Can't say as I reckon much t' this war so far! There's not bin much bombin' the Hun and bayonettin' the Japs yet, 'as there? It just seems t' be some darkie bloke, Enoch Powell or whatever 'ee's called, talking bollocks ('scuse my Arab) and petite pointin' on how 'ee's goin' t' blow ten buckets of nig nog blood out of everyone.

'Ee looks a bad 'un, I'll say that much. I'm glad we're goin' t' war with 'im, right enough. Although I don't reckon our brave boys in Karsi 'ave got much t' worry about if 'ee's the best the enemy can do. And as f'r that orange-putang stooge of 'is...George Minge or w'atever 'ee's called. 'Ee's at least three spanners short of a tool box, 'ee is. Bloody Iranians ('scuse my Scotch). If my 'Enry was alive 'ee wouldn't be sendin' in detective inspectors an' poncin' about. 'Ee'd 'ave got 'is mates together from down the pub an' led an undercover unit into deepest Bagshag. Then 'ee'd 'ave stuck 'is bayonet between their sanctimonious bum cheeks.

Where's Mr Churchills w'en y' need 'im? I was watchin' all those bloomin' students in London on the news today! "Don't go to War!" they was yellin'. "Bush is a moron!" Bloody long 'aired layabouts! Mr Churchills wouldn't 'ave been 'aving any of that nonsense. 'Ee'd 'ave stopped their grants, the ungrateful little bastards ('scuse my Spastic). 'Ee'd 'ave taken their cowardly backsides an' stuck his cigar right up 'em 'til they said they was sorry and went off to defend our great country like what they were supposed t' do in the first place. There ain't no decency left! No 'onour nor spunk. Time was when the likes of them lot would 'ave been marchin' down the streets with jerries on their 'eads an' broomstick rifles. Most of 'em would 'ave been too young t' walk proper let alone fight. But they'd 'ave signed up anyway because that's what was expected. We 'ad a great nation back then. Not the load of old rubbish we 'ave nowadays. I blame the nig nogs meself. We let 'em all in despite fighting a war t' keep 'em out! Now look where it's got us! Surrounded by dangerous rice cakes an' darkies what sneak up on y' in the middle of the night w'en you can only see their eyes, that's where!

I'm an 'undred-and-sixty-thirteen y' know, an' I remember w'en we used t' kill people that we didn't like without askin' all these stupid bloomin' questions! Now let's just get on with the bombin' an' the rapin' an' the killin' and let's 'ave less of this backchat, you 'ear?!