That was a bomb, sir, and in case you didn’t know, it’s blown a great big gaping wound in your head.

HELLO! Hello? Hello? HA! Look—I can see a football pitch and a gaggle of geese that are honking at me. Honk-honk! Honk-honk! Anyway… ah yes, let me see. I can see another massive hole inside there. Wood-boring insects are trying to escape the violent lashing of one of your severed neurons. Gosh, it’s like a broken air hose on a generator.

Oops-a-daisy. There goes an exoskeleton shell. Uh oh! Now the hose is whipping at the insect’s bare buttocks. Will you listen to it bray, sir? Err … are you still here, sir? Come on now—wakey-wakey! We can’t miss the big buttock lash. You didn’t with mine, you naughty thing!

Right! Okay, that’s better. Anyway, as I was saying, sir, there’s a show on inside your head tonight; I saw it advertised on the side of the bomb on the way in. It’s the first air show done at night for gliders. We can all pretend to watch them as they, well, just glide I suppose, and then listen out for the tips of the wings whooshing past at head height. We’ll have to duck, or they’ll cut us smiles before crashing like flies hitting a windscreen into the back of your eyes.

Don’t worry though, sir. We’ve all had crashing gliders in our heads at some time or another. They’re what have created our coronal suture. Smashing gliders. Inside of our heads. It’s the bane of humanity!

Where are you going? Keep those eyes open now. Come on, sir. Stay with me, stay with me. You’re making hard work of this, aren’t you? Ah, that’s better.

You have never liked me, have you, sir? You’ve always seen me as someone continually brushing his teeth, and you have held me in contempt for spitting out in front of you. I must admit, I know it looks complacent when I empty my mouth: taking that life essence Water and letting it drain down a plughole. You see, it’s just that I have done it since childhood, and have never given it a second thought. Like you, sir, just like you… We’ve all been your Water, haven’t we?

Well, I don’t think there are any medics going to make it up here. Look—everyone’s like popcorn in that minefield, and there’s not much hope for you with the size of your wound. It’s all go today, isn’t it, sir?

Can I have one of those cigars you keep for a special occasions? Thanks… I’ll blow some smoke in for you. Mmm, oh yes. This is jolly nice, isn’t it, sir? I shall stay right here with you until you pass; not like we did to Clancy.

Do you remember Clancy, sir?

If he’s alive now, he’ll be alive in the morning, you shouted.

Morning came and he’d kicked the bucket. He’d written a note to his wife. Do you know what it said, sir? I have it here; let’s see if we can strike a compassionate chord, hmm? Here we go:

Jena, my darling wife, the one I have always loved: As I look up at the night sky at this moment, I hope that you will do the same after you read this. I am leaving you now, but please, don’t cry, even if I know that you are. If I hadn’t gone for that bagel, we’d never have met. A yen for toasted garlic led me to you, and I’ve never had a taste for garlic since.

I love you, Jena, and everything I have done after that bagel has always been because I love you. I die the happiest man in the world.

That’s sweet, isn’t it? I’ll just tuck that back in my top pocket, nice and snug.

I feel a bit despondent about this whole war thing now, sir. You see, since the twin towers collapsed, I’ve had to join the army to supplement my wages because I can’t sell my Porsche 911. A gypsy once told me I’d own a car that will bring me bad luck, but when I look inside there is never room for anything at all. Stupid gypsy and her lucky heather, she should have been born a bee.

Hey! When are bees actually born anywho?

As I was saying, I use the army to supplement my wages because I already work for the government. Come to think of it, we all work for the government. The only thing that isn’t taxed is masturbation. It’s a good job too; I’d be skint otherwise. No, I just work in the houses of parliament’s main cafeteria and dish out re-heated chips to make the politicians feel in touch with society. I was fishing up some cod out the fryer when I got called up, so to speak.

Now there’s a thought. You could use a Porsche 911 to get away from a devastation scene pretty quickly, couldn’t you? I’m sure you could. That’s good advertising. I don’t think it’s illegal, is it? In bad taste, maybe, but not illegal. Like the blokes shooting sparrows in Auschwitz to keep it a tourist attraction.

Anyway, sir, the end is nigh for you, old chap. Instead of dying in hand-to-hand combat like you’ve always predicted, you’ll die in the flooded fields of blood red poppies that we were sent here to protect. You’ve been knocked out of your orbit by a stray bomb from a bi-plane. Seriously, they’re using bi-planes now. And they’re working.

Cuh … tut! They bomb their own kind, these bi-planes, don’t they, sir? Anything to be different, eh?

You’re going now, aren’t you, sir? You remind me of a song.

Hold on, I’ve got it! Let’s both have a jig as I sing to you. Up you get.

Blimey! You’re heavier than you look. Come on! Well, at least hold your head up… Ready? A-one-two-three!

Oooooooooooooooooooh!

The Campptown races, la la la

Doo-dah! Doo-dah!

La la la la, five miles long!

Oh, dee dooh-dah day!

Goin’ to run all night,

Goin’ to run all day!

I bet my money on a bob-tailed nag,

Somebody bet on the grey!

Tadaa!

Ahh… that was good. Well, got to go myself now, sir; be lucky. It is really me, don’t you know? Don’t you know? Don’t you know!

Martin Shaw is a war veteran with post-traumatic stress disorder who is unintentionally good at making pancakes. He can be contacted via telepathy.