by Major Harold Wayne-Bough (Retd.)
Daphne is away on a course entitled “Cross-Stitch and its Potential as a Tool for World Domination”, so I’m filling in this month. The old girl has been a bit off-colour lately, I’ve even had to fetch my own piwo and sandwiches while watching the cricket. I don’t know if it’s her time of life or whether she’s still not forgiven me after Bodger’s regimental reunion, to which I was kindly invited – although where Bodger’s concerned, I use the word “invited” loosely - I was bundled into a Land Rover with a sack over my head, driven to an unspecified location after dark and forced to drink gallons of beer, when they know bally well I’m a G&T man. The next thing I remember I was in a cell handcuffed to the wall and a female officer in very high heels was exercising police brutality on me. Frightful business. We’re doing it again next month.
I am often asked about Bodger. Some people question whether he exists at all. This is a perfectly reasonable enquiry, since one of Bodger’s principal goals in life is invisibility. Sometimes he’s more successful than others - camouflage kit in a discotheque, for example, hasn’t really worked since the sixties. He is, however, a master of disguise. He prefers to masquerade as a woman, since they elicit less suspicion. And because he likes painting his toenails. But once again, his methodology is questionable -
if you want to blend into the crowd in a Delhi bazaar, you’re not going to pull it off by dressing as Marilyn Monroe in “The Seven Year Itch”. The fakirs recognized him immediately and shouted “Welcome back, Bodger Sahib!”. But it’s an ill wind and whatnot. He was offered a the lead female role in a Bollywood blockbuster.
Bodger is the soul of discretion. You won’t find him selling his stories to the tabloids. (He’ll tell them to anyone in the pub, though, for a pint of smooth). He’s hung up his balaclava now, but has been quite an action man in his day. I can’t say which regiment he was in, but I don’t think I’ll be breaching the Official Secrets Act if I tell you it’s the one where they wear ladies’ underwear. Needless to say, Bodger isn’t his real name. But I’ve probably said too much already. You never know who’s listening. Sometimes I wonder if Bodger’s a touch paranoid, but a basic knowledge of morse code can come in quite handy once you’ve mastered a few key phrases, such as “See you down the Scud & Sixpence once she’s dozed off”, and “Don’t move, you’ve got a scorpion on your nose”.
Bodger’s regimental motto is “Be Prepared” (Who Dares Wins, surely? - Ed.) and to this day, he keeps an RPG in the shed, in case the Argies come marauding over the back fence. Useful against slugs, too. Although he was too old to take part in Gulf Wars one and two, he organized the local Neighbourhood Watch into nighttime search-and-destroy patrols. They were disbanded when they took the owner of the local kebab shop hostage, but were let off after a warning from the local constabulary to stay off the White Lightning. Mustafa stopped the old OAP-special doners after that.
Bodger’s tales of derring-do, especially after a few jars, are always good value.
There’s one I particularly like about being stripped naked, covered with marmalade and left next to a beehive. I think that was on his stag night in Dunstable. He barely made it to his own wedding. And once at the altar, he would only state his name, rank and number. Myfanwy had to stab him in the buttock with her bayonet before he coughed “I do”. Mrs Bodger is a woman of infinite patience and loyalty, as can be seen from her tattoos (“Who Glares Wins” on the left shoulder and “What Time Do You Call This, Then?” on the right), always at Bodger’s side, gripping the chain only as tight as is necessary. She has accepted without complaining all the inconveniences of Bodger’s profession, such as live hand grenades in the tumble dryer and tunnels under the herbaceous borders. Not many women would put up with their husband being away for months at a time without a clue where he was. Especially when he only went out for a packet of Hobnobs. Myfanwy waits patiently, chain-smoking Woodbines and gazing steadfastly through the razor wire, until the warrior returns. She never asks questions, and always abides by the Queensberry rules. A bit like Lara Croft in an anorak. Bodger’s a very lucky man.
The Memsahib’s just called in and asked me to thank all (both) those fans who e-mailed her, although I could tell she was seething with jealousy that one or two of the young gels have asked for a photograph of yours truly! Unfortunately the only recent one is of me and the regimental goat at Bodger’s night out, and I don’t think that would do at all. Oh no.
Daphne is away on a course entitled “Cross-Stitch and its Potential as a Tool for World Domination”, so I’m filling in this month. The old girl has been a bit off-colour lately, I’ve even had to fetch my own piwo and sandwiches while watching the cricket. I don’t know if it’s her time of life or whether she’s still not forgiven me after Bodger’s regimental reunion, to which I was kindly invited – although where Bodger’s concerned, I use the word “invited” loosely - I was bundled into a Land Rover with a sack over my head, driven to an unspecified location after dark and forced to drink gallons of beer, when they know bally well I’m a G&T man. The next thing I remember I was in a cell handcuffed to the wall and a female officer in very high heels was exercising police brutality on me. Frightful business. We’re doing it again next month.
I am often asked about Bodger. Some people question whether he exists at all. This is a perfectly reasonable enquiry, since one of Bodger’s principal goals in life is invisibility. Sometimes he’s more successful than others - camouflage kit in a discotheque, for example, hasn’t really worked since the sixties. He is, however, a master of disguise. He prefers to masquerade as a woman, since they elicit less suspicion. And because he likes painting his toenails. But once again, his methodology is questionable -
if you want to blend into the crowd in a Delhi bazaar, you’re not going to pull it off by dressing as Marilyn Monroe in “The Seven Year Itch”. The fakirs recognized him immediately and shouted “Welcome back, Bodger Sahib!”. But it’s an ill wind and whatnot. He was offered a the lead female role in a Bollywood blockbuster.Bodger is the soul of discretion. You won’t find him selling his stories to the tabloids. (He’ll tell them to anyone in the pub, though, for a pint of smooth). He’s hung up his balaclava now, but has been quite an action man in his day. I can’t say which regiment he was in, but I don’t think I’ll be breaching the Official Secrets Act if I tell you it’s the one where they wear ladies’ underwear. Needless to say, Bodger isn’t his real name. But I’ve probably said too much already. You never know who’s listening. Sometimes I wonder if Bodger’s a touch paranoid, but a basic knowledge of morse code can come in quite handy once you’ve mastered a few key phrases, such as “See you down the Scud & Sixpence once she’s dozed off”, and “Don’t move, you’ve got a scorpion on your nose”.
Bodger’s regimental motto is “Be Prepared” (Who Dares Wins, surely? - Ed.) and to this day, he keeps an RPG in the shed, in case the Argies come marauding over the back fence. Useful against slugs, too. Although he was too old to take part in Gulf Wars one and two, he organized the local Neighbourhood Watch into nighttime search-and-destroy patrols. They were disbanded when they took the owner of the local kebab shop hostage, but were let off after a warning from the local constabulary to stay off the White Lightning. Mustafa stopped the old OAP-special doners after that.
Bodger’s tales of derring-do, especially after a few jars, are always good value.
There’s one I particularly like about being stripped naked, covered with marmalade and left next to a beehive. I think that was on his stag night in Dunstable. He barely made it to his own wedding. And once at the altar, he would only state his name, rank and number. Myfanwy had to stab him in the buttock with her bayonet before he coughed “I do”. Mrs Bodger is a woman of infinite patience and loyalty, as can be seen from her tattoos (“Who Glares Wins” on the left shoulder and “What Time Do You Call This, Then?” on the right), always at Bodger’s side, gripping the chain only as tight as is necessary. She has accepted without complaining all the inconveniences of Bodger’s profession, such as live hand grenades in the tumble dryer and tunnels under the herbaceous borders. Not many women would put up with their husband being away for months at a time without a clue where he was. Especially when he only went out for a packet of Hobnobs. Myfanwy waits patiently, chain-smoking Woodbines and gazing steadfastly through the razor wire, until the warrior returns. She never asks questions, and always abides by the Queensberry rules. A bit like Lara Croft in an anorak. Bodger’s a very lucky man.The Memsahib’s just called in and asked me to thank all (both) those fans who e-mailed her, although I could tell she was seething with jealousy that one or two of the young gels have asked for a photograph of yours truly! Unfortunately the only recent one is of me and the regimental goat at Bodger’s night out, and I don’t think that would do at all. Oh no.
