Nobby, the lift-bot's war stories:
Of course you wouldn't remember it, but the battle of bin-j-Jabbli, you may have heard me mention that, carnage it was, carnage and suffering. And anguish. Carnage, suffering, and anguish. Sometimes you got carnage. Other times you got anguish. Other times you got suffering. Sometimes you got a mixture. Carnage and suffering. Carnage and anguish. Anguish and suffering. Anguish and carnage. Anguish, suffering, and carnage. Begin to get the picture? Best years of me life.
Can hardly bear to talk about it, but Blobberlobberlop... a massacre that was, seeing as how we'd not been properly trained, you see wee was used to other conditions, bin-j-Jabbli, Wimpers, Hadjadji, Phlegnos, that was the terrain we'd been trained for, flat mountainous parched sodden muddy sand and sheer icy rock baking in the fetid jungle heat. But Blobberlobberlop was something different, so when the Blobberlobberloppi came flubberlubberlubberling along, well, we was hacked to pieces, not a man left standing, but we didn't bear a grudge, no, nothing personal, we was fighting men, and a premature agonizing death in a meaningless conflict engineered by imbecillic politicians and greedy arms dealers, werl, that was what we was trained for, soo? It was meat and drink to us.
Nightmare, it was, down in the devistation of Hadjadji, desert country of course, and sodden. Sodden. Sodden it was. Sodden, and the sinkimutts up to the top of your wope and your doings jammed - we had Heckler & Kock & Snartigern & Eably & Erasthidmites & Eably's Cousin's Friend. Nerick point four-five calibre wossnames, which was always prone to blogging, but what we done, we waved them at the tribesmen and when they saw them they thought to themselves (and you could see them thinking it because Johnny Tribesman has never been any good at disguising his emotions) they thought, blimey, HKSWWWCFN .45 calibre wossnames, and they charged across the burning evistation and massacred us to the last man, but was we downhearted? No, it was OUR IDEA OF FUN.
Can hardly bear to talk about it, but, that day at Phelgnos, the Balneans grouped above us on the commanding heights of the Pelopennopolopoulos, General Shatton with his borms shot to ribbons, you could hear his blibber raggling from half a bile away. Anyway, down came the Balneans uttering their horrible war cry of "Ere, Wotch your step" and strinking horror into every man's allenoids, WHOMP! they went URGH! SPLOD! TWANG! yuss, it was all scribble and tink and hello cor blimey, until all of a sudden I got my head shot orft and everything went not so much black as a rather effeminate purple but you get what your given in this life, that's my motto, what's your motto, same as mine I expect, wouldn't be surprised, young buggers, what do you do, nuffink, right? Right. End of story.
Nightmare, it was, Wimpers, a battle as was seared in the remembery of everyone what fought and died there... pointless it was, thrumping about in the splod, up to your queeg in albol and flard with the Snazzis ranged on every corner and poor old General Perlman with his ob clamped shut and everything went all wet and eably. The only word for it was "hardihosh" but we didn't care, we was fighting troops and "Mmmppph" says General Perlman through his clamped ob and off we charged, mowed down in waves, it was a massacre but I'll tell you wot, we enjoyed it.