KISS ME GOODNIGHT SERGEANT MAJOR.

However much you think you have heard it all before and that the absurdities which bedevil our lives have reached saturation point, something comes along to highlight the distressing reality that there is plenty more in the pipeline and that the exercising of common sense is a foreign country as far as our lords and masters are concerned. The latest lunacy to leap fully formed, like Athena from the brow of New Labour, concerns discipline in the army. No longer will drill sergeants be allowed to bellow with traditional insensitivity at new recruits.
That’s right, no more “Stand up straight you ‘orrible little man” From now on personal feelings and sensitivity must take precedence in the training of our military, and the defining ethos is to be the soft word that turneth away wrath, and at the same time turn the troops into a bunch of wimps who could not knock the skin off a rice pudding with a silk handbag. Just the sort of training necessary to fight the Taliban. The brass, or, to be more precise, they who boss the brass, have in their wisdom decided that the army must reflect the gentler society in which we now live. That they against whom we send our troops are unlikely to sign up to such fragile notions is neither here nor there, indeed sending our deliberately emasculated troops to be slaughtered only goes to prove the moral superiority of our leaders who think they are so much better than the lesser breeds, not of course that they have either the guts nor the honesty to admit to such feelings, that would be racist God dammit.
There is not much left of our way of life which Labours polytechnic trots have not molested, which is why they are mounting this assault on the military, who they despise, but are, at the same time ready to dispatch to their deaths so the likes of Blair and Brown can mince along the red carpet at international jamborees, pretending to themselves they are more important than they actually are, while exposing themselves to the contempt of they who actually possess power, remember bum faced Brown’s meeting with the American President in a kitchen? If such posturing is not worth a few gallons of British blood then I do not know what is.
One could say that all this will end in tears, not exactly, it will end with the Argentineans in the Falklands and the flag of Spain flying over the rock of Gibraltar, by that time the clowns of Gordon will have moved on to their gold plated pensions while the rest of us work until we drop. Am I a cynical son of a bitch? Well, what else could I be and remain sane in this arse about face world of ours.

A LOAD OF OLD COCK.

Stranger things happen at sea, but not many are stranger than this I wager. A man was recently reported to have entered Southampton General hospital with his genitals stuck in a pipe, no, you have not misread me, the bleeding perve had got his dick up the spout. It was not reported how the offending member arrived at it’s eventual resting place, pity, that would have made a queer tale well worth the hearing. I suppose we will never know the reason why all this came about, but while it is a known fact that pipes frequently come fitted with a stop cock, to be stuffed with a Hampshire todger seems a tad unreasonable to me.

What did the hospital officials do? Why, what anyone would do in such circumstances, they called the fire brigade, of course they are not called that in these politically correct times, but why split hairs in the face of so monumental a cock up. Anyway, seven members of the brigade turned up at Hampshire General to minister to this joker wandering around A&E with his dick in a pipe, was he holding it up? No-one said, but it was reported that the appendage in question had become aroused, making it impossible to be removed. At this point in the proceedings I should imagine the poor fellow was in need of a stiff drink. But seven firemen to manhandle the situation? Was this guy really the yardstick against which all others are measured?

After the administering of an anaesthetic The Brigade got to work with a grinder, a wholly appropriate tool all things considered. It took thirty minutes to free Willy, but it was in a bruised and swollen state. Ah, bless. The man’s identity was not disclosed, hardly surprising as by this time I should imagine he was feeling a complete prick as opposed to acting as if he was cock of the walk.

The moral of this tale? There isn’t one apart from the old adage ‘Don’t let your dingle dangle in a pipe’, even if you possess the biggest hot dog in Hampshire.