Hello, hello, we are the Bigley Boys

SO THERE I was, happily shooting magpies in the Lower Meadow (they show up so well against the snow) when I am confronted by a horrifying apparition.

A naked man well over six feet tall, wearing only a gas mask and with two gym mats wrapped round his arms, is running round throwing eggs at the postman. I deduce from the Prince Albert piercing and the tattoo of the Blessed Margaret on his backside that my man Whittaker is reliving his old army days.

Having rescued the postman from these unexpected attentions (not because I have any affection for him but because he steals fewer postal orders than the previous incumbent) I sit Whittaker down for a chat, which is problematic because he refuses to take off his gas mask.

It turns out that he’s had a letter from the Ministry of Defence telling him that as a retired TA member he might be called up to go to Iraq. Apparently not enough usefully violent youths are taking the Queen’s Shilling and so the old guard might have to turn out again. We discuss trying to argue that General Factotum and Whipper-In is a reserved occupation, but he loses interest and runs off to butcher a rabbit … with his teeth.

So here we are. It’s 2005 and we’ve run out of soldiers. It’s my understanding that our entire armed forces could now comfortably fit inside Wembley Stadium (if we had one). That’s why they’re having to send poofs and cripples into battle. By contrast, the legions of pen-pushers in the MoD now comfortably outnumber the ranks of fighting men and (spit) women. There’s something wrong there.

(Incidentally, why all the fuss about George Bush wanting to bomb the Al-Jazeera televison station? We hung Lord Haw Haw after the war, didn’t we?)

Last week I complained that the MoD had spent £272,000 on works of art to decorate their Whitehall HQ. This week it emerged that they’d coughed up a further £361,000 on widescreen plasma televisions for HQ. That’s 139 of them costing £2,600 each – Sky Sports has never looked so good. And that’s an awful lot of body armour.

But I tell you what would really annoy me if I was unlucky enough to be dodging roadside bombs and incoming RPGs in Baghdad – these so-called peace campaigners who keep getting themselves kidnapped.

What is a “peace campaigner” anyway? Do they hang around the mosque waiting for the baddies to come out and then politely ask them not to pull the trigger or plant that bomb? Is their arrogance really such that they think they’re able to resolve Iraqi insurrection with a free Gideon’s Bible and a quick burst of Onward Christian Soldiers?

As far as I can see, they’re just barmy old God-bothering busybodies who’ve repeatedly ignored warnings about their safety and now presumably expect some poor squaddie to put his life on the line to rescue them from the Bigley Boys. Leave them to it, I say.

I SUPPOSE we’ve been warned often enough by Mr Blah’s Thought Police. Either toe the line or become a non-person.

Those of us who are white, male, middle-aged, able-bodied, and who dare to have the odd drink or the occasional fag are about to be rounded up and condemned to poverty, pain and a premature death. Let me explain.

When Avon and Somerset Constabulary advertised for recruits, it received almost 800 applications for 180 vacancies. Of these, 611 people were put through to the second stage of the selection process. (Bear with me. I know all these numbers are confusing for the state-educated amongst you.)

That leaves 189 people who didn’t make it through. Would it surprise you to learn that 186 of those were white males? And given that every female, ethnic or disabled candidate was automatically put through to the second stage, one can only imagine who the other three failures were. Burglars? Terrorists? Peace campaigners? Gary Glitter? (And can I just point out that I’m all for providing the disabled with useful work – who else is going to weave all those baskets?)

So they won’t give us a job unless we’re one-legged black bicycling lesbians. What about our health care?

Not so fast, Mr Average. You had a couple of pints last night, didn’t you? You’re a tad overweight and is that a cigarette I can smell? There’s the door over there.

Yep, in future illnesses deemed to be self-inflicted could deny you treatment under the self-same NHS that you’ve helped to fund all your working life. Such “illnesses” include being overweight, a smoker or a drinker. (Cheers, George. Thanks for wasting that bloody liver. Now we’re all lumped in the same boat.)

What isn’t clear is whether or not this discrimination will extend beyond the unfashionable vices. What about someone who falls off a mountain? That’s self-inflicted, isn’t it? They didn’t have to go up there in the first place. And if we leave them lying in a crumpled heap, we can save the petrol money for the helicopter as well.

What about sports injuries? Or people who need treatment for drug abuse? Or people who crash their cars while speeding? And what about homosexual AIDS-sufferers? Do we just condemn them to a slow and painful death because they chose to Drop Anchor In Poo Bay?

It’s obvious that the Catholic church couldn’t care less about them, otherwise they would have approved the use of condoms years ago, but I’m not sure a civilised society should write them off so readily.

STILL ON matters pink, Teignbridge District Council in Devon has spent three years and £3,000 on employing staff to track down homosexuals on its patch who were suffering from discrimination. They then intended to lavish them with love and kisses, support and understanding, all at public expense.

Alas, to their embarrassment, they’ve been unable to find a single put-upon gayer to support and have given up the search. Maybe that Little Britain chap from Llanddewi Brefi should put in for a relocation package.

O The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this website, of anyone puzzled as to why unemployed Liverpool schoolgirl Coleen McLoughlin puts up with millionaire footballer Wayne Rooney’s alleged dalliances, of anyone who wouldn’t rather have a nuclear power station at the bottom of their garden instead of 132 wind turbines, or of anyone who didn’t run screaming from the room when David Dickinson’s wife turned up on IACGMOOH.