Biggles Recieves A Memo

To: Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth, 266 Squadron, RAF Biggin Hill, Thropshire Z28
From: Air Vice-Marshal Dowding
Date: 25th April 1945

Captain Bigglesworth,

It has come to the attention of GHQ that the officers in your squadron routinely utilise several belligerent and derisive sobriquets when talking of our recent enemy. However with the recent cessation of hostilities in the European Theatre and the forthcoming period of reconstruction that awaits us, these nom-de-plumes are no longer considered appropriate in His Magesty's Royal Air Force. Henceforth, the following names and phrases are not to be used by RAF personnel:

Hun
Harry Hun
Jerry
Bosche
Square-head
Kraut
Baron von Strudel
Herman Gelmet
Sausage-sucker

Further, the singing of any non-standard version of 'Colonel Bogey On Parade' is strictly prohibited.

That is all.

An Open Letter To Princess Leia

Dear Princess Leia Organa,

Recently, whilst carrying out my normal duties in a corridor in the rebel base on the ice-world of Hoth, I ventured past the medical bay, from the door of which I was astonished and very hurt to hear you refer to Captain Solo as a nerf herder, as though it were a derogatory term.

Of all people I would have expected you to understand the pain and suffering brought to all the natives of Alderaan after it's destruction by the Death Star. As you know, I was fortunate enough to be attending a convention of the Sherpherds, Herdsmen and Miscellaneous Herders Union on Corellia when Alderaan exploded, taking with it my family, friends and the reasonably-sized herd of nerfs that comprised my livelihood. Since then I have been determined to hurt the Empire in the best way I can, using my skills to ensure that all of the Tauntauns don't escape and run through all of the corridors.

While I realise that as a princess you may consider yourself a little above nerf herders in social circles, I would appreciate a little bit of professional respect and even basic courtesy. Would that hurt?

But no. Instead, as well as living every day with the crushing weight of guilt and humiliation that the empire has forced upon me, I have to endure my profession being put down, insulted, and treated like dirt. Geez, you really make me sick. I bet you're not even going to read this. I bet you just see it and walk away. Well fine! Walk away! Go on, beyotch! You just go and SIT IN YOUR TOWER, YOU STUCK UP PIECE OF SITH! SIT IN YOUR TOWER AND BE A LITTLE PRINCESS AND DREAM OF LUKE SKYWALKER LYING NAKED NEXT TO YOU AND LAUGHING AND SAYING HOW GREAT IT IS TO BE A PRINCESS AND NEVER HAVE TO LOOK AFTER STUPID SMELLY FRICKIN' TAUNTAUNS AND HAVE TO CLEAN UP AFTER THEM AND...

I've said too much. You get my point.

Yours,

Kwango Dejilsic
Tauntaun Wrangler

The Time Detectives (Part 5)

Simon and Garfunkel were the luckiest pop-folk crossover band in the world, for they owned a time travelling Volkswagen Kombi. Every night they would begin their set at a café in The Village and then, once everyone was asleep, they would jump into the kombi, set a course for the past (or future) and become…

THE TIME DETECTIVES!

No sooner had they uttered the words than they became aware of several gaudily dressed youths around the edges of the forum. They were The Beach Boys, the most highly paid musical assassins this world has ever known. Each of them carried both a sword and nunchucks, and the trio of folk-singers knew that each was quite proficient in the arts of eastern combat.

“Give it up, hippies,” cried Dennis Wilson, “and we might let you go home in one piece.”
The other Beach Boys sniggered in a way that made everyone uncomfortable.
But the Beach singing sensations and cold blooded killers hadn’t reckoned with the legendary Garfunkel pluck.
“You’re kidding!” the tall, curly-haired folkster spat back, “do you think we’d just let you assassinate Julius Caesar and get away with it?”

The Beach Bows chuckled, hefted their swords, began trirling their nunckucks and moved in for the kill. Dennis Wilson said, “It’s not as if you’ve got a lot of choice in the matter now, is it?”

“Yes!” cried Joni Mitchell unexpectedly, “it is!”
At that she dropped to her knees as her time-travelling tiger, set to ‘defend’ leaped over her stooped shoulders and cannoned into the first Beach boy, tearing out his jugular while it knocked another Beach Boy’s head clean off with one swipe of it’s mighty paw. The other Beach Boys clustered around to attack, but to no avail. The tiger’s skin had been reinforced with a loose carbon-molybdenium weave and was impervious to swords, nunchucks and the close-harmony singing to which the doomed supergroup eventually resorted. Within 30 seconds the last Beach Boy was down and the tiger stood motionless, the remains of Dennis Wilson’s face staining the fur beneath its chin.

“Phew,” chuckled Simon, “that was close!”

George MacDonald Fraser

Wednesday this week, George Macdonald Fraser died. GMF was the author of the Flashman series, among other books. He was my favorite historical novelist and a recipient of the highest honor I am humbly able to bestow upon any author: he was one of the few authors whose new books I buy immediately upon seeing them in the shop for the first time, regardless of price, commonsense or circumstance.

The first book of GMF's I ever bought was 'Flashman And The Redskins'. At the time I was working for the Housing Trust in Adelaide and every time I stepped into the Angus & Robertson's near Beehive Corner (now sadly long gone) I would see a half-dozen of the Flashman books, all in the same style of cover, sitting in the remaindered table. Initially I was not terribly interested, being put off by blurbs that proclaimed it to be the second literary coming; you know the type. Eventually, however, I was jonesing and so I picked up the one about the Wild West. I started reading it on the way home and I was hooked. The others at the remainder table got bought in short order. I began to hunt. Once all had been read, his other stuff got read, like "Mr American" and "Black Ajax", and both were excellent. I even went to far as to order a particularly hard-to-get copy of his fantastic "The Pyrates" from Amazon US, and have never once regretted the expenditure.

But of all his creations it was Ol Flashy that I loved best. Swashbuckling, cowardly, the very epitome of the Victorian cad. That didn't stop me from wanting to be him, however, and I think that's the mark of the very best books. No-one was more pleased than me when Celtic Films announced that the followup to their very successful "Sharpe" movies was to be three tales from the Flashman Papers, with GMF editing the scripts, no less!

Off you go, GMF. Go join Flashy, Elspeth, Scud East, Count Ignatieff, John Charity Spring and the rest of your rogues gallery!