Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [1]
“That’s Africa,” said the puzzled Milkman.
“Ah yes!” said Father, quick to recover, “But that’s where they’ll start from—Africa—understand?”
“No I don’t,” said the Milkman. Whereupon he was immediately nipped in the scrotum, thrown out, and his horse whipped into a gallop. “Only two pints tomorrow,” Father shouted after the disappearing cart.
Next morning a Constable arrived at the door.
“AH, good morning Constable,” said Father raising his steel helmet. “You’re just in time.”
“In time for what sir?”
“In time for me to open the door for you,” said Father, reeling helplessly with laughter.
“Very funny sir,” said the Constable.
“Knew you’d like it,” said Father, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Now what can we do for you, a robbery’? a murder? I mean times must be bad for the force, why not slap a writ on Hitler?”
“It’s about these barricades you put across the road.”
“Oh? What’s wrong with them? We’re at war you know.”
“It’s not me sir, it’s the tram drivers. They’re shagged out having to lift them to get through, they’ve got to come down.”
“You’re all fools!” said Father, “I’ll write to Churchill.” He did. Churchill told him to take them down as well.
“He’s a bloody fool too,” said Father. “If he’s not careful I’ll change sides.”
I was no stranger to Military Life. Born in India on the Regimental strength, the family on both sides had been Gunners as far back as the Siege of Lucknow. Great-Grandfather, Sergeant John Henry Kettleband, had been killed in the Indian Mutiny, by his wife, his last words were, “Oh!” His father had died in a military hospital after being operated on for appendicitis by a drunken doctor. On the tombstone was carved:
R.I.P.
In memory of
Sgt. Thomas Kettleband.
954024731.
Died of appendicitis
for his King & Country.
Now apparently it was my turn.
One day an envelope marked O.H.M.S. fell on the mat. Time for my appendicitis, I thought. “.For Christ’s sake don’t open it,” said Uncle, prodding it with a stick. “Last time I did, I ended up in Mesopotamia, chased by Turks waving pots of Vaseline and shouting, ‘Lawrence we love you in Ottoman’.” Father looked at his watch, “Time for another advance,” he said and took one pace forward. Weeks went by, several more O.H.M.S. letters arrived, finally arriving at the rate of two a day stamped URGENT.
“The King must think a lot of you son, writing all these letters,” said Mother as she humped sacks of coal into the cellar. One Sunday, while Mother was repainting the house, as a treat Father opened one of the envelopes. In it was a cunningly worded invitation to partake in World War II, starting at seven and sixpence a week, all found. “Just fancy,” paid Mother as she carried Father upstairs for his bath, “of all the people in England, they’ve chosen you, it’s a great honour, son.”
Laughingly I felled her with a right cross.
I managed to delay the fatal day. I’ll explain. Prior to the war, I was a keep-fit addict. Every morning you could see people counting the bones in my skinny body at Ladywell Recreation Track, as I lifted barbells. Sometimes we were watched by admiring girls from Catford Labour Exchange; among them was one with a tremendous bosom. She looked like the Himalayas on their side. The sight of this released some kind of sex hormones into my being that made me try to lift some impossible weight to impress her. Loading the barbell to one hundred and sixty pounds (about $70) I heaved at the weights, Kerrrrrrissttt!! an agonised pain shot round my back into my groin, down my leg, and across the road to a bus stop. Crippled and trying to grin, I crawled, cross-eyed with agony, towards the shower rooms. Screams of laughter came