Found on the nightstand of The Professor. An opium-addled dream? A perverted attempt at Anglophile erotica? A total waste of 10 minutes’ time? YOU make the call…
Intercepted Report: Needshank Meadows, VIC-C, 201 g7. Delta/Blue/Creevishly
It’s a gray, wet day. Slick streams of water flow off the roof of the barracks, spooshing nosily into rain barrels. This morn is cheerless—desaturated of mirth or pleasure. The parade grounds held by dour line of Regimental men; non-commissioned officers and regular enlisted men alike.
The Brigadier slowly paces back and forth before his men. Rain drips off the brim of his Regimental officer cap. He mutters and stomps his foot down hard; smashing his heel into the gravel below.
“Present!” screams the famed officer; his voice a sharp crack sounding uncannily like a thunderclap.
“Aye-aye, sir!” Booms Lance Corporal Billy ‘high-trousers’ Pennypacker. “The Regimental H.Q. Republic, First platoon, Fusiliers, all present and ready for inspection, sir!”
“Right. Now, you blundering gaggle of blighters, you listen sharp—
We need to address a few things concerning the state of affairs round here. Communiqués indicate a monstrous lack of order, discipline and battle structure on the social media field! Not since the days of the Darbyshire affair misinformation campaign have I seen such a bloody mess of things!
Now, don’t get me wrong—you lads are doing a fine job in tactical execution with what rum-shot drivel you have to work with. Blast me if it’s of any sodding use at all. But, it’s the BATTLE STANDARDS with which I am so enraged, gentlemen. We, quite simply, need to enforce higher measures of principal on the field.
We now face a denser class of DULLARDRY than I have ever seen. This rubbish must be SMOTE—or, we might as well give up the whole sodding affair, right now.
Intercepted intelligence presents a very unfavourable picture indeed. Not that I need to remind you lot, but I will do so anyway for the slower lads—ahem-Pvt. Melvin. We are contending with:
A Mr. South Philistine: a dense and vile fiend, full of malice and contempt for humanity.
Some rum-shot, illiterate ruffian agent X only identified by his crude, jabberwock missives that clutter the airwaves like so much litter in a rubbish heap.
Numerous dullards clatter on about some sort of peculiar Canadian sport involving penguins or some such arctic wildlife.
The odd politico looney anarchist—
Some rum-shot cad who stirs up namby-pamby local villagers with tales of haunted photos. Clearly, the work of an addle-brain opium addict—
And that is pretty much the extent of what we have to work with here! Harrumph!
However—make no mistake—what these dullards lack in purposeful content they claim in overwhelming and bountiful IDIOCY, POINTLESS BLATHER and EMBARRASSINGLY POOR FORM. Sadly, their numbers are vast.
We may need dust off the Regimental Marketing and Recruitment pamphlet, form 201c I rightly conjure, and see that we can drum up some attention to the matter!
Pennypacker, get The Kaiser on the line!
We have our work cut out for us. I am hereby DOUBLING the GIN, ALE and WHISKY ration for all!
to be continued…
This post is a lampoon. The Brigadier, in this reference, is a fictional caricature lampooning a stereotype. The author of this post is not English, nor a member of the Royal Armed Service. Author is not paid by, nor endorsed by the British Broadcasting Corporation. Said author, is, however, very generously sponsored by Hendrick’s Gin, Ltd.
This post is a work of satire. Please consult your friends before determining if this post is humorous. It may not be. Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart is a fictional character in the British science fiction television series “Doctor Who,” who was played by a real man, named Nicholas Courtney (pictured). Author of this post is not that man, because that man is now dead. So, Bob’s your uncle.
If you want to continue the shenanigans, you ought to be here.