Dear Dreary,
I’ve applied to join the Royal Air Force as a Hercules transport aircraft but have grave concerns that they are not taking my application seriously. I’m such a size that I know I’m capable of carrying large quantities over long distances.
I love the idea of men in uniform inside me and as a boy I used to stick amphibious landing craft, tanks and assorted artillery up my bum.
My favourite past time used to be sticking my arse out of the bedroom window and pumping out those little green plastic soldiers on parachutes and watching them land in the back garden.
The man at the recruitment office looked very uneasy at me before making a private phone call to his superiors.
I’m desperate to join the military. Should I perhaps apply for the navy instead as a small frigate?
Yours,
Chumley Trinder,
The Asylum,
Knotty Ash.
　
　
Dear Chumley,
I have spoken to a top civil servant whom I am currently chewing. He has arranged everything. A dark saloon will collect you at oh six hundred hours and whisk you off to Brize Norton where you will be given immediate clearance for take off.
Your emission is to excrete 100 of your liitle green chaps over Helmand Province. Oh, and don’t forget to pick up a jar of their yummy mayonnaise whilst you’re over there.
Then it’s full steam ahead and back to Blighty for tea and muffins at Claridges. A quick dose of shut eye, then we’ll slip another regiment into you and the whole bally game starts again.
Chocs away Trinder!

Dreary. x