no interest there were always the fliers
drawing-pinned to any available space: Karaoke, Quiz Night and Live
Entertainment – a band called Jodie Foster’s Boyfriends.
n the Eighth Army on DDT.”
“The orange squash cut out,” Albert confirmed. “The additives,
youngsters can't take. E-numbers, they are. E for extinction and exit.
The very least you can expect from E-numbers is hyper something.
And good that’s not. The Eskimos think of. They are hyper something
but with a capital H. They get their E-numbers from the fish. And the
fish get them from the North Sea oil platforms. It’s from the bottles of
orange squash that the oil workers throw over the side. Tonic water
feed them instead.”
“And that,” the colonel cut in excitedly. “Will keep the malaria
away. It's difficult bringing up kids. In today’s world even more. We
didn't have drugs in our day. Apart from Woodbines. In our day the
nation produced first class soldiers. They didn't go around moaning
about cocktails of drugs. They got on with it. Dug in. Took what the
krauts threw at them. No Common Market in those days. Nothing at all
common about the krauts. They were good soldiers, let down only by a
predilection for fornicating with their own mothers and eating children.
We brewed up. Lived on bully beef. How old did you say Paul was?”
Mr Lawrence replied, “I didn't. He's about twenty-five but acts a lot
younger, as a lot of people do.”
“Difficult age," Albert said reflectively. "When I was that age it
was difficult. Wanking took up most of my time.”
The colonel agreed. “In the army we used to stop the wanking with
jungle juice and a standing order. And there was a chemical that they
added to your tea, but I forget the name.” He nodded in agreement with
himself.
“A sex destroyer,” Roger suggested.
“Exactly,” the colonel said.
“They should have tried married life, mate. Better than any
chemical known to man.”
The colonel’s nod was despondent. “The thing is,” he said. “Age is
the enemy. It’s not like the krauts. You can’t beat it. You can’t run at it
with a bayonet and shout ‘Have that you child-molesting jerry
bastard!’ It creeps up on you, more like a Nip or the taxes in a Brown
budget, and you don’t see it coming.”
A stranger standing between the colonel and Rasher cut in: “With
regard to Paul, it sounds a bit like schizophrenia or something similar.”
Albert asked, “What about the something similar?”
“Yes, you're right. I didn't mean similar. I mean he sounds like a
raving schizo.”
They were all ears. Even Rasher managed a series of blinks. The
stranger, well turned out in a suit and dark coat, had a bedside manner
about him and an acceptable accent from the home counties. He was
probably a doctor or a double-glazing salesman.
The colonel cut in, “Don’t know about your schizophrenia but it
seems to me that half the country is off with stress, the twenty-first
century cop out. What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned backache or
even ME?”
“Ah, indeed,” the stranger said. “Myalgic encephalomyelitis, also
known as CFS, chronic fatigue syndrome. Caused quite a stir a few
years back with half the establishment denying its existence, much like
schizophrenia some years before. Mind you, even now, much of the
establishment along with many old soldiers still believe it’s a
malingerer’s charter.”
They looked at the colonel who nodded his agreement. “Just like
stress, then,” he said. “Just like the vaccines and the Gulf War
syndrome. We never complained about DDT in the porridge. So long
as they kept it away from the old undercarriage we were happy.”
“Mosquitoes?” Albert asked.
“In the desert? No. It kept away the flies. The real soldiers, the
professionals, didn’t mind the flies. You could always find an Arab by
following the flies. And if you could find the Arab you could find the
kraut. The krauts liked to fuck the Arabs. Little bits of information
drawing-pinned to any available space: Karaoke, Quiz Night and Live
Entertainment – a band called Jodie Foster’s Boyfriends.
n the Eighth Army on DDT.”
“The orange squash cut out,” Albert confirmed. “The additives,
youngsters can't take. E-numbers, they are. E for extinction and exit.
The very least you can expect from E-numbers is hyper something.
And good that’s not. The Eskimos think of. They are hyper something
but with a capital H. They get their E-numbers from the fish. And the
fish get them from the North Sea oil platforms. It’s from the bottles of
orange squash that the oil workers throw over the side. Tonic water
feed them instead.”
“And that,” the colonel cut in excitedly. “Will keep the malaria
away. It's difficult bringing up kids. In today’s world even more. We
didn't have drugs in our day. Apart from Woodbines. In our day the
nation produced first class soldiers. They didn't go around moaning
about cocktails of drugs. They got on with it. Dug in. Took what the
krauts threw at them. No Common Market in those days. Nothing at all
common about the krauts. They were good soldiers, let down only by a
predilection for fornicating with their own mothers and eating children.
We brewed up. Lived on bully beef. How old did you say Paul was?”
Mr Lawrence replied, “I didn't. He's about twenty-five but acts a lot
younger, as a lot of people do.”
“Difficult age," Albert said reflectively. "When I was that age it
was difficult. Wanking took up most of my time.”
The colonel agreed. “In the army we used to stop the wanking with
jungle juice and a standing order. And there was a chemical that they
added to your tea, but I forget the name.” He nodded in agreement with
himself.
“A sex destroyer,” Roger suggested.
“Exactly,” the colonel said.
“They should have tried married life, mate. Better than any
chemical known to man.”
The colonel’s nod was despondent. “The thing is,” he said. “Age is
the enemy. It’s not like the krauts. You can’t beat it. You can’t run at it
with a bayonet and shout ‘Have that you child-molesting jerry
bastard!’ It creeps up on you, more like a Nip or the taxes in a Brown
budget, and you don’t see it coming.”
A stranger standing between the colonel and Rasher cut in: “With
regard to Paul, it sounds a bit like schizophrenia or something similar.”
Albert asked, “What about the something similar?”
“Yes, you're right. I didn't mean similar. I mean he sounds like a
raving schizo.”
They were all ears. Even Rasher managed a series of blinks. The
stranger, well turned out in a suit and dark coat, had a bedside manner
about him and an acceptable accent from the home counties. He was
probably a doctor or a double-glazing salesman.
The colonel cut in, “Don’t know about your schizophrenia but it
seems to me that half the country is off with stress, the twenty-first
century cop out. What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned backache or
even ME?”
“Ah, indeed,” the stranger said. “Myalgic encephalomyelitis, also
known as CFS, chronic fatigue syndrome. Caused quite a stir a few
years back with half the establishment denying its existence, much like
schizophrenia some years before. Mind you, even now, much of the
establishment along with many old soldiers still believe it’s a
malingerer’s charter.”
They looked at the colonel who nodded his agreement. “Just like
stress, then,” he said. “Just like the vaccines and the Gulf War
syndrome. We never complained about DDT in the porridge. So long
as they kept it away from the old undercarriage we were happy.”
“Mosquitoes?” Albert asked.
“In the desert? No. It kept away the flies. The real soldiers, the
professionals, didn’t mind the flies. You could always find an Arab by
following the flies. And if you could find the Arab you could find the
kraut. The krauts liked to fuck the Arabs. Little bits of information
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