Doctor: Do come in, if you would just like to just remove your trousers and wait behind the screen.

Captain: Right-ho! And it’s ‘Captain’, if you don’t mind.

Doctor: Do excuse me, Captain, we are rather a quiet little community. It’s not often we have a man like yourself come to live. You were in the Royal Flying Corp, I understand?

Captain: That’s right, Doc, No.1 Squadron… the best! Three years on the Western Front, thirty-one confirmed downings, eight crashes and a piece of shrapnel in the leg. I can tap It’s a Long Way to Tipperary just by bending my knee. Tick tick tick… tick… tick…

Doctor: I see. I am curious, Captain… what brings you to our sleepy little village?

Captain: Well I stayed on in Paris after the war, and truth be told, It was becoming a bit much. Needed a break from those French fillies. Two, three I can handle, but four of them on a Friday night, every Friday night, week after week, month after month… Steady on, Doc, hand’s a bit cold there.

Doctor: Now if you wouldn’t mind giving me a cough.

Captain: A cough? How about I give you a roar instead? ROAAARRRRRRR!

Doctor: Ahem. Do you drink much at all?

Captain: Do I? Rather! Hatch, gullet, stomach, in less than 3 seconds – ten times a night. I treat my drink like I want my women to treat me.

Doctor: I see. Erm… you may want to look at cutting down on that.

Captain: Ha! The women or the drink? Good one, Doc!

Doctor: Now excuse me whilst I just go through with this comb.

Captain: I say, that’s a bit ticklish, Doc, reminds of this five foot two, green-eyed little thing from ‘Le Chabanais’ – twenty-five francs and she’s over you top and tails with that tiny little tongue of hers.

Doctor: Right… well I can’t see or feel anything. Have you had any itching?

Captain: Nothing, except an itching for a good ride on that little creature I saw in the post office this morning. ROAARRR!

Doctor: Any unwanted discharge?

Captain: Not since I was fourteen years old and the Spanish mistress accidentally flashed a view of her stockings. I was quite a tent, I can tell you.

Doctor: Any pain or discomfort?

Captain: Well, actually Doc, there is…

Doctor: Really? Please do go on.

Captain: It’s the thought of those Parisian girls who are going to go unfulfilled this weekend. Damn shame. Damn shame.

Doctor: Captain, I cannot see anything wrong, I cannot feel anything wrong. You say you have no discharge or itching and nor are you in any sort of medical pain. What did you say was actually wrong again?

Captain: Nothing

Doctor: Pardon.

Captain: Nothing wrong, old bean, I just wanted to show you my knob. ROAAARRRRRRR!

You only need a little bit of Gentlemen’s Spice for a rise…

“Get your lips tighter around it, you’re dribbling.”

This was the third time in the space of ten minutes I had to draw attention to Miss Rotterlicks’ technique. She looked up to me with those bugged eyes of hers, blessed with all the grace of a grasshopper. As she always did in these scenarios, she began to go faster.

I slammed my baton down on the pedestal. Christ! I curse the day I ever began teaching music at the Rotherham Girls’ Finishing School. For the last two years, I had taught at a private girls’ school in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, surrounded by beauty as we bathed in the delights of Chopin. But, there was an unfortunate misunderstanding. You must see, I was only massaging the young girl’s bare thigh to help her accommodate the cello better. Since then, this was the only school that would take me on.

Where once I had been surrounded by the delicate creatures of Europe’s aristocratic elite, I now found myself amidst the far-from-darling offspring of the city of Sheffield’s steel elite – all three of them. There was a fourth, but she was removed by her father after he misheard me talking about wanting to get my legato.

It was Saturday, the worst day in my now miserable existence, because I had the angels of death for a full four hours. They arrive at 10am, dropped off by their fathers, who constantly try and give me the horn – do they not know there is more to music than the brass band?

The girls below me stared as I got my baton up. Miss Rotterlicks sits in the middle with her clarinet – how she has turned playing this fine instrument into a sideshow at the Moulin Rouge, I do not know. To her right is the large round Miss Lumpington and her double bass – sometimes I have to do a double-take to remind myself which one is made of wood. Finally, on the left, is Miss Teakles, who handles the violin with the grace of a miner attacking the strongest material known to man.

They all constantly fight to be on top, but usually Miss Lumpington’s heavy plucking wins out. I did once volunteer to spend some extra time with her, to lighten her fingering. But this was met with a black eye from her father, when I explained I wanted to work on his daughter’s crotchet.

Sigh… I brought my baton halfway down and gave it a flick, and Miss Rotterlicks resumed her practice of pleasuring the British Navy. With my left hand, I waved in Miss Teakles who fiddled up, then down, then up, down, up, down, and – surprise!  Teakles’ all over the place. Which is the cue for Miss Lumpington to come in with her coma-inducing plucking.

Slurp, clump, clump plunk, slurp, clump, plunk…

“Girls, Triad! You’ve got to be together on this.“

“We’re trying as hard as we can, sir.”

Do you see? Do you see what I have to put up with?

“Softer, girls, this is Scheidt.”

“I don’t think that’s very fair, sir.“

Is it any wonder I spend my day constantly pissed?

Stagehand: Curtain call, five minutes, ladies…

Doris: He wanted to put it where?

Ethel: Me back passage.

Doris: But, Ethel… That’s tiny.

Ethel: I know, that’s what I said, wouldn’t listen though. He gave it a good try and got covered in oil, the silly goose. Told him, to stick it round front.

Doris: What I don’t get is why ‘e didn’t do that in the first place.

Ethel: Well, ‘e was ‘fraid someone would nick it. Doubt anyone in Lambeth would knows how to drive it any’ow.

Doris: They do like their toys. ‘Ere, can you pass us those nipple tassles – the blue ones. So are you seeing him again?

Ethel: Well I don’t know, seems a bit obsessed with wanting to educate me, gave me a dictionary last night.

Doris: Any good?

Ethel: Not really, it keeps changing subject every other line. Nah, don’t think I will see him again. For one thing ‘e’s got his eye on Gladys over at the Imperial.

Doris: Gladys? Thought she went off to sea with that sailor fellow with the beard.

Ethel: She went off to SEE the sailor with the beard, that didn’t last very long at all. She met him round the back of the music hall expecting for him to take her on the town, and he was expecting her to take him right there and then on the floor – are my feathers straight, love?

Doris: Nah, bend over a second I’ll fix it for ya… (Sigh) – Do you ever ask what it’s all about?

Ethel: What, Doris?

Doris: You know… this.

Ethel: You mean the frilly knickers?

Doris: No, I mean… Surely there must be more to life than gettin’ on stage and whirling our bits for the lord and gentry.

Ethel: Oh Doris… ‘ere, stand up and look in the mirror, will ya. What do you see?

Doris: Me left nipple tassle is wonky.

Ethel: Your bottom, Doris!

Doris: Me bottom?

Ethel: Yes, your bottom.

Doris: What about me bottom?

Ethel: It’s a very pretty bottom.

Doris: I don’t see what me bottom has to do with wondering if there is more to life.

Ethel: You ever asked yourself why you have such a pretty bottom?

Doris: I….

Ethel: It’s becasue God wanted you to have that bottom and you were meant to wiggle it. Not just for the lord and gentry, for everyone.

Doris: It is rather pretty, ain’t it?

Ethel: Yes, yes it is, Doris… The prettiest bottom I have ever seen. Every night when we come to the end of our act and I am standing behind you as you bend down — It, well… It, it makes me smile inside.

Doris: Oh, Ethel, that’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me, I think I’m going to cry.

Ethel: Don’t cry, remember the crowd, they need to see your bottom smiling.

Doris: And so they shall…..

— 00 —

Stagehand: ‘Ere, what did you say to Doris? She’s been a moody moo-ha all day and now she looks like she’s on top of the world.

Ethel: Well, it was what this gentlemen was telling us last night really. To get to the top, you got start at the bottom.

All Rise…

Well, your ‘onour, I arrived on the corner of Brick Lane and Whitechapel ‘igh street at approximately 3am on the morning of November 6th 1927. Across the road, lying on the ground face-down, was a body which I presumed to be that of a reveller who was slightly worse for wear. I called out twice before going over and giving ‘im a slight tap on the ‘ead with me truncheon, to which there was no response. Turning the body over, I identified it to be that of a very pretty young women in ‘er twenties in some sort of Arabian attire, and that she was still breathing. ‘Aving earlier on that evening dealt with a drunken reveller from Lord Brownes’ party, who ‘ad been dressed as a pirate, I plopped her on me bicycle and cycled the six miles to where the party was ‘appening. When I knocked on the door, I was met by Lord Browne ‘imself, who greeted me with the following:

“I say, Merk’s come as a policeman. How superb!”

After a lot of what can only be described as young man’s joviality, which involved having me ‘elmet knocked off and tossed all over the room, I established I was not the gentleman known by the name Merk, but a constable appointed by ‘is Majesty of the realm. ‘E did not recognize the young lady, and neither had any of the other guests remembered seeing ‘er that evening. ‘E did, ‘owever, point out that the jewellery she was wearing was of extremely ‘igh quality and that was no doubt a real diamond in ‘er tiara. I then repeated my attempts to awake the young lady with another tap from me truncheon, with no success. Plopping ‘er back on me bicycle, I cycled three miles to the ‘ouse of Richard Neumann, who I knew to be an expert on jewellery, and who would be up at this early ‘our.

‘E explained to me that what she was wearing was most definitely antique, and that ‘e ‘ad a friend over in Battersea, which was two miles away, who would be able to tell me more. ‘E was also most kind in serving me some kippers. I plopped the lady back on me bicycle, but not before giving ‘er another tap on the ‘ead.

This friend turned out to indeed be most knowledgeable in the field of antiquities, and informed me that the jewellery was of Persian origin and at least three thousand years old – but could offer no more than that.

With all leads exhausted, I plopped her back on me bicycle and began to ‘ead back to Scotland Yard. As I crossed over Battersea Bridge the sun began to come up. I noticed the young lady begin to stir. ‘Er eyes opened to reveal the most beautiful green eyes I ‘ave ever seen. She smiled… oh… a smile that would light a thousand candles… – sorry, your ‘onour, what did I do next? Well, I gave ‘er one with me truncheon.

“I say, what a marvelous cock!”

I was so pleased the Vicar had noticed on this splendid spring day. Last year he had seemed to be obsessed by Lady Watson’s tits, and if we’re being perfectly honest, we would have to admit to agreeing they were a most magnificent pair, and most worthy of the prestigious Best Birds award in the Kensington and Chelsea Annual Ornithology Show 1911. But this was 1912. A whole year had passed. A year in which I had spent a great deal of time preparing and nurturing my Spangling Green Cock.

It was by no means the biggest out there, but I told myself size was not everything. I had spent many hundreds of hours grooming it. In the four weeks leading up to the show, I had carried out a strict regimen of massaging and bathing it at least three times a day – sometimes even before breakfast. As the Vicar placed his hands around it, I hoped that this – this - could be my year.

“Quite fidgety, isn’t it? Sign of a good diet,” he said.

I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow as he paused, and let out a silent sigh of relief as he continued.

“Oh, hasn’t it got tiny legs?”

Why did he have to mention the legs? Like a crystal glass dropped onto a marble floor, I felt my confidence shatter. Last year Duchess Bloemfontein had put on such a staggering display of thigh that, whilst she did not win, it was the talk of the Kings Road for many months after. Sadly, the Spangling Green never has offered much to offer the eye in terms of its limbage. Oh, why hadn’t I choosen a good booby over my cock, which now seemed to shrink in the Vicar’s hands? I lowered my head.

“There’s just one small thing, my dear fellow…”

With my confidence shattered and his use of the word ‘small’, I felt an ice-cold razor rip through my dreams. “Here it comes,” I told myself, as I prepared myself for more woe. Why hadn’t I listened to Asquith when he’d told me the vicar was much more a Brown Trembler man than a cock man, and that even the humble Rough Face Shag was known to bring a smile to his face.

“I don’t quite know how to say this, but…”

Come on, get to it! Raise the cold steel of the gun and blast what hopes I have left. Just say that it’s too small. That Lady Watson’s Agile Tits and the Red Fluffy Back Tit Babblers of the previous year’s winner – Miss Emmerford – had both been big, plentiful and full of bounce. I should have taken more time in my selection. If I had been more patient I would have been standing here proudly, showing off a large Willy Wagtail.

“It’s just….”

Why do you torture me so? God, I ask thee to open the ground and swallow me up.

“The ornithology show was last week. This is the canine show.”

I had wondered why I was surrounded by bitches.

Asquith: You know Georgie?

Browne: Do I ? Rather! Went for a spin in that ferocious motorcar of his the other week.

Asquith: We were out around Piccadilly last Friday.

Browne: Bet it was a right hoot! Last time I was out with him, practically emptied the bar at the Strand. Next morning, woke up – wrong side of Hammersmith, and a tongue as rough as a Japanese attempt at distilling Scotch.

Asquith: We began our night off at the Windmill Club

Browne: Randy sod! Is that stripping trapeze artist still there?

Asquith: In fact, she was old boy! Marvellous act, I must say. After we’d whiled away a couple of hours there, we moved onto the Savile.

Browne: Are they letting Georgie back in after he got in that infamous scuffle with those three Oxford rowers?

Asquith: Indeed. Turns out the club’s secretary used to row for the lighter shade of blue. Georgie is back in with battle honours. Good job too! Finest sherry in London. We got through two bottles of the stuff in the space in an hour. Later on and in the smoking room, there was some old fellow holding court. He asked us all, “Do you believe in clubs for women?” Georgie stands up on his chair and shouts, “Only if kindness fails!”

Browne: Ra! That’s Georgie for you.

Asquith: Well, it turns midnight and the club becomes a bit of a bore. I first suggested we head east and visit our Chinese friend. Georgie, however, is a bit too full of beans, so instead we head back to mine and I get my man to fetch us a couple of tarts.

Browne: By the way, did you get that business with your man sorted?

Asquith: I did. I explained that if I had known it was his son, I wouldn’t have booted the urchin in the face. So anyhow, back at mine, a whiskey later – girls turn up. A couple of lovely French brunettes. Good teeth.

Browne: So important these days.

Asquith: I was straight in, trousers down, tramp over piano, cigar in one hand, and I’m wapping away for England. I looked over though, and I noticed Georgie and his were – well – sitting there talking.

Browne: Oh no, don’t say the chap’s developed a whore infliction.

Asquith: It gets worst. Next they were holding hands.

Browne: Same thing happened to Archer. Fellow was near broke in a year over some Fleet Street tart. Worst of all, it meant our cricket team ending up being a man short that season.

Asquith: It got to that point where I had to leave the room for a tick, but was pleased to see, greeting me on my return, Georgie’s bare bottom going up and down like the grand old Duke of York. They were at it tops and tails!

Browne: Phew! Had to say I was worried.

Asquith: Sadly, old boy, looks like we are going to be another player short next season.

Browne: Oh? And why is that?

Asquith: Turns out old Georgie isn’t a George, but a Georgina.

Browne: Oh… Shame. Damn fine bowler.

Should I feel bad?

It will be irrelevant in a few hours, the sand will engulf both our wretched bodies. Christ!

Thompson bought it last night, though the sun had claimed his mind a lot earlier. He had spent most of his final hours on his stomach, just laying there resting his cheek against the sand, a miserable specimen of a man. He didn’t move or make a sound, and the only sign that marked his passing was when his eyes no longer blinked.

This morning I mustered what little energy I had and dug a shallow grave for him. There will be no one around to give me such an honour in the undoubtedly short time I have left.

Our flight was originally meant to take four hours tops, and as such we did not have much in the way of supplies. What water we did have ran out some three days ago. We… well, I… managed to distill the engine’s antifreeze. But I drank the final sip of that this morning, shortly after burying Thompson, I might add. I’m past caring how dry my throat feels in this cursed heat. I would give anything for some shade right now.

Shortly after the crash, when we were both full of strength, we had propped what remained of the starboard wing against the wreckage of the fuselage. This provided a small but perfectly adequate amount of shade. The bitter Saharan winds got up early this morning, and thanks to them, the wing now lays some three foot away. If Thompson was still here, I might have some sort of chance of putting it back, even though he was in a state of madness. Alas, I barely have the energy to stand.

Damn you, Thompson! Damn you.

It had been your idea to take this blasted trip in the first place.

“There’s a marvelous oasis one simply must visit.”

You said.

“I know a very reasonable place we can get a plane.”

You said!

“Not that old Charlie fellow from the embassy.”

I said.

“Come on old boy, where is your spirit of adventure ?”

You said!

Oh, I tell you exactly where my spirit is at the moment. Not only was it your wretched idea and your wretched flying that got us here, but you had the god-damn indecency to die this morning!

So, no. I shall not feel bad, nor shall I feel guilty. I will drag myself over, so I can lean comfortably against the fuselage. I will remove my shirt and tie it around my head. The sun can burn my chest. I want some shade god damn it. I will then enjoy my final hours before the sun blinds me with the picture of Thompson’s wife in one hand and my whore-pipe in the other.