Been trapped for what seems like half the fucking war in a cramped tunnel beneath a French field, with only a sewer-rat commoner called Jack Firebrace for company. Story of my life really. Can’t hear a bloody word the pleb says. Beyond his risibly blue-collar name, there doesn’t seem to be much to him. He didn’t take a gap year before the war. The only way I can preserve my middle class sanity down here is by replaying scenes from mine: France 1910! What a mess that year was.
There was this middle aged French bird in the house – Isabelle. Absolute tigress. She used to lure me into the ‘red room’ and then beg me to give her a good seeing to. Now, my friends, an English gent never tells. But, rest assured, she got a thorough pounding from this Englishman – in the biblical sense. Rode her like a huntsman on Boxing Day. Naturally her husband threw me out the house. CAD.
And now, look at me, up to my balls in mud in some grim corner of France, trying to spank one out next to a grinning cockney ex-minor who keeps mouthing on about the laughs he had (hardly) digging the Channel Tunnel. War: the futility of it all. I think I shall write a slim volume of effeminate poetry, detailing my suffering.
Stephen Wraysford, the Western Front, 1918.
There was this middle aged French bird in the house – Isabelle. Absolute tigress. She used to lure me into the ‘red room’ and then beg me to give her a good seeing to. Now, my friends, an English gent never tells. But, rest assured, she got a thorough pounding from this Englishman – in the biblical sense. Rode her like a huntsman on Boxing Day. Naturally her husband threw me out the house. CAD.
And now, look at me, up to my balls in mud in some grim corner of France, trying to spank one out next to a grinning cockney ex-minor who keeps mouthing on about the laughs he had (hardly) digging the Channel Tunnel. War: the futility of it all. I think I shall write a slim volume of effeminate poetry, detailing my suffering.
Stephen Wraysford, the Western Front, 1918.
