Armchair General Sarll

Ah, I love the smell of roast peons in the morning!!

A very gay morning to you all, my dear, dear readers. Time to rouge one's cheeks, clamber into military drag and GET YOUR WAR ON!

Yes, dear readers, you find me relaxing 30 feet under the House Beautiful in my nuclear proof War Room. All around me screens blink, machines whirr, military drones push buttons and bark orders, dark overlord spirits recite hidden chakras, and the ghost of Graham Bond is brewing up a stiff cup of British tea.

Is it any surprise to discover that I, Barry Sarll, am the real decision maker? That I, sat here in my perfumed velvet armchair, am the true General of this war?

And what are my plans, you might ask? Why, I plan horrors so despicable that I shall make Ariel Sharon look like a kindergarten thug! Mass extermination is the only way! Put the peons firmly in their place and convert Iraq into a glorious concrete roller disco! Yes, yes - Baghdad is to be forcibly glammed up, turned over to Pan and Dionysus and brought back into the Empire. John Dee has been invoked and I have a firm grasp on the Hand Of Glory!

Flurries of gay bullets all round! To Victory!

Who Do You Think You Are Kidding, Baron Sarll?

It is, of course, necessay to conduct my operations discreetly. The proletariat must not know of my true role in all of this.

As such, I have now finished taping up the windows of The House Beautiful and will shortly begin recruiting for my Gay Home Guard. In case Johnny Foreigner gets any clever ideas you can rest assured that he will be met by hoards of mincing romos, who will undermine and confuse his sexuality to such an extent that he feels compelled to surrender.

Meanwhile, Stephens has finished painting my shed white and the search for a suitable mate to hunker down in my bunker and repopulate the post-apocalyptic world has begun.