"Twaddle, piffle and shate!" cried the Brigadier.
He and his cracked team had just crested the hill in their trucks and were now careering down the other side, like numpties on a temporary contract, towards the villages of Twaddle, Piffle and Shate.
The Brigadier was excited by the thought of what was to come, but exasperated too, by the tightness of his clothes, which had shrunk in the wash.
"Damn these trizers," he said, trying to extract a packet of Love Hearts from his pocket. At last they came out with a pop, and spilled out over the floor of the truck. The Brigadier's driver scooped up a pink one, read its inscription and declared, "Ooh - it says Dream Boy!" before scoffing it noisily. Corporal Snodkins looked like he wanted one too, but was not prepared to embarrass himself scrabbling about on the floor in front of his superior.
The Brigadier had, however, read the look on Snodkins' face and, with a knowing wink, commanded, "At ease, soiled-yah."
"Why, thank you, sah," replied the Corporal, who bent over to grab one but, as he did so, accidentally let slip such a preposterous jockey burner that the driver fainted, the truck swerved dangerously and Private Brown, at the back of the truck, thought he could smell a dead whale...
TO BE CONTINUED
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