Well he’s done it again…

…Garth blasted George in the New Zealand bloody Herald – this time with some ill-formed drivel about the government and that nappy-wrapped Key.

I was so furious, that I immediately composed a letter – which I confess I have yet to send. Here it is, post-priori, if you will – and you’ll notice the thrust is less related to George’s nonsense – I didn’t think he deserved it – and more on a general theme.

Sir,

In my day it was only officers who were allowed to wear moustaches. Now, I know times have changed, but I observed that in his newspaper byline George lacks any rank or military distinction and I had rather fancied a man of his obvious vintage would be familiar with that tradition. Perhaps you would care to explain?

Or perhaps – since you repeatedly ignore my letters – I will attempt that task. George sports a handsomely shaved and waxed moustache upon the bottom half of his top lip, because he is imitating a military man. In the same manner that Lockwood Smith has married his beard – for that’s what we call something that lends a masculine air to a wowserish lad – Garth George has grown some grass clippings to lend a sterner mien to the liberal waffle he is known for spouting.

I would of course be happy to be proved wrong, but until then trust that George appears in your newspaper clean shaven.

Regards, etc,

Colonel James McCarthy-bottom the Third (retired)

It’s Friday

Friday. Is there anything so empty as Friday? Every morning this week, since Monday, I’ve scanned the opinion section of the Herald, looking for a printed version of the letter I sent. I guess i’m being a duffer.

Mrs McCarthy-bottom left a few years ago now, and this other place isn’t up to much scratch. But the grandkids are good – they are good – good little blighters who set me up with this web page and this typewriter – so it’s just Blasted Annoying that the Herald wouldn’t publish my letter.

Oh well. There was something I saw on the news the other day about Spies. It got me thinking: I thought the other day about Spying and how I had that brush with it and thought how I should put it down here. If the bloody Herald won’t publish my letters then why not write my own..

So. My brush with the profession.

I rememeber being in the Crimean. Not a lot of fellows remember the crimean, but it was a terrible old time. No surprise it isn’t talked about – it was terrible, and cold with it. Cold in the trenches and you’d be cold for so long you’d feel it in your bones for days and days. Just cold.

So no surprises, when a company officer asked me to go out into the towns nearby in disguise and see what the enemy was doing – no hesitation! – I said I would do it. They packed me off and I scurried for that town half starving, thinking for some crazy reason that when I got there someone would feed me. I really think that I thought I was hurrying off to some feast.

Well I got there alright. And I soon as I got there, I was grabbed by the collar and hauled off to some police room in the night. They held me there all night and when I got up in the morning I got dragged off to some court where I was pulled in front of a general who jabbered in something couldn’t understand and sent me off to a courtyard to be shot.

I tell you, it took some getting my head around. One thing I was being shouted at by a jowly general with medals wagging off his chest, the next, I’m being hauled to a courtyard – complete with straw and a wooden wagon – to be, I’m having to force myself to realise, shot.

Well, balls to that. By the time I realise what this chap’s got in store for me, it’s too late. I hear a click behind me, and a curse, and turn in time to see the blighter fussing over an empty chamber in his revolver. He looks up and pulls the trigger again – lucky for me he’s a Turkman, one of a delegation that had crossed their country’s lines and sided with Tsar Nicholas – and therefore had atrocious aim and the bullet, instead of splattering 4 years worth of Oxford education across the cobbles, passed instead through my patella, lodging in my shoulder joint.

Of course I took advantage of the Ottaman’s confusion and snatched the pistol from him, dashed his brains out with the butt end. and made a fortunate escape.

The bullet, though, is still there there – as a reminder of my close shave. To this day my shoulder creaks like a rusty gate when I masturbate – and the static charge alone is enough to make my hair stand on end. Which always was quite alarming for the late Mrs McCarthy-bottom – though after few years she became used to it, and I must confess the sound became something like Pavlov’s bell for the old girl.

Anyway, there’s something I mean to say with all this.

I am, I suppose, having a go at talking about some of those things that happened all that time ago and don’t mean a lot now, though they seemed to at the time. And I hope that the stories that I put down here – and I shall tell a few more now in the coming weeks, I should think – are of benefit, if not education. In this case about the perils, both moral and material, that present themselves to that nefarious individual:

The Professional Spy

The Herald’s back on track!

I must confess that after sending the Herald my missive concerning the dangerous ideas of their columnist Garth George, I scanned the opinion pages daily in the hope they would publish my letter. It’s now Tuesday and I fear my efforts may have been passed over.

However my disappointment dimmed when when I read this excellent piece by a Mr Noel Gillespie on the frankly rotten standards of dress within this country. I immediately composed and sent a congratulatory letter, which I include below.

Sir,

I was especially pleased to read the article by Noel Gillespie in Tuesday’s Herald bemoaning this country’s appalling standards of dress. Mr Gillespie told a vivid tale from his youth of sitting on a bus next to a highly dapper gentleman in a suit. The young lad had always wondered at the fellow’s profession, until one day he spied him sporting “freshly pressed blue overalls” – he was a builder’s labourer!

I chortled heartily at this account – and also at the tale of Gillespie dining with a young woman who was forced to strip in a restaurant that had a strict dress code and who spent the rest of the evening in her minxy miniskirt.

Highly diverting! I once had a similar experience with the late Mrs McCarthy-bottom on a very curious night with friends when we indulged in a game of The Maitre d’s Dress Code.

But that’s a different story. For now, I have a suggestion that may darken Gillespie’s otherwise shining essay.

Has it occurred to him that the sartorial superhero of his youth may have been A Homosexual?

Yours in Kindness,

Colonel James McCarthy-bottom the Third
King Edward Avenue
Epsom
Auckland

That pinko Garth George and the New Zealand Herald

Well, I thought I’d devote my first entry in this journal by sharing a letter I have just now sent to the opinion page of the New Zealand Herald concerning one of their columnists. Let’s see if they’ve the balls to publish!

I think it sets the tone admirably for what I hope this web journal will do: Exposure Fradulence; Reveal Leftism; Deal to Conspiracy, Secrecy and Lesbianism, and Tackle the Forces of Communism, Revolutionism and the Rot of Socialism wherever they may be found!

But more of that later. Here’s the letter:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to you in protest at the New Zealand Herald’s continuing support for the neo-liberal agenda of Garth George and his socialist cronies. That such an august journal as the Herald remains tolerant to the tick of anarchy burrowed so deep within the hide of public opinion is testament to the Lesbo-Leninist legacy the Cullen-Clark years bestowed on our fragile nation. I quote:

“The Israel-Gaza conflict should be of little concern to us at the bottom of the world, particularly since the Government shows no inclination to strut the world stage trying to give New Zealand (and its politicians) an aura of importance far beyond our true insignificance.“

Sir! This nation did not become great by letting Johnny Foreign monkey around with an expansionist Zionist policy. This country is what it is today because brave men and few were prepared to halt the march of the left (and I refer to Vietnam here, and Korea, and the National Socialist Germany) by traveling halfway around the world to give its proponents – if I may be frank – a good bayoneting to the guts.

That the Herald continues to offer a platform for such ideas makes me wonder at its allegiances. Which in turn forces me to remain,

Yours truly,

Name, address and rank withheld.

Let’s see how that takes ‘em! I’d be surprised if that wet blanket George still has a job by the end of the week – but if he does, rest assured I’ll have more to say about it.