Ahh the gentle thud of leather upon willow, there’s nothing like it.

Toodle Pip.

By the by, you’re surely not using the same old box you wore back in ‘43 when we thrashed you RAF blighters by six wickets. Our chaps bagged 60 runs at least off your no balls alone if memory serves.

Tally ho.

One would be well inclined to label him as a lickspittle and a guttersnipe of the first order.

However one feels most strongly that it would be wise for all parties to attempt to reinstate the Entante Cordial as the cheese gobbling capitulators say.

Look upon this as a one time only offer, remember, having passed over your heads on more than one occasion with my Brownie I’m more than happy to get my old Box out one more time.

Despite my initial reluctance to give the slightest credence to your inane ramblings with a riposte, I feel duty bound to respond to a number of your vile and insidious accusations.

Firstly, and regarding your groundless attack on my abilities as an author, your memory of the events at Ypres are obviously clouded by an excess of Remy Martin. The events you describe took place at El Alamein and not Ypres as I was far too young to be involved in that particular glorious conflict. Furthermore, the only reason I was wandering naked in the desert was because you yourself had drugged me and then removed all my clothes before proceeding to commit unspeakable acts upon my person. To perform such deeds to a chap’s face is one thing. To carry them out behind his back is quite another and is nothing short of cowardice.

And whilst we are on the subject of cowardice, it is known to all and sundry that you have a yellow streak down your back which is wider even than Wingco ‘Jumbo’ Fotherington’s splendidly groomed moustache. As a reminder of the many jokes which the chaps told about you, “The only reason Stumpy [one of your many nicknames] is advancing is that his batman put his shoes on back to front when he dressed him this morning.”

As for your tawdry attempt to cast doubt on my lifelong allegiance to the Conservative Party, I will say no more other than to inform you that you will be hearing from my legal chaps in due course.

In conclusion, your demented ravings merely serve to demonstrate that you, sir, remain nothing short of a guppydiddler and a hunscuttler. Harsh words indeed, yes, but words which befit the man who once said that he thought ‘Death or glory’ was a multiple choice question.

To echo the words of the late great Groucho ‘Karl’ Marx: “Go, and never darken my towels again.”

I must say, it’s quite surprising for me to see that Buffy has managed to perfect the art of placing words in the form of a paragraph; when my troops found him wandering naked at Ypres some years ago – I thought he was doing a Kaspar Hauser impersonation – he could neither read nor write. So my men endeavoured to teach young Buffers to write, using coloured blocks (which he would attempt to eat) and finger puppets (which he would attempt to fi…molest). And now I find that he’s using his newfound skills to denigrate ME! Ha, the nerve of it! It’s reminiscent of that moment in the cinema production ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ when those tatty, gormless chimps suddenly grow brains and become bolshy!

Talking of bolshy, I believe that the Brigadier’s recent missive is strong evidence of his making an about-turn in his political beliefs, and has gone over to the Red Menace. He’ll soon, no doubt, be reading the Daily Worker and selling nuclear warheads in Red Square boot sales. This revolutionary uprising must be stopped at its source, so I trust that my troops will soon be making an example of Red Buffy and his Trotsky-like comrade, Pink Bomber, by shoving Standard fireworks up their nostrils in the Kremlin. *Sighs* If only all Communists were like that cheeky nymph Olga Korbut…

Please send your medals, stripes and sock-suspenders back to HQ, Brigadier Stalin.
I am both astonished and disappointed that you have so casually dismissed the old Regiment motto: ‘Death to the Starving Peasants, and Pass the Port, Jeeves.’

I trust you will accept my heartfelt apologies for the scurrilous remarks which the FM made about your illustrious colleagues in the air. This is not the first time that the blackguard has attempted to infect my column with his verbal abuse, I can tell you.

However, as you will see above, I have given the blighter a jolly good ticking off so I doubt we’ll be hearing from that particular quarter for quite some fortnights, what. (I was going to say the words ‘bounder’ and ‘cad’ just then but realised there might be ladies present and decided not to give tongue to them.)

Moving on to cheerier matters, I was astonished to hear that you had personally witnessed ‘The Gunner Arthwhistle and Major Aiswater Incident’, as it came to be known. Looked bloody fishy from up there, I have no doubt, but the whole thing turned out to be perfectly non-Navy. Turned out that Aiser had been bitten by a snake in the soft area and Whistler saved his life. My, how we laughed.

Pip pip for now,

Buffy.

P.S. Don’t be too hard on the FM. He has very good lawyers.

I absolutely refuse to address you as Field Marshall as you, sir, are a disgrace to the title. On second thoughts, marshalling a field is about all you’ve ever been fit for as you could certainly never marshall an army.

Indeed, the only time I ever saw you go into ‘battle’ was when you were driving to a small town of the same name near Hastings to buy more La Senza ladies’ underwear for your goat.

Whilst I am forced to agree with most of your comments about the RAF (despite Bomber being not a bad chap at all), I was incensed and outraged by your inflammatory remarks about The Village People and demand that you retract them immediately.

I, for one, am not only the proud possessor of all of their gramophone records, but am a frequent visitor to our local YMCA where I give succour to many of the unfortunate young chaps therein.

I repeat, sir: withdraw forthwith or face the consequences.

I’m jolly glad that you appreciate our help during the old conflict. We’ve got some rather nice aerial photographs of your boys rolling around in the mud you know.
What was Gunner Arthwhistle doing with Major Aiswater in the bushes, my I ask?

Bomber

Therefore, the phrase ‘know your enemy’ may be a trifle strong, but ‘watch your bomb-doors’ might be appropriate, unlike your behaviour, Brigadier; consider yourself on an amber warning from me, and know this: I am seriously questioning whether you’re a suitable recruit for my ‘War on Publishers’ campaign. Toodle etc for now.

You fly-boys and your pranks, old boy. Mind you, this one does sound jolly wizard.

Very sporting offer of yours, by the way, but I must regretfully decline on this occasion as Mrs Dalrymple may not be best pleased.

Chocks away, dear chap.

Buffy