The Brigadier’s Small Column 2

Tally-ho, Small Columnists! The Brigadier here again.

Sad to relate, however, you find me a tad out of spirits and not a little cheesed off this month. Why? Well, I shall reveal all.

You may recall (although since many of you Internet scurfer types have minds that are so befuddled with alcopoops and whatnot most of the time, you can barely remember your own names)….

Now, where was I?

Ah yes. You may recall that I concluded last month’s Small Column with an invitation to that J. R. R. Rowling writer filly to contact me if she fancied a bit of ‘old but sprightly’, if you catch my drift, what.

Well, can you believe it? Not one ruddy word have I heard from the little Potter minx. Not a bally syllable.

I mean to say, there’s more than a few would jump at the chance of having a few rounds of hunt the salami with Brigadier ‘Buffy’, I can tell you. Ask Mrs Dalrymple at Number 42 if you don’t believe me.

Then, to make matters even worse, I received a torrent of abusive letters and messages from all kinds of unwashed oiks and yobboes, all of whom claimed to be great admirers of all this Harry Potter balderdash and wanting to inflict all kinds of damage to my anatomy (especially in the ‘meat and two veg’ department, I might add).

Here are just a few examples of the missives which were just about intelligible as the majority of the ‘correspondents’ were clearly only semi-literate at best:

“Wot you sed about the Hairy Porter [sic] books was no good and rong and you shood be strung up by yer wotsits and eton [interesting misspelling here, I thought] by rapid [rabid?] sharks.” Tracy, Milton Keynes.

“Wotch yerself if you go out lait at nite, you Muggle git, or Voldemort’ll give you a litening skar and it won’t be on yer forrid.” Slasher, Henley-on-Thames. [I really haven’t the foggiest what this one was on about.]

“You’re a bounder and a todger tonsiller, O’Shea-McGregor-Davies, and there’s an end of it.” The Field Marshall.

”You ain’t fit to wipe Mrs Rowling’s arse, you ain’t. Yu’re so bleedin’ clever, you do better. Och aye. Go on then, Mr Clever-Pants.” Gordon, Downing Street.

I shall make no comment on the last contributor’s slur on my ability vis-à-vis the posterior of the creator of ‘Hairy Porter’. However, I was discussing some of these vitriolic and semi-literate diatribes only the other evening with my old chum ‘Binky’ Carstairs as we sat sipping a brace of pink gins at Boodle’s.

“Dash it all, old man. Why not?” Binky exclaimed.

“Sorry, dear boy. Why not what?”

“”Rattle out a ruddy good yarn for the young ‘uns. Damn sure yours’d be a bally sight better than this J. C. B. Rutting gal’s stuff and nonsense about wizards and Bobbits and such.”

I knew the old cove was spot on of course so I set to work immediately on penning an exciting tale for all the young chaps who are sick and tired of wizards and all that tommy-rot and are desperate for something with a good bit of British backbone. (No point writing for the girls as they’re only interested in reading poems, and stories about princesses kissing a variety of amphibians, what.)

So, for the benefit of all my loyal and devoted Small Columnists out there, I present to you the jolly thrilling and spiffingly patriotic tale of….



Brigadier ‘Buffy’ O’Shea-McGregor-Davies, DSM OBE STD

“Crikey, it’s hot,” panted young Nobby as he leant his back against the giant oak. “Don’t know why but it makes me feel like I want to rub myself up against a girl.”

“Girl? Yuk, Nobby. Girls are no good. After all, what good is a chap without a willy?”

“Fair point, Jarvis, old chap.”

“I mean to say, how do they do number ones? Smells a bit fishy to me.”

“No idea. Don’t bear thinkin’ about if you ask me.”

There was a moment’s pause as the boys recovered their breath.

“Ruddy good chase just now though,” said Jarvis as he slumped down, breathing heavily atop the pine needles.

“Dash it all. Is Gingernuts last again?”

“Looks like it,” replied Jarvis as he eased himself up on one elbow to look back through the woods.

Just at that moment, Gingernuts came wobbling and wheezing into view.

“Come on, fatty. We’ve been here for hours,” shouted Nobby.

Gingernuts collapsed on the ground as soon as he arrived, desperately sucking air into his bloat-lagged lungs.

“You’re a big girl’s blouse and no doubt about it,” quipped Jarvis.

“With bells on,” Nobby adjoined, and they all laughed their socks off.

“Steady on, chaps,” gasped Gingernuts as he fought for breath. “Got held up just then ‘cause I saw a suspicious looking chap over in the Dark Wood.”

“Suspicious?” asked Nobby questioningly.

“Didn’t look German, did he?” interrogated Jarvis. “After all, these things can’t be taken lightly as this is 1941 and we’re at war with the Krauts.”

“Looked all right to me,” replied Gingernuts.

“All the same, Gingernuts, but I think us chaps need to investigate immediately. If he turns out to be a Bosch spy, we’ll have to apprehend the blighter and turn him over to the appropriate authorities for a thoroughly well-deserved hanging.”

“Wizard idea, Nobby,” Jarvis put in interjectedly. “Let’s go after the blighter and apprehend him immediately.”

With that, the three boys leapt up and raced off in the direction of where the German spy had gone.

When they got there, he’d disappeared so the three young chums were understandably a little cheesed off. All three slumped down disconsolately on the bed of pine needles which were a few hundred yards away from the previous lot of pine needles.

“Cheer up, chaps,” intoned Nobby. “There’s bound to be lots of other German spies around here that we can seek out and turn over to the police so they’ll be hanged.”

“Hurrah!” shouted his stalwart companions.

“For instance,” Nobby began. “There’s…”

“Yes?” Gingernuts interjected.

“Sssh. I’m thinking,” snapped Nobby.

“Well, there’s the fat lady at the greengrocer’s,” put in Jarvis during the pause.

“You mean Mrs von Goebbels?” queried Gingernuts.

“She is blonde, after all,” Jarvis replied.

“Peroxide,” countered Nobby. “You can see the roots. And will you chaps cease the chatter while I’ve got the old thinking cap on?”

“Sorry, Nobby,” mumbled the other boys in unison.

“What’s blonde have to do with it?” whispered Gingernuts.

“Alien” said Jarvis, equally sotto voce.


“He means ‘Arian’,” sighed Nobby contemptuously. “And will you both just shut the willy in the front-bottom up while I’m thinking. Dash it all. I almost had it then and you – .”

Just at that moment, a voice came from behind them: “Hello, childers-people of the Reich. I am being here as persons of the democratic republics of the United States of Britannnica. All ist good, ya?”

“No, not really,” replied Jarvis, his crest fallen.

“Vass ist dass?” replied the tall, blonde-haired, pasty-faced chap.

“We’d been on an adventure to catch a German spy and we failed,” said Nobby as a solitary tear rolled down his freckled cheek.

“Never fearen nicht,” said the man. “I can nicht see a childer in ze tears so I vill giff myself up to you zree not-very-blonde Englischer schweinhund young chappie-chums and admit I am ze German spy.”

“Crikey Moses,” expostulated Gingernuts. “We’d better contact the police immediately.”

And that’s exactly what Nobby, Jarvis and Gingernuts did.

Soon afterwards, the German spy was taken to a prison and hanged.

“Hurrah!” cried the boys. “We’ve saved our beloved country!”

NEXT MONTH: Nobby and his chums receive letters asking them to attend a School for Wizards. Damn silly idea if you ask me but we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.



  1. Ruddy hell old boy. That was a bit a cliff hanger what? Lucky those chaps had their wits about them or that might have been one that got away.

    I trust that they were rewarded with a good glass of lemonade for that.

    Pip Pip.

    Comment by Bomber — July 19, 2008 @ 8:41 am | Reply

  2. What-ho, Bomber.

    Close run thing there as you say, old bean. If you ask me, I doubt the young chaps of today would have pulled it off. Don’t think they’ve got the spunk in ’em like they had in those days, what. In fact, ‘Binky’ Carstairs reckons that’s the problem with the modern world – just not enough spunk to go round.

    Indeed yes, dear boy, the young coves not only got a good glass of lemonade, but also lashings of ginger beer and a year’s supply of everlasting mints, Hurrah!!!

    Tally ho, Bomber

    Brigadier ‘Buffy’

    Comment by The Brigadier — July 19, 2008 @ 9:07 pm | Reply

  3. Buffers Old chap,
    Y’know I was having cocktails with a few fellows in the officer’s mess the other day and the very same conversation came up. We cooked up a devillishly cunning ploy to round up a few of the local lads and let one or two ranking officers get their hands on them.

    Soon get them whipped into shape we feel.

    Feel free to give me a call on the old trumpet if you fancy a go with one.


    Comment by Bomber — July 20, 2008 @ 7:08 pm | Reply

  4. I say, Bomber,

    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.


    Comment by The Brigadier — July 21, 2008 @ 11:13 pm | Reply

  5. Now look here, Buffers, what’s the idea of inviting RAF chinless wonders here on these hallowed pages? If it had been left to them, we’ll still be daggers-drawn with the Bosch! I ask you in all seriousness, how many elite combat units go into battle wearing spats, eh? Half of them have gone on to illustrious careers as disgraced MP’s, and the other half as window-dressers in Pall Mall. I don’t mean to cast dispersions on that Bomber fellow, as one can’t generalise willy-nilly, but according to government statistics, ex-RAF personnel make up 127% of Village People tribute bands.

    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.

    Comment by The Field Marshall — July 23, 2008 @ 8:32 am | Reply

  6. I say old boy, that’s a bit stiff isn’t it, what?
    We found that dressing up like we did made the Hun helpless with laughter so that we could hot foot it away thus avoiding capture.

    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?


    Comment by Bomber — July 23, 2008 @ 12:30 pm | Reply

  7. My dear Field Marshrat,

    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.

    Comment by The Brigadier — July 24, 2008 @ 11:46 pm | Reply

  8. Bomber, old chap.

    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,


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

    Comment by The Brigadier — July 25, 2008 @ 12:27 am | Reply

  9. Good lord, I almost choked on my cognac and my monocle fell into my cornflakes when I read the Brigadier’s last post! And believe you me, it WILL be the Last Post for him if he does this 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.’

    Comment by The Field Marshall — July 25, 2008 @ 8:49 am | Reply

  10. Cognac for breakfast? Well, at least this goes some way to explain the incoherence of your illiterate blatherings. As a true gentleman, I would never consider imbibing anything other than gin and tonic to accompany the first meal of the day and therein lies the rub. You, sir, are no gentleman and never have been in all the years it has been my misfortune to have been afflicted with your acquaintance. I have said it before and I shall repeat it again here: you, sir, are a cad and a bounder and a blubbergobbit of the first water.

    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.”

    Comment by The Brigadier — July 28, 2008 @ 9:08 pm | Reply

  11. Hear Hear. Well done you, Buffers old chap. This Felt Marcher chap needs a good stiff talking to. One can’t help but feel that old Mrs Wellagog at number 68 would be more than happy to take her coat off to him and give him a setting to.

    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.

    Comment by Bomber — August 2, 2008 @ 9:37 pm | Reply

  12. Entente Cordial, Bomber dear chap? Rather have Robinson’s Barley Water any day. As for Vichy water, well I think you know precisely where that should be positioned.

    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.

    Comment by The Brigadier — August 6, 2008 @ 1:13 am | Reply

  13. Now look here, Old Chap, as you well know any box is a good box. Yes I do remember the game well, who can forget “Spiffy” Perkins trying to get the middle wicket back in the hole after it was wrenched out by “Dribbly” Bottomley bowling a maiden over.

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

    Toodle Pip.

    Comment by Bomber — August 8, 2008 @ 5:43 pm | Reply

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