How do you do? Lady Helen Quatermain here, speaking from my infirmary bed where, even now, the lower orders are replacing some unspeakable part of my anatomy pursuant to some cowardly cur shooting me down from concealment. That gentleman may laugh now but you mark my words. I shall hang him by his own giblets while sipping a G&T.
However, I digress. Short of funds, I was compelled to offer my pirate crew’s services to the government for a goodly price. The size of which need concern neither you nor my crew. We were engaged to evict a renegade British army unit in possession of the main building of a small town. I know not what they were doing there nor was it our business to ask. Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to… but I may be plagiarising here. And they can get you for it.
We entered from the Southern end of this sleepy hollow. The streets were wide with a goodly scattering of simple peasant folk and the occasional peace officer. And “peace” during the subsequent explosion of hideous violence is definitely a suitable description for these men of marble. The stoicism, indeed, motionless quiessence of the constabulary was an example to all ambitious statues. Despite all hell being released in a hail of bullets, lightning bolts, leaping flames and the screams of the injured and dying, the majority remained as if nailed in place casting a benevolent eye on yelling hordes rushing past them waving improbably large swords while essaying the occasional cheery “hello” to snipers desperately casting water on weapons glowing practically white hot with the strain of keeping up with the rate of fire. Truly it has been said of the English policeman. And will be in the future, I do not doubt… However, I digress.
The disposition of our sturdy band of American and Chinese gentlemen of inadequate means can be distinguished, barely, in piccy number one. Remarkable only for its dismally inadequate focus.
Here we have adopted our typically heroic formation of a firing line behind cover while an adventurous few probe further forward. Forward of our position lies the cash… sorry… our duty. The building occupied by the deserters. So near and yet so far. Unfortunately, we shall have to step over the recumbent forms of the Black Dragon Tong and the pygmies of the Country House Mob in order to reach it and, unlike my dogs and crew, they are unlikely to lie down to order…Indeed, the evil minions of the Tong are massing in the West, streaming on in their countless numbers, dressed fashionably in smocks and slippers with the occasional frightening colour clash of the truly yokel. The eagle eyed may spot a certain acid green motif to the characters at the very bottom of the piccy. Are these perchance “demons” might ask the the worldly-wise amongst you. Well, they might if wisdom weren’t as common as lentil flavoured ice cream. However, I can confirm for you that there were, indeed, demons. Their employer seemed particularly pleased with regards to their presence. We were less sure. After all, green on green is just so … “out” at the moment isn’t it?
Not that there was only ourselves to contend with. Their way into the soldiers’ lair was blocked by a barely in focus tank in tasteless red and blue. How most last year. However, unassailed by fear and any discernible dress sense, the Chinese were not backward in going forward. Horribly exposed, without a shred of cover, the cheeky Chinese nevertheless charged the mighty machine. They were obviously relying on the dreaded zone of shadows, their speed and an enormous gobbet of luck as the machine gun on the tank turned towards their group drawn tightly together by a shared goggling fear. Their confidence was only too justified. The machine gun jammed on its first shot. Its owner took it very well. If aghast can be so described.
Joining them in their sigh of relief and emptying of underpants were the Brick Lane anarchists charging in from the North in their usual, considered advance of full throttle hurtle. (It’s no good complaining about the piccies, by the way. We’ve shot the photographer on numerous occasions but they never improve. ) True to form, they fired not a single shot in the first turn as the pumping action of the arms required in order to keep up with the legs does rather preclude it. The working class hero cheered them on from the cover of a nearby house in typically heroic fashion. It seems doubtful that any of these simpletons have ever read Animal Farm. Particularly as it hasn’t been written yet. However, their ignorance can be excused on the grounds of their enthusiasm. Which is more than can be said for their attire which would have made a Blackpool donkey blush.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, or at least the East, the Country House mob were making a rather more sedate appearance. Well, that was probably their intent as the white people bravely hunkered down against a wall while sending the pygmies out to do their duty. (Where did they come from? The reservation at Croydon, probably). They were more than a little surprised as unicycle riding English lancers launched themselves out of the building and took on all comers, launching gas grenades as they came. Fortunately, they were rotten shots. All gas and gaiters. Which meant that it was now three against a dozen. Would they survive? Would their red shirts become even redder? Would they… oh really, as if one gave a hoot.
While the fearless, brainless English lead the charge, the gutless and breechless Scots remained in the building. On the top floor. And stayed there the whole game. Not that I shall hear one word against the Celtic horde. Not when several thousand are available. However, I digress. Taking careful aim through the patent sight, I lined up a perfect shot on the nearest troublesome Tonger and squeezed the trigger. The cartridge jammed in the barrel. Breaking open the piece, the blasted bullet bounced out. So much for that! And, in truth, for all the noise and fury, for all the fusillades of fire, the spearing and the lancing, the cutting and the bashing, the number of casualties from this cacophany was precisely nil. Hardly seemed worth all the effort really. The dice were examined carefully for defects and missing numbers; figure characteristics earnestly rechecked and the words of the good book consulted yet again. But all to no avail as the same awful conclusion was arrived at yet again. We were all completely useless.
And then the Tong charged in. Honestly, it was like Rorke’s drift without the Zulus. Or have I used that joke already? Anyway, it was like sardines fighting in a can. I can report that we made a fine fist of fluffing our fight. Their mystic mist confounded our shooting which left only cold steel. Sadly, most of us didn’t seem to realise which end of the sword was the sharp one. One of our Chinese brothers even resolutely refused to cut down his fellow countryman and, in true brotherly spirit, his adversary chopped him in half. Hong Kong Hannah (the girl in yellow) fell while attempting to disembowel a demon. I took careful aim and … missed! How the hell could I manage that on an effective plus eight? I took a small snifter to steady the nerves. While doing so I caught a glimpse of the dragon lady trying to dice and slice one of our men. Good grief, how awful. That outfit would have been out of fashion in the last millennium! I took a great snorter. It definitely improved her dress sense. Pity about the boat race(*)
Meanwhile, while holding us down with one wing, the Tong were also trying to batter their way through the tank and the Brick Lane anarchists in order to enter the objective. Really, it was quite hard to tell just who was bashing whom. The only certainly as regards allegiances lay with the demons due to their rather unfortunate shade of green sick. As the shabbily attired mob wildly waved various unfashionable implements around in a competition of incompetence, one of them accidentally stabbed the tank which promptly deflated like a punctured balloon. Pausing only to exchange incredulous glances, the two sides raced into the building exchanging blows as they went. Really, one might have taken them for Morris dancers but for those execrable clothes. At least this spared the anarchists from the inept fire of the British army and the backshooting of the Country House Mob though. Even as they ran the chauffeur took aim on … or would have down except that the lady civilian nearest him was so affronted by his effrontery that she promptly shot him stone cold dead. Honestly, she was the best shot on the table up to that point. A point underlined by the Country House mob’s leader, the fiendish Colonel Saunders, who carefully aimed his Kentucky Frying Arc Cannon at the nearest foe. Cackling insanely he rammed down hard on the trigger. The device emitted a dreadful howl and blew up in his hands. Luckily for him he’ll only need an eyebrow transplant. It could have been far far worse. It might have singed his dinner jacket . Such a dreadful fate in impolite company. Around him, the British lancers fought on against improbable odds and improbably cooked the criminal cook’s goose. Still, it was a relief to see her go. White is so last year, isn’t it? Their fake Queen attempted to salvage some small fragment of pride by charring the Chinese on the ground floor but her flame thrower jammed. Heavens, I thought we were bad! We were super efficient compared to these clowns. And so much more fashionably attired.
As battle raged on all fronts, matters took a ghastly turn. Drawing a bead on the Dragon Lady and her frightful frills, I was shot down from above by some scurrilous Scot cowering behind a window. Ouch! That hurt! It also ruined my favourite bodice. At almost the same time, the Working Class Hero, who had finally emerged from behind a wall, achieved martyrdom while courageously joining in a fight at odds of three to one. In his favour. Again it was those brave Scottish scoundrels hiding in the roof. With the British still in possession of the objective and two leaders plus sundries in their favour, it was agreed that they could win this one until we had the opportunity of hurting them badly later. The Chinese came second since they shared the building and bopped quite a few opponents. The anarchists were third since they were at least in the building. We came fourth as, in a miraculous turn of events, one of our number, First Mate Bull Rogers, finally bashed a baddy by first setting a demon on fire with his flare pistol and then carving his head off with his cutlass. A dreadful fate one might think. But, I have to reflect that, wearing that green, he had it coming. That only left the Country House Mob whose spectacular incompetence was matched only by their incredible ineptitude. Not one kill, not even a knock down in their favour. Staggering.
As I lie here with bits being sewn back on, I reflect on where I went wrong; where we could improve. My gaze falls on my dress. I’m not sure that blue goes with my eyes, you know. Perhaps the green would have been a better idea.
Lady Helen Quattermain,
Captain of the Morning Star,
Resting.
(*). For the benefit of our foreign chums, “boat race” is rhyming slang for “face”.
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