Raptus Regaliter

Doubtless you will have read previous stories about my brush with the film industry. Well, it seems I passed the audition, thank you very much, but will not be getting the hoped-for Niven-type role as a Lancaster Bomber pilot, although, due my knowledge of the intimate functions of a British Public House during the war, I have been given the part of a Barman.

I didn't even know Lancaster Bombers had a bar.

Still, from Manby Airfield to Dresden is a long-haul flight, so I suppose they needed refreshment at some stage. (Mind you, from anywhere not in Lincolnshire to Manby is a bloody long haul, even with the bypass, and especially if you're in a Sylva Striker..)

So, yours truly will not be up in the cockpit, pulling back calmly on the joystick to throw the Lanc into a spin as 9mm shells rip through the fuselage courtesy of the German Night-fighter pilot, who sneers "Die like dogs, Engländer Schwein!" as his duelling scar glows white in the nightlight of the Messerschmitt 110 cockpit (You can tell I used to read "Battle Picture Library" as a kid, can't you?). No, the only stick I shall be pulling back on will be the porcelain shaft of a genuine Victorian Beer Engine in one of the local "English" pubs tricked out to look a bit more authentic.

Time, Gentlemen, please, let's be having those glasses... Time, gentleMEN, please, let's be having THOSE glasses! ...must work on my delivery, luvvies...