A parody of all things Biggles and the Middle East Conflict. Set during the 2003 ***** War, Biggles continues his legend as the world's greatest pilot, ace and inebriated philanderer. Where on the whiff of a gin and tonic he careens his way from disaster to victory and back to disaster. Biggles declares war on the sheep in all of Arabia, Biggles has a photo-shoot Saddam Hussein, Biggles discovers how to defuse a thermonuclear bomb using a cup of tea, Biggles defeats the Afrika Corps seventy years too late, and Biggles takes Aqaba then loses it in a game of whist.
“Men,” said the wing commander.
“And women,” came a gruff woman’s voice.
“I thought you were one of the Kuwaitis?” asked the wing commander.
“I am.”
“Hmmm, anyway,” continued the wing commander unperturbed, “Men, women and other members of the squadron of unknown sex. You must remember we are at war.”
“It’s hard to forget,” said Ginger, “they keep shooting at us.”
“Now none of that.” The wing commander wagged his stick at Ginger. “Foreigners have been shooting at the R.A.F. ever since its inception. So, the present circumstances are no different, except of course, we have the Americans on our side.”
“Half the time,” Ginger insisted, “it is the Americans who are doing the shooting.”
“Yes, that is what we call friendly fire.” The wing commander smiled paternally, “So shooting at us - is how the jolly Americans show they are being friendly. It’s like fox hunting, we don’t really want to kill the fox and half the time the little blighters get away. So, next time an F-16 starts blazing away at you, just hide behind a hedge and wait for the hunt to lose your trail.”
“They killed Nigel.”
“Nigel was a vegetarian. Shouldn’t have been flying in the first place.” The wing commander blew through his moustache in annoyance. “Now this war…”
“I thought this was a police action,” asked Algy, “like those times in Korea when we rescued Korea from itself, and in Vietnam when we didn’t rescue anyone, we just got shot at.”
“Those too were police actions, but this time, we have a plan.”
This book has no basis in history or reality, except the bits where Biggles saves the world.
“Men,” said the wing commander.
“And women,” came a gruff woman’s voice.
“I thought you were one of the Kuwaitis?” asked the wing commander.
“I am.”
“Hmmm, anyway,” continued the wing commander unperturbed, “Men, women and other members of the squadron of unknown sex. You must remember we are at war.”
“It’s hard to forget,” said Ginger, “they keep shooting at us.”
“Now none of that.” The wing commander wagged his stick at Ginger. “Foreigners have been shooting at the R.A.F. ever since its inception. So, the present circumstances are no different, except of course, we have the Americans on our side.”
“Half the time,” Ginger insisted, “it is the Americans who are doing the shooting.”
“Yes, that is what we call friendly fire.” The wing commander smiled paternally, “So shooting at us - is how the jolly Americans show they are being friendly. It’s like fox hunting, we don’t really want to kill the fox and half the time the little blighters get away. So, next time an F-16 starts blazing away at you, just hide behind a hedge and wait for the hunt to lose your trail.”
“They killed Nigel.”
“Nigel was a vegetarian. Shouldn’t have been flying in the first place.” The wing commander blew through his moustache in annoyance. “Now this war…”
“I thought this was a police action,” asked Algy, “like those times in Korea when we rescued Korea from itself, and in Vietnam when we didn’t rescue anyone, we just got shot at.”
“Those too were police actions, but this time, we have a plan.”
This book has no basis in history or reality, except the bits where Biggles saves the world.
