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Sir Anthony State leant slowly back in his chair, adjusted his red silk robe and took another sip from the glass of whiskey in his hand. "Bloody good year" he said to himself and gazed at the many perculiar small holes in the walls around him.
After hearing the news earlier in the day that he'd been sacked as ambassador to Saint Vincent and The Grenadines, he had decided he wasn't going to leave his chair for love nor money. If those pen-pushers in Whitehall wanted him out, they'd have to come over and drag him out by the teeth. And apparently that is what they were going to do; "launch a full-scale attack will they? I'll take them all on, see the true calibre of these college boys they let in to the forces these days, give the bureaucrats a taste of their own medicine." - "You can't run an army with children" he announced.
It had all gone wrong in the first week of the job two weeks ago, a day after his 60th birthday, after a couple of minor misunderstandings at the president's party. Sir Anthony State was one of the good old boys, firmly educated in the old school of life. Leading the front line against krauts in the first, he had been as proud to be British as any man should be. That was until they stabbed him in his back of pride with the knife of deceit.
At first, moving out to Saint Vincent had been a cultural shock to Sir Anthony, but as he had told many of his great fans during his life, "One can take any big-headed native on if one has a bottle of whiskey and a cigar to hand. First impressions, very important." If he could single handedly track a bengal tiger through a jungle at night and successfully skin it for the morning's breakfast, he could handle a little white collar 'pansying about' as he referred to it.
Naturally the job was not as action-packed as he was used to. Perhaps this was a blessing since he was growing older everyday - "Not a young many anymore" he'd tell his reflection every morning - "but still capable of growing a damn fine beard old chap - good work". A day that would remain in the minds of many who had met Sir Anthony was a week before the day we find ourselves at now. The St Vincent Ambassador's conference.
As it turned out the Ambassador's conference catering only actually catered to the bare minimum. How was Sir Anthony to know that ambassadors were only allowed one mint from the bowl each, and having taken two as soon as he sat down; how was he to know the Chinese ambassador would react so badly that he'd have to beat him back to a peaceful state with his victoria cross medal. The irony of this situation being that he'd been given the medal after his triumphant campaign against the peace-loving pigmies of Mt. Teku-tumu, subsidised by the Chinese government. "Those darkies never stood a chance" he told his imaginary audience as the memory appeared in his mind, "Johnny Foreigner and his jolly band of third-world heathens would never take good old England head-on in a fight" while he was alive, shaking his first at the sky as he spoke. "Now where did I put those cigars?"
Back in the ambassadors meeting hall, he was politely asked to leave by a man with a big hat and a purposeful mannor who grabbed him by the sleeve. "No need to get frisky my lad, nobody ever got anything from me by being frisky." he snapped, tugging himself free. Sir Anthony walked slowly, and somewhat reluctantly away from the forum. The already bemused, and greatly aggrivated mood of the other members of the meeting was only made worse a few seconds later when he decided to take a Ferrero Roché on the way out, favouring one right at the bottom a carefully constructed 5-foot pyramid. "No need to reach further than one needs to" he shouted back as he began to run away from the angry mob following behind him. "One day you'll learn that, you heathens!"
After arriving back at his palace, Sir Anthony was informed by one of his 15 african butlers that England has just called to let him know he was being removed as ambassador. "great scot" he proclaimed quietly and slumped into his chair.
A few minutes later he decided he'd better act fast if he was to get something out of this dead-end job, "better to be rich than working class" he told Malaua who was wandering around dusting lampshades in the drawing room. "You missed one over there" he pointed out, motioning in the general direction of the ceiling with one hand, whilst he reached for his crowbar. At first Sir Anthony had planned to somehow pull the palace's safe from its wall and stash it in his suitcase, but after realising that the safe was empty and he didn't even own a suitcase, this plan was quickly abandoned for a far more cunning one. "I knew there was a reason I got those negro boys to mine diamonds and place them along every wall in the building", he mused, "Yes.. turned out it was a completely different reason to the one I imagined it would be, but one can't be picky in times of need, fetch me my crowbar Malaua!"
He was already holding his crowbar, but Malaua knew better than to point this out, and so went to fetch one of the spares from the other room. Upon returning he found Sir Anthony already hard at work prising the sparkling diamonds from their wall sockets and pocketing them in his robe as he went. Ten minutes later, and with the room now full of small holes around its circumference, he collapsed into his chair and relaxed. And this is where we started.
It was only a few minutes now until Charlie would show. Sir Anthony knew this and was starting to formulate his escape in his mind. Slowly taking one last drag on his cigar, a wave of realisation washed over him, and he accepted that maybe he'd lost his final battle. "Never go out with a whimper" he told his glass of whiskey, taking the final sip. "If they want me, they're going to have to earn me, and earn me good". He jumped from his chair and walked briskly to the stables out the back. Mounting the nearest horse, and giving it a quick stroke for luck, he made his way into the foyer of the palace - a one man calvalry. "Well Hamsley, he said, addressing the horse, "It's come down to this, you and me against good old England, who would've thought it." Outside the sounds of cars pulling up signalled time was running out. "This is it. We ride together now and we take what hand god deals us". Sir Anthony slowly raised his hand to his head, saluted the British flag now flying half-mast on the wall and made a quick dash towards the door. Breaking through it at full speed accompanied by the cracking of wood he exclaimed at full volume "The devil may come for me today, but shall not be met by the innocence of angels, for my wrath shall strike fear into the heart of mine enemies, hear me ye heathens!"
Waiting on the otherside was a smartly dressed Spanish butler, a gleaming black limousine and his old friend from the state, George Bentley. "Good day Anthony, your ride is here" -- Sir Anthony paused - "Ah thanks, George, catch you later". And with that Sir Anthony climbed down from his horse, climbed into the back of the limousine and was never seen in the country again. Inside the limo, he removed his shoes and uniform and sat naked in the back seat. "Chin-chin" he said as he raised his glass in the vague direction of his driver, before finishing off the last of his whiskey. "Damn fine year" he proclaimed, "damn fine year indeed."
Written by Jay with David Randall
After hearing the news earlier in the day that he'd been sacked as ambassador to Saint Vincent and The Grenadines, he had decided he wasn't going to leave his chair for love nor money. If those pen-pushers in Whitehall wanted him out, they'd have to come over and drag him out by the teeth. And apparently that is what they were going to do; "launch a full-scale attack will they? I'll take them all on, see the true calibre of these college boys they let in to the forces these days, give the bureaucrats a taste of their own medicine." - "You can't run an army with children" he announced.
It had all gone wrong in the first week of the job two weeks ago, a day after his 60th birthday, after a couple of minor misunderstandings at the president's party. Sir Anthony State was one of the good old boys, firmly educated in the old school of life. Leading the front line against krauts in the first, he had been as proud to be British as any man should be. That was until they stabbed him in his back of pride with the knife of deceit.
At first, moving out to Saint Vincent had been a cultural shock to Sir Anthony, but as he had told many of his great fans during his life, "One can take any big-headed native on if one has a bottle of whiskey and a cigar to hand. First impressions, very important." If he could single handedly track a bengal tiger through a jungle at night and successfully skin it for the morning's breakfast, he could handle a little white collar 'pansying about' as he referred to it.
Naturally the job was not as action-packed as he was used to. Perhaps this was a blessing since he was growing older everyday - "Not a young many anymore" he'd tell his reflection every morning - "but still capable of growing a damn fine beard old chap - good work". A day that would remain in the minds of many who had met Sir Anthony was a week before the day we find ourselves at now. The St Vincent Ambassador's conference.
As it turned out the Ambassador's conference catering only actually catered to the bare minimum. How was Sir Anthony to know that ambassadors were only allowed one mint from the bowl each, and having taken two as soon as he sat down; how was he to know the Chinese ambassador would react so badly that he'd have to beat him back to a peaceful state with his victoria cross medal. The irony of this situation being that he'd been given the medal after his triumphant campaign against the peace-loving pigmies of Mt. Teku-tumu, subsidised by the Chinese government. "Those darkies never stood a chance" he told his imaginary audience as the memory appeared in his mind, "Johnny Foreigner and his jolly band of third-world heathens would never take good old England head-on in a fight" while he was alive, shaking his first at the sky as he spoke. "Now where did I put those cigars?"
Back in the ambassadors meeting hall, he was politely asked to leave by a man with a big hat and a purposeful mannor who grabbed him by the sleeve. "No need to get frisky my lad, nobody ever got anything from me by being frisky." he snapped, tugging himself free. Sir Anthony walked slowly, and somewhat reluctantly away from the forum. The already bemused, and greatly aggrivated mood of the other members of the meeting was only made worse a few seconds later when he decided to take a Ferrero Roché on the way out, favouring one right at the bottom a carefully constructed 5-foot pyramid. "No need to reach further than one needs to" he shouted back as he began to run away from the angry mob following behind him. "One day you'll learn that, you heathens!"
After arriving back at his palace, Sir Anthony was informed by one of his 15 african butlers that England has just called to let him know he was being removed as ambassador. "great scot" he proclaimed quietly and slumped into his chair.
A few minutes later he decided he'd better act fast if he was to get something out of this dead-end job, "better to be rich than working class" he told Malaua who was wandering around dusting lampshades in the drawing room. "You missed one over there" he pointed out, motioning in the general direction of the ceiling with one hand, whilst he reached for his crowbar. At first Sir Anthony had planned to somehow pull the palace's safe from its wall and stash it in his suitcase, but after realising that the safe was empty and he didn't even own a suitcase, this plan was quickly abandoned for a far more cunning one. "I knew there was a reason I got those negro boys to mine diamonds and place them along every wall in the building", he mused, "Yes.. turned out it was a completely different reason to the one I imagined it would be, but one can't be picky in times of need, fetch me my crowbar Malaua!"
He was already holding his crowbar, but Malaua knew better than to point this out, and so went to fetch one of the spares from the other room. Upon returning he found Sir Anthony already hard at work prising the sparkling diamonds from their wall sockets and pocketing them in his robe as he went. Ten minutes later, and with the room now full of small holes around its circumference, he collapsed into his chair and relaxed. And this is where we started.
It was only a few minutes now until Charlie would show. Sir Anthony knew this and was starting to formulate his escape in his mind. Slowly taking one last drag on his cigar, a wave of realisation washed over him, and he accepted that maybe he'd lost his final battle. "Never go out with a whimper" he told his glass of whiskey, taking the final sip. "If they want me, they're going to have to earn me, and earn me good". He jumped from his chair and walked briskly to the stables out the back. Mounting the nearest horse, and giving it a quick stroke for luck, he made his way into the foyer of the palace - a one man calvalry. "Well Hamsley, he said, addressing the horse, "It's come down to this, you and me against good old England, who would've thought it." Outside the sounds of cars pulling up signalled time was running out. "This is it. We ride together now and we take what hand god deals us". Sir Anthony slowly raised his hand to his head, saluted the British flag now flying half-mast on the wall and made a quick dash towards the door. Breaking through it at full speed accompanied by the cracking of wood he exclaimed at full volume "The devil may come for me today, but shall not be met by the innocence of angels, for my wrath shall strike fear into the heart of mine enemies, hear me ye heathens!"
Waiting on the otherside was a smartly dressed Spanish butler, a gleaming black limousine and his old friend from the state, George Bentley. "Good day Anthony, your ride is here" -- Sir Anthony paused - "Ah thanks, George, catch you later". And with that Sir Anthony climbed down from his horse, climbed into the back of the limousine and was never seen in the country again. Inside the limo, he removed his shoes and uniform and sat naked in the back seat. "Chin-chin" he said as he raised his glass in the vague direction of his driver, before finishing off the last of his whiskey. "Damn fine year" he proclaimed, "damn fine year indeed."
Written by Jay with David Randall