‘I say, it’s Flinty!’ Shouted ‘Timmers’,
otherwise known as Flying Officer Timothy Tamford-Tittimus,
his voice ringing round Mandevilles’ Gentleman’s Club,
where I, Flinty Flood-Flanners was celebratinge the 1918 Armistice.

I was relieved to see my pals hadn’t noticed my embarrassment, 
engrossed as they were in re-enacting the Eton Wall game.
You see, back in 1915 Tim had rescued me in
his Royal Flying Corp plane, the nearest I’d been to
danger on what I thought was a ‘cushy’ posting.

Prone to blab after a few glasses of brandy,
I was concerned he might divulge the embarrassing nature of my mission.

Actually, back in those dark days of war, the strait-laced Timothy had
regarded me as some sort of boys-own hero.
He might have changed his tune however,
if he’d known my school nickname was ‘Slinky’,
due to my habit of peeking in French teacher Miss Pomdamolot’s window,
who was forever standing in the moonlight, posing.

After a torrid meeting with the headmaster, sour-faced Dr Phillaprance,
I was expelled and, believing I would enjoy a privileged life,
joined my pater’s old regiment, The King’s Own.
But when war was declared we were off to France, 
to suffer a right mauling at the Battle Of The Marne,
and I was soon begging the old man to pull some strings.

He obliged by securing me a desk job in Palestine, 
not from paternal love, but because I was aware of his double life
(he used to dress in women’s attire at his club, The Athenaeum).

Though Major Mungo McDougall gave me a hard time,
I got my revenge when he was lost in the desert and I came to his aid.
Only for the bad-tempered sod to receive a kick from my favourite camel,
Nasty Nero, and was then licked all over by his sister, Gutsy Gertrude.

My chum, reporter Miles Manningham, tried to use this in his Times column,
Titbits from The Middle East, but was told he’d lose his cushy number,
as it was well known that he ‘batted for the other side’.

Like me, he didn’t fit into the military world. 
(You may wonder why he was not in uniform.
Why, he carried so much shrapnel, if you shook him he’d rattle, 
after he was wounded at Mersa Matrude).

I commiserated, ‘As long as you don’t bat for the enemy, nobody cares.’
‘Yes,’ he concurred, ‘but now I’ll have to limit myself to reporting fashion blunders.’
‘Any examples?’ I asked. ‘I could do with a laugh.’ 
‘Well, I was in the officers’ mess when that chap,
Lieutenant TE Lawrence turned up with a handsome W**g – sorry, I meant native boy.

‘Caused a stir, I can tell you, as TE was dressed like an Arab. 
They’d come from Ackabar with news of a great victory,
achieved by crossing the desert, a route dismissed as impassable.

‘Nevertheless, he and his raggedy band had won an almost bloodless battle.’

This was the first I’d heard of ‘El Lawrens’, as his followers called him, 
I am of course referring to the enigma that Lawrence Of Arabia,
a chap who became famous due for his raids behind enemy lines.

Little did I know he’d identified me as a likely secret agent,
believing that nobody would suspect me, I being generally regarded as
‘A nervous idiot, a chap who would jump when the clock chimes.’

He'd even enlisted the help of Bunty Bullens, the cousin
of his right-hand man, Freddie ‘Fists’ Fingleton.
Her and I would join glassy-eyed Arabs in a smoky-filled cellar, 
where I became addicted to a deadly opioid.

Little did I know that, lost in my dope-filled languor, 
she’d marked me as ideal blackmail material.
In other words, an addictive, lily-livered coward.

However, I was happy to avail of her supposed innocence,
knowing I was heading home where I was promised to Margaret,
daughter of Lord McOrkit-Mandale, rumoured to be as rich as Croesus,

I’d secured a return to England after telling the adjutant 
that I’d noticed his visits to Madame Bumptious’ back parlour. 
Well, blackmail is one of the tools of a spy, isn’t it?

I was celebrating in the mess only to be cornered by Lawrence, 
who asked me to go behind enemy lines, emphasising there was no danger – well, not much.
To which I replied, ‘Thanks, but I’ll have to opt out...’
only to hear the sinister words, ‘I believe you know Miss Bunty...’

So that was his game – join me in my madcap lust for military honours,
where I’d likely meet my end at the hands of bloodthirsty Turks,
or I’ll let a certain aristocrat back in Blighty know
you’ve been consorting with a young lady.

I was at a loss as to what to do. Should I disappear into the desert as a wandering hermit? 
No, I’d probably get my throat cut.

How to get away from Fists was the problem.
I knew he frequented a card school and was in the habit of fixing the deck.
If only I could prove that, it could be my trump card, if you’ll pardon the pun.

So, I followed him incognito to this den of iniquity,
where a well-built female opium server seemed familiar.

Then her sleeve rolled up to reveal the emblem of my pater’s regiment, The King’s Own,
Could it be him, surely not?

At my desk the next day I was trying to figure out this tangled web, 
when in blundered a bent-over native cleaner, clanking a mop and bucket.

I barked at her, ‘I say, I’m busy!’ Only for her to reply in a familiar voice,
‘You always were an untidy pup!’

It was the pater, who blandly announced, ‘Forgive me, I’m a fan of Sherlock Holmes,
he was always startling doctor Watson by appearing in disguise.
By the way, I’ve brought a friend to help you out of your predicament.’

Then in swished a young woman who immediately started to feel my thighs.
After catching my breath, I realised it was Miss Pomdampolot,
whom I’d last seen waving me off on the day of my expulsion.

‘I watched you at games lessons score lots of tries,’ she said,
though you always scoffed lots of your English potato chips, you were very fast.

'Anyway, we believe we can get you out of M,sieur Lawrens’ silly mission.’

‘Really, how?’ I gasped.

‘I blackmailed your very strait-laced headmaster,
who has connections at Whitehall, to get me a military posting.
I knew him to be a secret society dilettante, calling himself Percy Philly-Pipps.

‘I learned that mon Colonel ‘Fightnot’ McDougall, as we call him,
has asked Base if they have any useful rugby types for the regimental rugby game,
as their best man has hurt himself riding a camel.’ 

‘Oh,’ I interjected, for I could see where this was heading,
I explained to her, ‘I was told by ‘Kickalot’ O’Toole,
my school PT master, that I was too small for rugby.’

‘Oh, that old fool. I told him where to shove his ball, and even did, when he became frisky.’

My father then added his two pennyworth, ‘Now look here, young un,
I know you’re a weakling, but you can, without taking up a rifle, serve your king.
Intelligence has learned that captain Montague Chastelady
is in the employ of one Mustapha Matingforce.

This chap, a Turkish agent, is playing in the upcoming game,
and we suspect, as all the places he can hand over secrets are watched, 
will use the match for that purpose.

‘Yes,’ added his female assistant, ‘we want you to tackle Monty and steal the document,
before it can be handed to Mustapha, who will be there as a water carrier.’

‘Steal it from where?’

She laughed, ‘I assume it will be in his shorts.’

Looking embarrassed, the pater harrumphed,
‘Standing by, after you limp off with a feigned injury,
will be Flying Officer Tamford-Tittimus, to whizz you away in his plane.’
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Which is why I was so embarrassed that day back in 1918, 
to see that intrepid flyer Timmers.
But, many years later I’m now happy to embrace him,
for we’ve both been invited to mark the opening of the new rugby stadium at Twickenham.
I shall reminisce about that infamous game in Palestine, and reveal how I,
an officer and a gentleman, did the most ungentlemanly act of all,
pleading, ‘Referee, I was only looking for the ball!’