Asquith: Rioja. Absolutely without a doubt. You can tell from the aroma.

Browne:Nonsense, it’s further south than that – La Mancha. As I said before, ignore the aromas and look at the colour, that colour screams La Mancha.

Asquith: I say you are wrong old boy, this is going to be the easiest five pounds I’ve won off you all week. Senorita ?

Senorita: Your friend is, how do you say, correct. I am from La Mancha.

Browne: Ha! What did I tell you ? Thank you very much senorita, you can put your clothes back on and leave us now.

Asquith: Brandy?

Browne: Certainly. I say, that was nasty business Archer found himself in this week.

Asquith: Nasty? Bloody shocking If you don’t mind me using the Irish.

Browne: Still, you can understand it somewhat.

Asquith: Not sure, but I do get where you coming from.After all, a modern gentlemen is a rather busy bee.

Browne: A busy bee, in a busy world! Take today for example; Breakfast at the club…

Asquith: Meeting friends for Lunch at Boodles…

Browne: Then In the office for an hour…

Asquith: After work drinks at the club …

Browne: Then there was the Show…

Asquith: Then back to the club, for a nightcap…

Browne: And now back here… And today is not untypical is it ?

Asquith: Not untypical at all. I mean, no show tomorrow, but we’ve got the boxing to go to.

Browne: Then Thursday Freddy’s having his weekly bash at the Cafe Royale, can’t miss out on old Freddy.

Asquith: Friday, it’s off to the country shooting for the weekend.

Browne:Weekend after that it’s the Boat race.

Asquith: End of the month, that new casino is opening in Cannes – that’s a week away.

Browne: Never ending isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve got an evening free or, dare I say, a weekend. Something always pops up. Do you know, I once went five months without seeing my wife, god knows how long it’s been since I last saw my children.

Asquith: Switzerland you sent them to wasn’t it ?

Browne: I think so, I let my wife’s staff deal with that sort of thing. Yours are in Belgium are they not?

Asquith: France actually.

Browne: Do beg your pardon old boy. Ha – you know what just struck me, you could have been five pounds up tonight; I very nearly picked a French one. Funny. So, back to Archer. Do you agree, that the foul hoot Archer found himself in was understandable – even if somewhat…

Asquith: Understandable perhaps, but still pretty shocking. I can’t imagine how I would have reacted.

Browne: Oh good God no, I can’t either. To be there with your pants down…

Asquith: Canon raised…

Browne: Sights set for the breach…

Asquith: And then, for the young women to suddenly realise and scream, ‘Daddy?’

Browne: I guess, if anything, it has taught us all the importance of carrying a picture of one’s oinks on their person.

Asquith: Absolutely

“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.