AIRVICEMARSHAL SIR RUPERT GOLIGHTLY-JOCKSTRAP, (RETD)

Now listen, sonny, I can call down a Tornado strike,
soon as look at you.

I would just like to say that I have enjoyed my time as Commander in Chief of the Defence Staffs and  of all those fine young service personnel getting shot and blown up for absolutely fuck all, out there in FuzzyWuzzyLand. It has been a singular honour to send them all off to their doom, ill-equipped, their lives and limbs squandered in order that Mr Taliman can kill British citizens in his homeland and save all the airfares to Luton;  sometimes I think we might reach an accord with the blighters whereby we just execute half-a-dozen Tommies a week, on their behalf, as it were, and that way we can all save a few bob and get on with mulching the roses.

I mean, as I was only saying to Her Majesty Doctor Fox, the other day, on the occasion of the Trooping of the Colour,   it is a great privilege for me to see those legless young men, in their wheelchairs, watching their former comrades doing that intricate, ceremonial marching, knowing that, at twenty, they will never march again - unless, of course, they go mad and start hopping to the North Pole on those prosthetic things - and pretending that it was all worth while, I suppose they have to, really, believe all this shit, about the bandit, Karzi and his bloody relations, they'd freak-out else, I suppose, knowing that they'd lost their legs, for sweet fuck all, for the empty platitudes of Bob The Cunt Ainsworth, and for Field Marshal Snot's photo-opportunities and for the comfort of the Lady, Imelda. Still, that's what they signed-up for, shit.

My situation, however, is entirely different, I mean, I'm off to civvy flying rather sooner than I'd imagined but the pension's all sorted, I hope, and there's always the Lords, beats hanging around down the British Legion, scrounging pints. In a wheelchair. Still, huge personal tragedy, nevertheless, mine. Legs or no legs.

Ah, you haven't an arm, you haven't a leg,
haroo, haroo, 
 You haven't an arm, you haven't a leg,

 haroo, haroo, 

You haven't an arm, you haven't a leg,

You're an eyeless, brainless, chickenless egg,

And you'll have to be put with a bowl, to beg,

Ah, Johnny I hardly knew you.

The BBC's JesusFuckingWeptWhoIsThisFuckingCretin, Huw Welshman, was in fine Dimbleby form at the weekend pointing out some lad, a child really, watching the marching bands from his wheelchair, dressed just like his former comrades, in scarlet tunic  and brass buttons, but no legs, not even a thigh, he just stopped, below the waist.

Now, Barack Obama and Gordon Snot and CallHimDave can all talk shit from here to Eternity

Join-up? You must be fucking joking.
They also serve who only snort coke, y'know.
Although we don't talk about that. 
Because I said so.

and the Coalition of the Unwholesome  can fuck about, all statesman-like, the horrible, thieving fucking bastards,  with defence reviews  and that revolting little turd, Michael Spit-Gove, and his fellow travellers can play their nasty, bad breath elitist games but there, that boy in the wheelchair, with no fucking legs,  there, a lifetime in  Heartbreak Hotel,  that is what they think of us; Snotty, Blair, Cameron, Hague;  teenage  limbs torn off, so these cunts can soundbite their humbugging way into  history,  the BBC more interested in the musical chairs at the MOD, than in a thousand pointless amputations.

Next week: Why it is in the national interest that we help the Talimen form a new government in Iraq,  or is it Afghanistan? Whichever.