Posts Tagged ‘SAS’


As ex-special forces I can kill using trapped wind.

In my book – life behind enemy lines in Iraq – “It’s Not Invasion It’s Liberation,” – I recount a story of Death by Bloat.

Here is an extract…..

“The Lethal Force Action Group were struggling. Sweat rash had laid Fungus Thompson out and Sniffer Tomkins and Jellytits O’Loon were  beginning to wilt.

Food supplies were running low. We were forced to lick eachother’s Athlete’s Foot for sustenance. On a good day I would give the lads access to my Veruccas. They are laden with protein.

My field training allowed me to make a tasty Athlete’s Foot/Verucca soup. To add flavour I used the chicken stock cubes and herb garland (Tarragon, Rosemary and Bay Leaf) I carry in my Ammo Belt.

The lads lapped it up!.

……………………………..Finally, after days of searching we came across the enemy compound. The Bad Lad from Baghdad was singing along to a Justin Bieber DVD warbling, “Baby, Baby, Baby, Baby” only in Arabic. ‘Cos he was an Arab.

I could smell soup. Vegetable soup. In less hostile times I would have volunteered my stock cubes and a dunk of the herb bouquet.

But I was here to serve my country, kill foreigners and find the gold bullion.

Gurkha Tenpin-Bowling reccied the compound and our one legged Sioux Brave, Itchy Scalp performed a rain dance (Footloose meets Dirty Dancing via The Exorcist).  I inched my way in. The Bad Lad from Baghdad was one mean looking compadre but had engrained gravy stains running down his shirt which lessened his evil visage.

I had to think. Fast. On my feet. I disguised myself as a bowl of soup. Well, more of a broth actually – but you get the gist….


The bowl containing me was placed on the table accompanied by lovely crusty bread rolls. Seeded.

I reconstituted myself and bamboozled the Bad Lad from Baghdad with cries of “Baby, baby, baby, baby” a la Bieber. He really was a Belieber judging by the posters on his walls.  I then used the trapped wind death grip on him.

The poor lad was a goner.

It turned out that he was not a Bad Lad from Baghdad, but Baghdad’s leading (only) Justin Bieber impressionist who recently had appeared on Iraqi TV’s “The Sunni and Shia Show” and was in town to sing at a local warlord’s surprise birthday party.

The bullion? No trace of it I’m afraid……….



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As ex-special forces I know about adapting to my surroundings through disguise and aromatherapy.

My account of life as a Jihadist in Syria called, “But Syriaously” was published this week. Here is an extract from Chapter 5, ” Cheese Waits For No Man.”

“Over 120 in the shade. The Lethal Force Action Group were struggling. Prickle Heat had laid Al-Fungus Thompson out and I could see that Al-Jellytits O’Loon was beginning to wilt.

Food supplies were running low, forcing us to suck each others toes for fluid. Thompson’s bunions were off putting at first, but when you are desperate……….

……………………………..Finally, after days of searching we came across the ammo dump. Here sat the Druze Militia Warlord and his evil henchmen,  fiddling with Rubik’s cubes whilst discussing the relative merits of sheep, goat or cow’s cheese. Preparations were being made for a Fondue party. I love Fondue.

I could smell cheese. A ripe, cheesy odour that reminded me of home – cheese on toast for tea on Sundays. In less hostile times I would have told these evil WARLORDS OF DEATH how a splash of Worcester Sauce really complements cheese on toast. Sadly this was not the case. I was here to destroy the ground to air rockets my country had sold to them. In the name of peace.

From my ammo belt I broke out my emergency cheese supply and popped a lump onto my head. I inched my way toward the group.   The Big Lad stirring the Fondue saw me,  he was 6 foot tall and 6 foot wide with the hams of a god.

I had to think. Fast. On my feet. My field training helped.

“Aaaahhhh CHEESE!” I shouted and smiled.

“Sim Salabim! CHEEEEEEEESE!” he replied. I took the cheese off my head and motioned towards the fondue bowl.

“Sim Salabim! Dunk your cheese Offendi!”

I dunked my cheesy knob for a few moments before whipping it out and pasting it up the nostrils of the Big Lad.

“Aiieeeeeeee!” he cried – I managed to get my cheesy knob down his throat. Al-Jellytits O-Loon burst through the doors and made those evil henchmen eat lead.

We made off with the fondue set and had a wonderful night. It would have been nice to have some fruit to go with our cheese platter. There is something mystical about eating cheese and a selection of stoned fruits under the stars.



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As ex-special forces, I am an expert at “blending in” with my surroundings to achieve the most important goal of rogue ginger warriors – surprise.

I demonstrate this in my latest book, “Béchamel Death Squad – The Lasagna Years”. Here is an extract from Chapter 4, “Sweat The Onions – Then Decapitate”.  

“In the mountains for 64 days. Still no sign of The Evil Terrorist. Sent our sharpshooter sheep Stevenson into a forward position with the orders to watch the road for any sign of activity.

“Baa.” He replied.

I had wondered about a sheep’s ability to be a sharp shooter and how in the name of Oliver North and all things shady, a ruminant had passed the selection tests. Let alone pull a trigger. Still that is for the Brass to determine.

But at least a sheep does not draw attention as it traverses the lonely mountain cols armed only with a bazooka, big gun and a love of one’s country.

Point Man Jellytits O’Loon,  recommended we eat Stevenson.  No. Orders were Orders and I’m not much of a mutton man in all honesty.

On day 65 The Evil Terrorist and his motley crew of cutthroats and knaves ambled toward Stevenson.

ET cried,”Sim salabim, eye of a goat, tail of a coat, a beast that yields a tasty, nutritious snack at a price that won’t break the bank! It is a sign from the heavens of the righteousness of our heroin supply business.” (My Farsi is a bit rusty and this may not be the 100% correct translation).


In the ensuing gunfight, The Evil Terrorist was slain. In the movie that was made of this action, Sharpshooter Sheep II,(Stevenson was played by Mark Wahlberg) the sheep is credited with firing the shot that slew The Evil Terrorist. It was me actually. Who after all seriously believes a sheep can pump an evil terrorist fulla lead?


Oscars Being Mentioned!

Stevenson is now Foreign Secretary.  

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We Ex-Special Forces have a saying. “If at first you don’t succeed – garrote.”

I am able to adapt to my surroundings through disguise, evasion techniques and a profound knowledge of knitting.

My latest book “Scratchy Eczema, Tangy Onion” is a no holds barred account of my work in Chechnya working for the secret Jazz Hands Jolson Death Squad.

Here is an extract from Chapter 5 “Way Up On The Swanny – I Ripped His Ears Off”.

…………………..I take my hat off to my #2 “Fungus” Thompson. There aren’t many who would have figured that only surefire way of yomping through the Russian Taiga unmolested, was disguised as a Jolson tribute act. Time after time, taciturn lock jawed Ruskies and their misshapen wives would throw off the shackles of perennial Slavic Cyrillic laden doom and apply Jazz Hands! when they saw the JHJDS sashay through the woods.

The journey was tough. With food supplies gone I was forced to fellate a large brown bear just to have a nibble on his berries. Yummy they were too. I made off with the berries (the bear was in a state of erotic high dudgeon) and made a tasty broth from them. To add flavour  I used the chicken stock cubes and herb garland (Tarragon, Rosemary and Bay Leaf) I carry in my Ammo Belt.  Boy, did the lads lap it up!

Finally after days of searching we reached the den of the Evil Lad who had stolen Uranium from the Plinkyplonkastok Nuclear Reactor and was planning to sell it to evil Islamic fundamentalistsalistsalists.


Evil Lad was lounging on his sofa watching a box set of The Wonder Years (whatever happened to Winnie?) cackling evilly to himself as the show spun its flavoursome and wholesome view of 1960’s America. He was eating cake. Sponge cake.

Whilst Gurkha Tenpin Bowling reccied the compound and our misanthropic Sioux Brave, Itchy Scalp performed a rain dance – I inched my way towards Evil Lad.  My undercover eagle eyed training kicked in and I learned one thing.

He was a messy eater. Crumbs everywhere.

I had to think. Fast. On my feet (whilst lying down). My blend-in terrain training kicked in.

I disguised myself as a Victoria Sponge and lay on the table next to Evil Lad’s cake. The plan nearly backfired when, glimpsing the schmaltzy ending of the Wonder Years, a tear fell from my eye into the sponge’s cream filling causing it to split.

jolson 2


I reconstituted myself, shouted “Mammy!” with a breath so putrid and foul, due to brown bear discharge, the flesh was stripped from his face.

Halitosis – the silent killer. More deadly than sarcasm.

Job done. I pocketed the Wonder Years box set and we set off through the Taiga to make our Chopper rendezvous. We left the Uranium in left luggage at the local train station.

The Station Manager was a Gene Kelly fan. So we killed him.

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In the SAS I learned how to kill. In 1986 in a pub in Billericay I killed a man with only the vehemence of my sneer. That’s how dangerous I am.

In my 72nd book on Gulf War, “Kuwait If You Want To – I Won’t”  I recount one such gory action.

Chapter 25, “The Pubic Wars”

“The plan had fallen apart. We were stuffed. The RT only received Iraqi Trance Radio Station 105.7 “Mullah Lite”  – Let me tell you “Big Box Little Box” cuts down the communication options somewhat in this spiteful, hateful, hostile regime. How hard was it? One word. Hard. That’s how hard it was.

A Dwarf Rapid Reaction Group were in support on our left flank and Nihilist Ninjas were on our right, when they could be bothered.  Whose idea was it to allow titches and philosophers into the Forces? Political correctness gone mad.

Rations  were gone. I improvised as my field training had taught me. I crocheted chicken stew with potatoes.  I always carry a needle and wool in my Ammo belt.

My platoon perked up with the scran inside ’em.  Gurkha Tenpin-Bowling and  Jellytits O’Loon reccied ahead to locate the Iraqi Death Squad. O’Loon twanged a short burst of “She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain” on his fibrous pubic hair to signal that he had spotted them. They were seated around the fire. Working on their wrist strength collectively.

If they were willing to engage in mutual masturbation, Dwarves and Nihilists would hold no fear for them. Unless Dwarf tossing meant something else out here.

I had to get closer to their leader, Al Jarreau. But there was no way he was gonna rub my Johnson. I’ll kill for my Queen and Country but I was not letting a big Iraqi mitt around my todger. He might have rough hands for starters and I’m very sensitive down there. Ever since that incident with the Ladyboy in Bangkok (we still write).

My field training had taught me to improvise, to blend in with the surroundings.

As the Iraqis forged on with their group rubbing,  I manoeuvred myself behind Al Jarreau and disguised myself as a sofa. After his pleasure had been occasioned, he sat in the sofa.  I reconstituted myself around him and O’Loon garroted him with one of his super strength pubic hairs.


Stench In Disguise – Sofa So Good

The Dwarves arrived in time to receive an eyeful from the self pleasuring Iraqis but they managed to wipe them out before wiping themselves off. The Nilhilists debated the ethics of mutual masturbation in modern warfare, concluding it was acceptable ,in certain circumstances.

As a treat, I crocheted the lads a nice trifle.

War is an ugly business. But a good pudding helps. Just Desserts in the Desert so to speak.

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