Or rather misquote:

Singing, One, Two, Three, Four,
What are we fighting for?
Don't know and we don't give a damn,
We're all off to kill Saddam,
No time to wonder why,
Whoopee, we're all gonna die!

Mr Houghton from the butchers, 'ee reckons there's goin' t' be a war. Oh, I do 'ope so. I like a good war. The last one against the krauts was a right good laugh. There was a sense of community back then, y' know? Not like today w'at with all the pakis an' thespians an' w'at 'ave y' bringin' the neighbour 'ood down. Another war 'ud do 'em good! Give 'em all some discipline in the army! They don't like queers there. It'd knock the homosapians out of 'em, (pardon my leprechaun) an' no mistake.

I do 'ope those nice Yanks come back over 'ere like they did the last time. Such lovely boys an' such nice teeth. Cocks were a bit small mind ('scuse my Lebanese) an' they didn't last long w'en they was shaggin' but what else could y' do w'en your own 'usband was off bayoneting 'Arry 'Un? We got up to all sorts o' bayoneting' ourselves back at 'ome, that's w'at.

"Ignorant Yanky shits," My 'Enry used t' call 'em. "Over paid, over sexed an' over 'ere," 'ee'd say, God rest his pyjamas. "Took 'em four years longer than everyone else to stand up t' the 'un an' w'en they finally see some action they all run off screamin' like bloomin' girls!" Don't know about screamin'. They did plenty o' gruntin' out in my privy though. An' then us women would 'ave to practice with the bayonets ourselves, those bein' knitting needles an' a bottle o' gin. The local cut must be full o' abhorations due to the illegitimate fumblin' w'at went on durin' the blitz.

I remember Mrs Pickford, down at the grocers, got caught short one night with 'er drawers round 'er ankles an' a lieutenant parked up 'er arse ('scuse my Napoleon) when a bomb 'it 'er chimney pot. We did laugh! They carted 'em off in the meat wagon, two charcoaled crisps with big oggly eyes. Looked like nig nogs they did, with wisps o' smoke comin' off their 'eads. Times were 'ard back then, but we were 'appy. A tin o' bully beef, a sausage up the front bottom an' Gracie Fields on the radio, that's all we wanted.

Bugger it. I'm so excited 'bout this Iraqi war kickin' off I've wet me knickers. I'm an 'undred and ninety six, y' know? I 'aven't 'ad relations for 'alf a century an' me artifice 'as almost 'ealed up.