There is no need to worry with all this warring nonsense going on in the Crimea, Flashy’s here to the rescue with his trusty sabre waving it around as Lord Cardigan points to the Russians over the hill.
“Haw,haw,” says he, “it is Fwashman, I see. Hiding away from this glowious battle I dare say? Haw-haw. How-de-do, Fwashman? I decware that ass Camowen and his Eeyew chums in Bwussels got us into a wight old mess and muwdered the Wight Bwigade. Haw-haw. Always was a pwepostewous bwaggard! Haw-haw!”
After the bloodbath, it is naturally customary as an officer and a gentleman to retire to one’s yacht for a hearty champagned slap up meal, and watch re-runs of the rout on the news.
