The editorial team have asked me to consider adding a few appendices to my memoirs. So I have included this - a report on my command ship. I have fond memories of the Wellesley. An antique war-ship that is a lugubrious hulk by the standards of modern warfare, she has proven herself to be a reliable command.
Those clever chaps at Admiralty have cleared me to give you a little comment on each of the crew.
There is even talk recently of a childrens' television programme being made about our adventures murdering foreigners aboard the Wellesley! Watch this space!
The H.M.S. Wellesley
Crew
Master and Commander - Captain Sir Roger Bertram Brinkley, CC
Senior Crew
Chief Mate - First Lt. Chris Campbell
"An affable moron"
First Mate/Logistics - First Lt. Mark Jefferson
"A near-usless pen-pushing desk-johnny whose only virtue is an ability to make cucumber sandwiches"
Second Officer/Navigation/Chief Helsman - Lt. James Denholm
"A bespectacled desk-johnny and cartography enthusiast who could find his way into a weasel's lair undetected"
Third Officer/Weapons & Brig - Marine Sgt. Victor Armstrong
"A loud and violent land-lubber who treats foreign nationals with as much courtesy as a bull does a heifer"
Combat and Auxilliary Crew
Chief Gunner - Ensign. Ross Miller
"A coarse working-class yob whose aim is as good as his breath is foul."
Gunners Ensign Peter Doherty
"A flatulent ignoramus."
Ensign Alfred Cartwright
"A half-deaf bumpkin and pants-wetter."
Ensign Norbert "Blunderbuss" Jeffries
"Loads a torpedo tube faster that a dysenteric soldier fills his pants."
Medical & Scientific - Lt. Benedict Mason, MD
"A covert Intelligence Agent and possibly the only sentient being on board beside myself."
Engineering & Mechanical - First Lt. Kip Morris
"A grease-monkey and miracle-worker of the first order."
Communications - Ensign Niall Keane
"Overlook his Molly ancestry if you can. He is the ship's radio boffin and technological nerdling."
Chaplain - Fr. Dafyyd Jones
"A religous nut-case."
Commissioned to serve as a command vessel and support craft for BAF operations during the Kusari War, the Wellesley is named for "The Iron Duke", Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, an honoured commander from Bretonian history and a direct ancestor of its new commander, Sir Roger Bertram Brinkley, CC.
After a blow to her engines in a firefight in Cambridge, the Wellesely was re-fitted and re-plated with fine Sheffield armour.
Her new commander has selected a crew from among several BAF officers and enlisted men whose acquaintance he met during his time as a P.O.W. in Kusari.
The Mk.6 Class Gunboat has been re-equipped with an array of powerful weapons, suitable for both anti-fighter duties and flak support and heavy engagements with large craft.
The Wellesley's forward gun, the "John Thomas", fires tachyon projectiles and anti-matter shells, and is loud enough to have deafened at least twelve of the former crew.
As my aged arse has become a vertiable rabbits warren of flaky fissures and salty scabs owing to my pernicious piles, I have had more spare time behind my bureau than is customary.
In a bid to prevent my attempting self-immolation with a stapler to curtail this blasted boredom, the genial gents at "Come on, Carina!" - the Armed Forces weekly newsletter for the pimply privates and eager ensigns - have asked me to write a column in which I address the concerns of our smooth-cheeked and soft-bottomed young staff who may find becoming a man-chap an arduous and challenging sack to fill.
Now this first missal comes from an uncertain aboard my own delightful Derby who is keen to make a impression on his sage senior officers. He writes:
Quote:Dear Lord Brinkley,
My CO is an avid fencer and invited me to have a stab at it (Haha!). I've never fenced in my life. My CO says not to worry, as he has been stabbing new chaps like me since he could don a mask. Are there any etiquette tips for first-time fencing?
Signed,
New to the game
Dear New to the game,
As in any sport or activity, consideration should be shown to others. However, fencing, unlike other sports, is the only sport in my experience where one runs the real risk of involuntary castration or contracting a disease which may shrivel one's family jewels and cause a rakish rash.
Since your CO is an experienced handler of a flesh-hungry foil, he should assist you in following the basic rules of fencing. Proper behavior involves safety, playing at a good pace with bravura and good sportsmanship, and taking care of your meat and two veg. If you have an over-long weapon, discretely tuck it in the "Albert" position lest it catch a hastily handled and over-zealous thrust from your anxious partner's chopper.
In brief, below are some safety and etiquette tips provided by the Bretonian Officers' Fencing Institute:
Etiquette Tips for Fencing
1. Safety:
a. Ensure that no one is standing close by or in a position to be hit by a practice thrust.
b. Do not play with your sword while others are watching.
c. Shout "touche" if you catch one. Let the other chap know he has scored on you.
2. Other Players
a. No unnecessary distractions, such as squealing sounds or writhing movements, unless you are attempting a foursome. The rules are more relaxed in group events.
b. Priority in choosing a partner is determined by seniority. (A little trick I learned as a young fencer was to dab a little flour on my short and curlies to feign age. How ironic it seems when one considers how my Buster McThunderstick now sports his winter plumage!)
3. Care of the Venue
a. Before leaving a venue, players should carefully mop up any excess fluids and accidental spills.
You Are The Man I Want! Being Reminiscences, Rumours, Ruminations and Romance of the Manly Sort That Goes on Among Soldiers More Than You Believe The Collected Memoirs of Sir Roger Bertram Brinkley, CC
"An arse-roastingly riveting read detailing one career soldier's incredible courage and questionable morality set against the backdrop of a world gone mad!" Cambridge Clarion
Her Majesty's Domain is being overrun by Poxy Pirates, Horrendous Hippies, Maniacal Mollies, Kusari Kriminals and Cretan Cannibals.
My bewrinkled rectum has me ready for retirement. I am at present confined to my desk on the Derby, signing orders for torpedoes and gazing upon the filthy working-class anus that is Planet Leeds.
I have few sources of entertainment. The occasional de-bagging or keel-hauling of the more recent recruits. And my stint as a be-testicled agony aunt in "Come on, Carina!" - the Armed Forces weekly newsletter for the pink-bottomed privates who must put aside childish ways and defend the realm. These eminently caressable young fellows need guidance and a stern talking-to on occasion, but their tales of woe would bring a tear to the most northerly of one's eyes as well as their lone southern cousin.
This one emanates from a lowly young scallywag in Engineering aboard the Norfolk. He writes:
Quote:Dear Lord Brinkley,
I am pretty sure that I have Loller's Syndrome and it's ruining my life! I'm really worried that I'm going to die early as I am only 18 and I wont get the things in life that I want to do, like have children, as I'm pretty sure that you can't father a baby with this disease. I have read that it must mean that I can't get promoted either. I have already been treated before but it keeps on coming back so I think I can't get rid of it which is tearing me up inside as I know that no one else I know has this. I'm so scared and I can't even confide in my friends about this and I'm so scared about what is going to happen to me. Thank you.
Concerned
Dear Concerned,
Stop panicking! There's nothing to panic about. Loller's Syndrome isn't fatal. Once it's out of your system you can continue to have a perfectly normal life.
The best thing is to go to your M.O. He can both identify the actual parasite and prescribe medication. However, that won't work unless you follow strict hygiene rules and you'll have to have one or more follow-up doses of medication too. This is because the worms living in the gut will be killed but the eggs they've laid around your port-hole won't. That's what the second treatment is for: to kill the hatched parasites before they can lay eggs that will exacerbate the mouth-anus reversal process.
The life-cycle of the parasite that causes Loller's is around six weeks so you'll need to follow the hygiene rules below for at least that length of time. Because the eggs are too small to be seen, they can easily be transferred to your fingers and thence to your mouth or to food you're preparing, so you need to keep your fingernails short, scrub your hands including under your nails both after going to the water closet and before touching your spotted dick or filet mignon.
Avoid thumb-sucking or nail-biting (your own or others), wear wire-mesh gloves at night to prevent scratching or any other more intimate nocturnal activities while you're feigning sleep or if you are prone to the occasional rummage while on the comms, wear close-fitting pants at night and change, wash and disinfect them in the morning, and bathe or shower every morning making sure you pay particular attention to the area around the plug-hole. Don't share towels, flannels or sponges. Don't eat in bed as eggs can be shaken off bedclothes, and do have a working class person vacuum and dust your room regularly and thoroughly. Make sure your nightclothes, bedlinen, towels and any toys you sleep with are washed and rinsed regularly. Thrash your man-servant if he is remiss in his duties. Make sure too that bathroom surfaces are cleaned frequently with a hot, damp cloth. Keep your toothbrush in a closed cupboard, and rinse it thoroughly before use. This is especially important if you are prone to using said bathroom implement for the "Harris Grooming".
There's one other thing. You'll have to tell your bunk-mates since Loller's is so readily spread. In fact if you've got it, members of your crew almost certainly have it too. Unless everyone in the ship, and perhaps regiment, is treated at the same time, reinfestation is likely - as you've already discovered.
So take your courage in your (extremely clean) hands and tell your superiors and the M.O. Good luck.
My awful agony is exegiously ended! The pernicious piles have passed!
A misfortunate mishap in my baronial bathroom this a.m. while anxiously attempting to faciliatate a particularly perilsome pooh's exteriorisation resulted in my ungainly unseating from the throne. One strenuous surge too many and I plunged headlong into a bathroom cabinet of shoddy workmanship and in the ensuing fracas managed to wedge my prolapsed posterior in my paisley shower bag.
One sharp jerk and I was five pounds of flesh to the lighter, having omitted to remember that the shower valise contained my trusty cut-throat razor.
The flow of blood was most worrisome but my trusted man-servant Meadows applied a tourniquet with the expertise of a Cretan whore. He was as encouraging as a college Don when the doctor left:
Quote:Meadows: I may infer sir that you might be offering yourself for more active service now that your sphincter has resumed working order?
Me: Your inference is leading by a length in the final furlong, Meadows. Now pop that flotsam in a jar and put it on the mantelpiece. It will make an excellent conversation piece on card-night. Once the wound heals I shall give the vile invaders a good old-fashioned anal trafalgaring!
I never imagined that impromptu surgery would be so helpful. The great Bretonian stomach for pain is second to none.
To the devil with anaesthetics and your nancy-boy antibiotics! Confound talk of field hospitals! If a dicky war-horse such as myself can remove a pile from his own arse with a Gilette razor, we'll win this war in no time!
From my files. This cover story fooled everyone. Good show, Meadows!
Quote:
To Whom It Concerns, Her Majesty Queen Carina, Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Admiralty, and Officers
It is with profoundest regret that we announce the tragic death of Lord Admiral Sir Roger Bertram Brinkley, One Hundred and Thirteenth Duke of Wellington, Earl of Wellesley and notorious violator of many a foul-mouthed Kusari dog.
Sir Roger had been battling ill-health for quite some time, but in the end it was his penchant for undercooked steak-and-kidney pies that caused his demise.
Rumours that he expired while attempting to perform a lewd and unnatural act upon a donkey are, of course, entirely unfounded. He was a most moral and upright man, and those photos are definitely fake.
Sir Roger's remaining family have requested a private funeral, so the full military honours will not be necessary. This has nothing to do with the rumours that Sir Roger's corpse has in fact become fixed in a state of rigor mortis in mid-copulation with a farmyard animal that perished of shock and that this is why the funeral will require <strike>a large crate </strike> a closed casket.
Sir Reginald Meadows, Assistant to the late Lord Admiral
[font=Times New Roman]No doubt many Bretonians will be shame-faced and scandalised should my rambunctious records of my later criminal career ever be unsealed by Her Majesty's secretive censors.
I had been pulling political strings and other stiffer things in an avid attempt to convince the aged Admiralty of the wisdom of boldly backing my innovative idea for a Special Operations Executive - a fast strike force equipped to thrust vigorously at the vile yellow intruder behind his slanty frontlines.
Kusari had a native population of terse troublemakers, rebellious halfwits and ne'er-do-wells who with the right encouragment (i.e. a flogging, Brinkley-style) would take arms against their ball-less Emperor and his cat-eating cronies.
The infrastructure and men for such an operation existed already. Some background: you may recall the energetic efforts of the Abolitionists to secure Bretonian backing for their hugely humanitarian efforts to abolish salacious slavery.
A tangent: now I admire social structures involving serfdom as much as the next man, but one must admit that the practice of slavery is downright silly. I mean to say, if you enslave everyone, then who will we have to maintain the pretence of a liberal democracy? It will be guillotines at Gateshead again if the proles don't believe they have some say in which palaces of the mighty should be accessible to them and their oafish wives on Bank Holidays for one of their flatulent family outings.
Anyway, young Wilberforce had expended his measly inheritance patronising his cause, and had managed to bend the ear of several politicans and part of the Admiralty to support him. Most people will be aware of the ill-fated Preventitive Squadron established to harass the haulers of slaves. These cheeky chaps endured some of the cruellest conditions of any Bretonian servicemen. Disease, privation and starvation were commonplace. In certain circumstances, the lack of supplies meant they were forced to contemplate eating potatoes.
What few of these chaps that survived the demobilisation of the Squadron found their way into the ranks of Stuart's Privateers, a pot pourri of roguish rapscallions who had penetrated Kusari's rear and were rogering trade with a vigour that would make a Cretan whore blush.
These would form the backbone of the S.O.E.
But, lo! My personal involvement could not be guaranteed sitting on the Derby drooling into cups of milky tea and waiting for my six o'clock sponge-bath. Retirement would be busy for me in Bretonia, as my social calendar was packed. I had to extricate myself.
So, during a secretive operation requiring the level of orchestration of a Baroque concerto in a coal-mine, my demise was faked. I beheld the funeral ceremony with tears in my eyes. And, it must be said, a kind of resentment. They believed I was in ill-health? Egad, I was as healthy as a war-horse! I had in fact been terrorising the dormitories of the Military Academies only that week in my Stag outfit on one of my famed Rogering Raids!
Nevertheless, I slipped away across the border in the company of some devilishly nubile Chrysanthemum ladies (they prefer leaves to tea-bags, oddly enough) and rendezvoused with the Privateer Fleet in the Taus. Adventure of a different kind awaited.
Stuart had vanished, most likely stuck between two obese tarts in some poxy Kusari brothel playing "Hide the Weasel" or somesuch.
HMS-Waterwitch, Captain Henry James Matson, C.O. - Credited with the capture or destruction of thirty slave-ships and five Kusari fighter ships. Lost with all hands, Tau-29 to a force of the Kusari Navy.
QCP|Forbes, Captain Frazier Sinclair, C.O. - Seconded to SOE. Responsible for the destruction of five cardamine traders, three Zoner transports operating in Kusari space. Mssing in action, Tau-31 in combat against a force of Zoner and Colonials.
El.Greco, Lord William Wilberforce, C.O. - Privately owned and registered. Responsible for the interdiction of twelve slave ships and the liberation of over 11,000 slaves. Decommissioned (auctioned).
QCP|Black.Joke, Lord Admiral Sir Roger Bertram Brinkley, C.O. - Under construction. Seconded to S.O.E.
I had a salaciously sordid and unhealthily unconventional dream about Nanny. Her devil's dumplings were as moist and milky as ever. I do miss them so. Note to self: have sheets laundered.
Received crucial communication from the Admiralty this morning. I was sitting down to some buttered muffins when the blower rang. I pushed the young fellow aside and got on the horn.
Long story short: it appears I shall be forced to give more frequent, detailed, accurate and less-sounding-like-the-ramblings-of-a-senile-halfwit accounts of my daring deeds On Her Mountable Majesty's Homoerotic and Homicidal Service in order to secure further funding for the S.O.E.'s mission to remove the innards of the Kusari Emperor, his family, pet llama, the Kusari government, and everyone not in possession of a title and to display said organs in a public place as a stark warning to anyone that to trifle with Her Majesty's Armed Forces is akin to waving one's be-jammed genitalia before a swarm of killer bees that have succumbed to psychopathic tendencies and ingested some methamphetamine.
We had a sing-song last night after the interrogation session with the now unfortunately deceased-and-most-likey-in-the-chemical-toilet captain of the gunboat we captured previously. I was scrubbing the tangled entrails from my arthiritic hands when I decided to belt out a delightful ditty which I must remember to teach the staff at HQ in order to raise morale. I shall record it here in case I have another "episode" and find myself in the mess-hall requesting more cucumbers.
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when
But I'd keep some vaseline handy if I was you.
Keep smilin' through - just like you always do
'Til you hear my heavy breathing come your way.
So will you say "Tally ho" to the chaps down below
Tell them - the engine room is where I long to be.
They'll be happy to know that as you saw me go
I was getting ready to do a "Number Three".
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when
But I would have some vaseline on standby if I was you.