The Picture. And The Art of Warfare - My Way.

First of all - yeah, the cheesy picture's gone, thanks largely to the totally unfunny comments of certain rapscallions. In its absence you will find a suitable replacement I hope?

Anyways, this blog needs some serious new material and seeing as I have nothing better to do on this fine Wednesday morn than sit and gnaw my fingernails like a jaundiced goat, I might as well contribute to something semi-productive.

If there's one thing that has defined this decade it's war. Not internet porn, iPods or even the catastrophic brainfarts on behalf of the economy monkeys. No, it's war - fighting silly turbaned men in flipflops called Achmarajahajahajadin.

I have a friend who joined the army not so long ago, much to my dissappointment. I mean, why on earth would you willingly sign up for a job in which you spend all day in the blazing heat getting shot at by weirdy-beardys with rocket launchers?

There's more too. From the moment you get up in the morning (which is usually "O'FUCK!" or "INCOMING" o'clock) to the moment you go to bed at night it's all shouting, bugling and explosioning. Yes, explosioning.

In fact, I can hardly think of a position in the armed forces that I would want to occupy. The RAF might be alright, there's a good opportunity to laze around all day 'What-ho'ing and drinking tea. Unfortunatley though, there's always the danger that I'd actually be required to get in a plane. And the problem with that is I'll most likely crash it.

As well as this, there might arise the need for one of the planes to drop an atomic bomb on some daft Talibans. Gordon Brown says that it's important for a country to maintain its own nuclear deterrent. But, as we know, Gordon Brown tends to be wrong about pretty much everything.

The Navy? Forget it. If popular myth is anything to go by, I'm signing up for months stuck on a less-than-luxury cruise with rejected members of the Village People. Not that there'd be much time for rampant homosexuality, because I'd spend the majority of my time vomiting over the railings.

And of course, when the time comes for actual warfare, it must be damned hard to actually aim at the enemy with Cher straddling the end of your cannons. On top of that, if the Falklands achieved anything it showed us that Navy boats are big. And therefore very susceptible to mustachioed men called Gonzalez in fighter jets. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that a boat would be nearly useless in the fight against a man in the desert coming at you with a £3 AK-47 and a pair of sandals.

If there's anywhere I'd like to be in the armed forces, it would be in the submarine regiment. To me, this seems like the only option devoid of any of the hassles associated with any of the above. You can fight while sitting in complete, air-conditioned comfort, you're well under the seasick zone, the enemy won't be able to find you and of all Cher's extensive plastic surgery, she never did manage to get a pair of gills.

When military submarines were first mooted, the Royal Navy top brass dismissed them as unfair. They had grown up with the notion that you charged at your enemy in red coats, with a lot of people playing brass instruments. But sneakery is my kind of warfare. The first inkling your enemy has that you’re there is when he is treading water in a big puddle of blazing engine oil. Excellent.

Of course, that leaves one problem still remaining. In a submarine, there's absolutely nowhere to run from the YMCA gang. Still, I'd rather be alive and be fondled by sweaty, muscled men than be paste on the side of a road somewhere deep in Asscrackistan. And I do quite have a thing for men in uniform.