometimes I make corned beef and cabbage for dinner just so I can have the
leftovers the next morning for hash. If I don't, then I start the night before
anyway, simmering a big piece of corned beef (I prefer the bottom round) until
it's so tender it falls off a fork. Then I refrigerate it and go to bed. In the
morning, I shred the meat and cook 2 potatoes and 2 onions in the corned beef
cooking water to add even more salty flavour. I mix the corned beef, the
chopped onions, and the potatoes together and cook them to a crisp 'cake' in
butter for about 5 minutes on each side. I poach the eggs ahead of time,
holding them in cold water until it's time to eat; then I reheat them quickly
and put them gently on top of the golden-crusted hash."
Recipe reprinted by permission of
Compo Cooks. All rights reserved.
Nutrition Facts
Serves 4-6
Facts per Serving
Calories: 696 Fat: 40g
Carbohydrates: 40g
Cholesterol: 143mg Sodium: 374mg Protein: 44g
Fibre: 7g %
“That’s fcuking all-in stew” said Knocker peering over Ryan’s head. “You can call it what you fcuking want, that’s just all-in stew. “And hash you fcuking smoke, you don’t eat it” said Smudge, an expert on all things vaguely combustible. “What’s happened to the Duck Keeper’s Pie or the Moroccan Fish Tagine?” asked Knocker who did like his food. “Call yourself a fcuking chef?” he went on, obviously deeply hurt that Ryan would contemplate serving up something as mundane as that. “It’ll be fcuking Pot fcuking Noodle with deep fcuking fried fcuking water fcuking next” he argued, his dander well and truly up. You could tell, the crosser he got, the more he swore. “Fcuking shite” he muttered to his coffee, now stone cold.
All over the Province, Police and Army were mobilised and
waited in canteens ready to go off and do something as they hadn’t been told
what they were going to do. Some played cards, some filled in their tax forms,
some cleaned weapons as they were off to see the tax inspector afterwards and a
weapon usually got you a larger rebate. Down south in
In the
Back in Jonesborough, Flabby looked at his watch which was miraculously still working and decided it was time to get rid of Ryan’s cooking. He climbed the stairs and fortunately the toilet was free and quite safe after Knocker had been this morning. Three air freshener aerosols, two deodorants and a can of upholstery cleaner had been used to get rid of the smell. He undressed slowly and tried to sit on the seat as it had melted a bit. Somebody in sheer desperation, had even tried a tin of oven cleaner to try and cleanse the toilet. Sitting on the seat and finding a bit where he wouldn’t have to live the rest of his days by sticking to it, Flabby contemplated which is a polite way of saying he had a dump. Not skimping on the toilet paper, which was a nice soft 3-ply; Flabby finished off, dressed and flushed the toilet twice, to rid the bowl of any floaters. He stood at the window and started to wash his hands. He reached for the towel, which fell onto the floor. “Fcuk it” he said to himself, not wishing to swear. He bent down to retrieve the towel and as he did, the window shattered and he felt something fly over his head and hit the wall with a loud thump. He dropped to the floor and shouted to the others to stay well away from the windows. He knew straightaway that somebody was trying to say something and they weren’t saying it with flowers.
Flabby peered through the hole in the frosted glass of the window but kept his head well down. He knew that just a glimpse of him would be a nice target for the gunman or gunwoman or gunperson for those who believe in being politically correct, looking through his or her telescopic sights and a fraction of an inch too high and the rest of the team would be picking his brains off the wall. Preferring his brains where they were, he crawled out of the bathroom and shouted to the rest. “Anybody see anything?”. Nobody else could see where the shot had come from and Flabby called Ryan up, telling him to bring a broom. “We can sweep up later!” shouted Ryan wondering why Flabby was suddenly so house proud. “Bring the fcuking broom up knob breath!” shouted Flabby the smooth talking barsteward. Ryan ran up the stairs with the broom, ducking excessively low as he passed the top landing window. Flabby took the broom from him and unhooked his SAS dressing gown made of real hand-woven artificial silk with hand stitched logo and available from the regimental online shop in various colours and in sizes from small to the biggest mister fat barsteward size.
Flabby explained to Ryan that from the angle of the shot, he had a rough idea where the shot could have come from and that they needed to persuade the gunperson, the error of his or her ways. Flabby had his Heckler O’Koch with him. It had never left his side even while he had been on the toilet and had always been within an arm’s reach. Ryan was to hang the dressing gown on the broom and hopefully deceive the gunperson into thinking that Flabby was back on his feet again which would label him as a suicidal idiot but he could live with it. Flabby’s Heckler O’Koch was fitted with an optional telescopic sight and while it definitely wasn’t as good as the one that was fitted on the sniper rifle that was trying to blow his brains out, it was certainly better than the naked eye. “Right go for it” said Flabby and Ryan waved the dressing gown around on the end of the broom. Flabby was in the bathroom and remembering to keep his head below the level of the window sill.
Trying to anticipate the shot, Flabby was like a coiled spring and I don’t mean he was called Slinky and just sort of slinked (slunk?) down stairs and fcuk all else. He was ready to spring up the moment the shot was fired. He didn’t have long to wait and the bathroom window suffered a bit more as a bullet shattered virtually all the glass that was left, passed through the dressing gown and thudded into the wall. Flabby sprung up and peered through his sight quickly taking in the view. He concentrated on the hedges as he knew that the sniper would be holed up near to or in a hedge. Suddenly he was looking at what looked like a woman pointing what looked like an MSG90 rifle directly at him and she was just about to pull the trigger. He ducked instantly and another bullet hit the wall behind him. He sprang up instantly, quickly found the woman in his sights again and emptied his magazine popping off shots on semi-automatic. He quickly changed the magazine and emptied that one too. The woman had been hit and appeared to be waving to somebody and then he realised, she was waving at him and one finger remained proud. “Fcuk you as well bitch” he said under his breath as he saw her hand drop. She appeared to be dead and Ryan would later identify her as ‘Gripper’, Slob Murphy’s sister.
Flabby knew that a rather large amount of rounds blatted off
without silencer might have upset the locals or even woke them, so they had to
move fast. One telephone call and twenty minutes later, the entire
In
Several arrests were made and a van load of equipment was taken away with some of it actually making its way back to the police station. Taff, Nige and Rikshaw had hit the shop downtown and it was a nice sunny day and they didn’t start the raid until “That honey with the big mams” had walked past. Again there was no shortage of boxes of DVDs and CDs. Taff got a very rare Max Boyce CD, it’s a very rare one as he’s actually funny on this one. Boxes and boxes were carried out then the police took control and got most of the boxes back as it was just opportunistic passers by that had taken the boxes. PCs and peripherals were taken away and the sign on the door was switched to ‘closed’. It had been one fun day and a very profitable one but not for the IRA Commercial Division. Back at the ‘Village’ safe house, the team were just sorry that they hadn’t been able to hit the Falls Road, see a few sights, shoot a few people or just take in the atmosphere.
Back in Jonesborough, the house to house searches continued. The people were livid and police for miles popped up for a look and to throw in the odd taunt. LB was asleep in Flabby’s pocket and he had thrown in some corn flakes just in case but from the packet as Smudge had covered those in the bowl with fag ash. They had left the house and legged it across to where the body of the woman lay. They were still careful as the woman might not have been working alone. They stood in a circle looking down at her. “My fcuk is she ugly” said Knocker as always knowing exactly what not to say. Smudge lit a cigarette, drew deeply and flicked the ash on her. Ryan checked her pockets but found nothing. Flabby had been correct, the weapon had been an MSG90. “How the fcuk can you call a rifle Monosodium Glutamate 90?” asked Knocker and it was quite a valid point this time. Flabby’s mobile played Agadoo and he flipped it open. “Yer ello” he said using all his years of radio and signals training. “The rest of the fcuking Murphys have gone AWOL” he told the rest. The police with army support had raided the farm and all they had found at the farm was a cat and a video of Toyah singing ‘Ith a mythtery’. “Where the fcuk are they?” asked Knocker kicking the dead woman as he was bored.
Chapter Thirteen
The stars of Whisky Charlie One had waited patiently in their own respective air conditioned trailers until they were required by the author. Some played solitaire, some drank coffee and one sniffed a white powder from a glass coffee table. They were stars and had to act accordingly. Fits of sneezing came from one trailer as the white powder that had been sniffed had not been what the star had thought it had was. SAS Foot Powder is not for sniffing and the clue is in the word ‘Foot’. Suddenly spotty youths were dispatched to all trailers as it was time to continue. The stars appeared and resumed their places.
Knocker spun as if it twisted by an invisible force and collapsed on the grass. They all hit the floor in a second and Flabby reached into his pocket to check if LB was ok. Ryan crawled across to Knocker and checked him over. He was alive but his left shoulder had a neat hole through it at the front and Ryan dreaded what the back would be like. If it was a high velocity round then he would be mincemeat. He reached for the back of Knocker’s shoulder and Knocker appreciating his help told him “Fcuk off you cnut faced twonk of a Siberian fcukpig” Appreciating that Knocker appreciated his help but a bit insulted being called Siberian, Ryan gently felt the back of the injured shoulder and was relieved to find that his hand wasn’t fumbling around in goo as it would have been had it been a high velocity round. “Thank fcuk for that” he said and gave Flabby the thumbs up. Ryan pulled a field dressing from Knocker’s pocket and cutting away clothing, placed it over the exit wound where it seemed to be bleeding the most. Flabby crawled across to Knocker and handed him LB. “Don’t want to crush the little barsteward” he said to Knocker who just pulled a face but since he had been shot, Flabby let him off. Ryan pulled out a notebook and pen and noting the time, scribbled it on the first page with the words “10.05 hours, hamster in pocket” and taking LB from Flabby stuffed him into one of Knocker’s pockets. He tore out the page from his notebook and placed it in one of Knocker’s breast pockets.
The three crawled towards a nearby hedge. They had a rough idea where the shot had come from but they weren’t going to stand up to check. In cases like this, instinct just takes over which makes it easier for an author as you can write any old crap and blame it on your characters as I was talking about my instinct not theirs.
The three split up, Flabby going down one side of the hedge after crawling through a convenient (very) hole. Ryan crawled up the other side and Smudge crawled to his left, stopping for a cigarette half way. “You could follow the smoke”, Flabby thought “I must have a word with him about his smoking” A shot rang out and Smudge called out “The fcuker got me, he’s shot me through the fcuking lighter” “Well he might not give up but at least he’ll have to cut down” thought Flabby reaching the corner of the field. He could hear rubbing sounds coming from where Smudge had been. “What the fcuk are you doing Smudge?” he shouted not very tactical but then neither was Smudge. “I need a light, so I’m rubbing two sticks together” was the less than obvious answer. “Work you fcuker, it worked for Ray fcuking Mears didn’t it, barsteward” shouted a less than tactical Smudge who had now been without a cigarette for at least three minutes now. Another shot rang out and Smudge shouted again “Worked in the fcuking movies, almost blew my fcuking nose off there” Smudge had obviously been trying to light a cigarette. “Great found some matches” shouted Smudge and a cloud of smoke erupted from the hedge.
Smudge now temporarily topped up with nicotine, had crawled
left and turning right was crawling up the opposite side of the field to
Flabby.. In the distance on his left, he could see some trees and something was
reflecting in the sunlight. He crawled towards it not daring to break cover and
using the hedge to shield him from view. The tree was actually in the middle of
a hedge and he could get underneath it but it was slow, hard work. As he
crawled closer he could see the shape of a man actually sat on a branch but he
was still too far away to distinguish who it was. Had it been winter then the
man would have been easily visible but then so would they as the hedge was not
of the evergreen variety. He crawled on for what seemed ages but it does seem
ages when you’re dying for a fag and you can’t have one as it would have
definitely given his position away. He was about fifty yards away and he
thought he recognised Little Slob Murphy from the intelligence pictures he had
seen. He was armed with a Heckler O’Koch G36 with the largest telescopic sight
he had ever seen. On a clear day you could see
Little Slob saw a movement in the hedge but it was Ryan that he had spotted. He stood up on his branch using a higher branch as a rest, looked through the sight and picked up Ryan again. His finger was on the trigger and he squeezed it gently watching his target Ryan stop and lie still. He smiled to himself but only briefly as round after round hit him from below and the last thing that Little Slob Murphy remembered was that he was falling. Smudge had opened up from below and emptied a magazine into him. “I wonder if he liked that up the dirt box.” Smudge asked the only living thing around, a chaffinch was singing in the hedge. He celebrated by lighting up a couple of cigarettes using Little Slob’s solid gold Kelvin Klone lighter. “Won’t need it where he’s fcuking going” he said again to the only living thing around and the chaffinch sang in agreement.
Ryan lay in the hedge in agony as it was a bit painful. He had been shot clean through the ankle but fortunately it had not broken the bone but he wouldn’t be doing any foxtrots for a while. The bone was exposed and Ryan reached for his field dressing and wound it round and round his ankle. He was bleeding but it wasn’t life threatening but he didn’t fancy spending the night there so hoped that whoever had fired, had taken out both Murphys. He had recognised the sound of the Heckler O’Koch the regiment used so thought it a pretty safe bet that one of theirs had taken out at least one of the Murphys. There was nothing else he could do but stay put and wait. He knew that Flabby wouldn’t leave him, he knew Smudge wouldn’t leave him and Knocker probably wouldn’t have left him either but Knocker was injured as well so couldn’t really do much to help him. “Ah fcuk it, I’ll just sit here and wait” he said to himself, really stating the obvious.
Flabby crawled on and reached the corner of the field. He had thought that one shot had come from his right so turned right and followed the hedge. He crawled to the next corner and turned left. He crawled up a few yards and saw a hole in the hedge. He peered into the hole in the hedge and found he was peering down the barrel of an AK47 that was pointing directly at him. “Chinese or Russian?” he asked sarcastically. “Fcuking Irish so it is” replied Slob and clubbed him over the head, not knocking him out but making him feel violently sick and very dizzy. With a very fuzzy head, Flabby threw his weapons away, aware of the AK47 constantly pointing at him. “The whole place is surrounded” said Flabby to Slob. “You can’t get far” he added. “I’ve got friends down south so I have” said Slob grinning at him knowingly. “Who the fcuk would have you as a friend?” asked Flabby and wished he hadn’t as Slob clubbed him over the head again. Flabby spat out a tooth, very macho and a great scene for the forthcoming film with Tim Cruise able to swell up to his full five foot fcuk all even though he wasn’t supposed to be standing up at all.
Flabby reached in his pocket and almost jumped. Something or
someone had bit him and he knew that bite. “How the fcuk?” he asked himself very
quietly but obviously not quietly enough. “What the fcuk you got in there
soldier boy?” asked Slob, suspicious of what Flabby might have loitering in his
pocket. A Cruise Missile perhaps, a Challenger Mark IV or something far worse?
Slob hit the pocket where LB was hiding and a swift blow to the head did
nothing to improve LB’s temperament. Slob pushed the AK47 into Flabby’s ribs
and pushed his hand into the pocket where LB was just waiting for something to
sink his teeth into and when four fat fingers and a thumb entered the pocket,
he did not hold back. Slob screamed and the AK47 was momentarily pointing away
from Flabby. Seeing his chance, he grabbed the barrel of the AK47 and the pair
wrestled with the weapon as LB bit further into Slob’s fingers. “Get it of, get
it off!” screamed Slob as the AK47 barrel pointed directly towards him. Flabby
managed to grab the trigger and the weapon exploded into life as Slob exploded
into death as round after round tore through his body. The film version was
filmed in ultra slow motion for added effect as they were a couple of minutes
short due to so many deleted scenes and Tim Cruise’s insistence that he must be
taller than everybody else. The
Flabby found and picked up LB who had been thrown quite far by Slob trying to release the vice like grip on his fingers. He was fine, he munched on a corn flake that Flabby had given him and then playfully bit Flabby but not hard, then realising he was losing street cred, bit him harder. Smudge popped his head out of a hole in the hedge and shouted to Flabby “You got the barsteward?”. Flabby nodded and Smudge dragged himself out of the hole in the hedge and lit a couple of cigarettes. He puffed his way across to Flabby and they hugged, not too close though, a very manly type of hug, not like Tim Cruise in the film who was virtually swapping spit in this scene and all you needed was a couple of sheep and a cowboy hat and it was Brokeback Mountain II. The pair and LB walked back trying to find Ryan and Knocker and the film version had Tim Cruise hugging himself or trying to as he was playing three different parts. Jonathan Woss on Film 2008 said that this scene just looked like a sad midget in a field trying to hug himself and for once he was dead right.
All made it back to
They were all to go to Buck House to receive their medals. The ten of them, as LB was in Flabby’s pocket, stood in a large hall that they later found out was called The Large Hall and waited for her Majesty to present the medals. She arrived in a nice off the peg light green number straight from Woman at C&A and started the presentation of the medals. Each stepped up, saluted, got pinned, had a quick yak, saluted and marched back to their seats. Finally it came to Flabby’s turn. He marched up to her Majesty, saluted and she pinned the DHBM on his chest. LB did not take kindly to having a medal pin jabbed up it’s arrse and leaving the safety of Flabby’s top pocket, sunk its teeth into a light green glove containing the royal hand. “Little barsteward” said her Majesty handing him the Dickin Medal for LB with one hand while trying to shake a voracious hamster off the other. “Little fcuker” said Prince Philip who had popped in because he was bored and there was nothing on the telly.
This escapade over, it was time for everybody to take stock
of their own personal situations. Flabby is still serving and is now an
instructor at the regiment. He divorced Cherie who now runs the largest firm of
decorators in the
Flabby sat on an SAS garden chair in his garden and picked
up his glass of SAS Lofty-Brau beer from the SAS garden table complete with
matching parasol. He was both glad and sad that it hadn’t worked with Cherie
but to quote Knocker “She was too cock happy”. Flabby wondered how Knocker
might know this but of course as the new Families Officer he would have access
to her files and the pictures and the web cam sites she had set up. Flabby had
a new woman in his life and she walked out into the garden, sat on an SAS
garden bench and whispered in Flabby’s ear. “Not now darling, I’m telling a
story” he said to her and she went inside to look for some more batteries for
her vibrator. They were very much in love and it had been a chance meeting.
Flabby had been asked to give a lecture about hamsters in the field at
It had been love at first sight but Challsea had a boyfriend
already, a no pip wonder who was soon to become a one pip wonder, somebody
called
He looked down at LB’s cage and felt proud of all that they had achieved. The armed forces may be short of cash but they always managed to deliver the goods even though deliveries were now solely handled by UPPS. He had seen some future stars come into the regiment and there was hopefully a few more books to come, no doubt if somebody was bored enough to write them. He tickled LB under the chin and LB raised his head, loving every minute of it. Challsea orgasmed for a third time and Flabby dropped his guard, just for a second and the recipient of the Dickin Medal, sank his teeth into Flabby’s finger. “You little barsteward” he said to himself. “You brave little barsteward” he added and Challsea orgasmed again.
THE END
OR IS IT?
©mistersoft
This dubious piece of work remains the
property of the author at all times