My cousin Bonzer dropped in for a few days - literally. He used to be in the British Paras, and I only flinched slightly when he abseiled through the French windows. I waited patiently while he darted from room to room shouting “Bandits at 3 o’clock !” and “Look out, they’re on the roof!”. Finally, satisfied that the house was safe, he consented to have a cup of tea and a vol-au-vent. Conversation proved to be a bit difficult in morse code, so he resorted to a stage whisper. “Really, Bonzer, don’t you think this is a little over the top?” I protested. "If you want a biscuit, help yourself."
Bonzer and Doreen have retired to a remote spot called Porpoise Spit in Queensland, which sounds delightful - the snakes in the sand dunes only come out at night usually, and they only had one shark attack last year. They can't wait for me to go out and visit. They are very active pensioners: Bonzer took up skydiving after leaving the Regiment, and finds it's the quickest way to get to the nearest Spar shop.
They were touring Europe on a Kawasaki 750 – I recognized them straight away, as no-one else wears his ‘n hers balaclavas. Not on top of their crash helmets, anyway. Bonzer is very fit for a man of advancing years, considering he has broken virtually every bone in his body due to stalled parachutes, helicopter malfunctions and angry natives, and recently been bitten by the most poisonous snake in Australia, which he said was still preferable to facing Doreen after a three day bender up the Sunshine Coast.
Bonzer is a master of disguise. He used to prefer to masquerade as a woman when on "special ops", since they elicit less suspicion. And because he likes painting his toenails. But his methodology is questionable - if you want to blend into the crowd in a Delhi bazaar, you’re not going to pull it off by dressing as Marilyn Monroe in “The Seven Year Itch”. The fakirs recognized him immediately and shouted “Welcome back, Bonzer Sahib!”. But it’s an ill wind and whatnot. He was offered a the lead female role in a Bollywood blockbuster.
You'd have a seven year itch too if you stood over a subway grating.
Lends a whole new meaning to "going commando".
Bonzer is the soul of discretion. You won’t find him selling his stories to the tabloids. (He’ll tell them to anyone in the pub, though, for a pint of smooth). He’s hung up his balaclava now, but has been quite the action man in his day. I can’t say which regiment he was in, but I don’t think I’ll be breaching the Official Secrets Act if I tell you it’s the one where they wear ladies’ underwear. Needless to say, Bonzer isn’t his real name. But I’ve probably said too much already. You never know who’s listening. Sometimes I wonder if Bonzer’s a touch paranoid, but a basic knowledge of morse code can come in quite handy once you’ve mastered a few key phrases, such as “See you down the Scud & Wombat once she’s dozed off”, and “Don’t move, you’ve got a scorpion on your nose”. Although he was too old to take part in Gulf Wars one and two, he organized his local Neighbourhood Watch back home in Porpoise Spit into nighttime search-and-destroy patrols. They were disbanded when they took the owner of the local kebab shop hostage, but were let off after a warning from the local constabulary to stay off the XXXX. Mustafa stopped the old OAP-specials after that.
Bonzer’s regimental motto is “No worries mate” (Who Dares Wins, surely? - Ed.) and he is of an irritatingly cheery disposition, whistling Rolf Harris songs at the crack of dawn as he crashes about in the kitchen. A perfect house guest, as you can imagine. His tales of derring-do, especially after a few jars, are always good value. There’s one I particularly like about being stripped naked, covered with marmalade and left next to a beehive. I think that was on his stag night in Dunstable. He barely made it to his own wedding. And once at the altar, he would only state his name, rank and number. The future Mrs Bonzer had to stab him in the buttock with her bayonet before he coughed “I do”.
Mrs Bonzer is a woman of infinite patience and loyalty, as can be seen from her tattoos (“Who Glares Wins” on the left shoulder and “What Time Do You Call This, Then?” on the right), always at Bonzer’s side, gripping the chain only as tight as is necessary. For years she accepted without complaining all the inconveniences of Bonzer’s profession, such as live hand grenades in the tumble dryer and tunnels under the herbaceous borders. Not many women would put up with their husband being away for months at a time without a clue where he was. Especially when he only went out for a packet of Hobnobs. Mrs B waited patiently, chain-smoking Woodbines and gazing steadfastly through the razor wire, until the warrior returned. She never asked questions, and always abided by the Queensberry rules. A bit like Lara Croft in an anorak. Bonzer’s a very lucky man.
I wish I could post a picture of cousin Bonzer. Unfortunately, in the only one I have of him without his balaclava, he is in a compromising position with the regimental goat, and I don’t think that would do at all.
They still write to each other
Bonzer and Doreen have retired to a remote spot called Porpoise Spit in Queensland, which sounds delightful - the snakes in the sand dunes only come out at night usually, and they only had one shark attack last year. They can't wait for me to go out and visit. They are very active pensioners: Bonzer took up skydiving after leaving the Regiment, and finds it's the quickest way to get to the nearest Spar shop.
They were touring Europe on a Kawasaki 750 – I recognized them straight away, as no-one else wears his ‘n hers balaclavas. Not on top of their crash helmets, anyway. Bonzer is very fit for a man of advancing years, considering he has broken virtually every bone in his body due to stalled parachutes, helicopter malfunctions and angry natives, and recently been bitten by the most poisonous snake in Australia, which he said was still preferable to facing Doreen after a three day bender up the Sunshine Coast.
Bonzer is a master of disguise. He used to prefer to masquerade as a woman when on "special ops", since they elicit less suspicion. And because he likes painting his toenails. But his methodology is questionable - if you want to blend into the crowd in a Delhi bazaar, you’re not going to pull it off by dressing as Marilyn Monroe in “The Seven Year Itch”. The fakirs recognized him immediately and shouted “Welcome back, Bonzer Sahib!”. But it’s an ill wind and whatnot. He was offered a the lead female role in a Bollywood blockbuster.
You'd have a seven year itch too if you stood over a subway grating.
Lends a whole new meaning to "going commando".
Bonzer is the soul of discretion. You won’t find him selling his stories to the tabloids. (He’ll tell them to anyone in the pub, though, for a pint of smooth). He’s hung up his balaclava now, but has been quite the action man in his day. I can’t say which regiment he was in, but I don’t think I’ll be breaching the Official Secrets Act if I tell you it’s the one where they wear ladies’ underwear. Needless to say, Bonzer isn’t his real name. But I’ve probably said too much already. You never know who’s listening. Sometimes I wonder if Bonzer’s a touch paranoid, but a basic knowledge of morse code can come in quite handy once you’ve mastered a few key phrases, such as “See you down the Scud & Wombat once she’s dozed off”, and “Don’t move, you’ve got a scorpion on your nose”. Although he was too old to take part in Gulf Wars one and two, he organized his local Neighbourhood Watch back home in Porpoise Spit into nighttime search-and-destroy patrols. They were disbanded when they took the owner of the local kebab shop hostage, but were let off after a warning from the local constabulary to stay off the XXXX. Mustafa stopped the old OAP-specials after that.
Bonzer’s regimental motto is “No worries mate” (Who Dares Wins, surely? - Ed.) and he is of an irritatingly cheery disposition, whistling Rolf Harris songs at the crack of dawn as he crashes about in the kitchen. A perfect house guest, as you can imagine. His tales of derring-do, especially after a few jars, are always good value. There’s one I particularly like about being stripped naked, covered with marmalade and left next to a beehive. I think that was on his stag night in Dunstable. He barely made it to his own wedding. And once at the altar, he would only state his name, rank and number. The future Mrs Bonzer had to stab him in the buttock with her bayonet before he coughed “I do”.
Mrs Bonzer is a woman of infinite patience and loyalty, as can be seen from her tattoos (“Who Glares Wins” on the left shoulder and “What Time Do You Call This, Then?” on the right), always at Bonzer’s side, gripping the chain only as tight as is necessary. For years she accepted without complaining all the inconveniences of Bonzer’s profession, such as live hand grenades in the tumble dryer and tunnels under the herbaceous borders. Not many women would put up with their husband being away for months at a time without a clue where he was. Especially when he only went out for a packet of Hobnobs. Mrs B waited patiently, chain-smoking Woodbines and gazing steadfastly through the razor wire, until the warrior returned. She never asked questions, and always abided by the Queensberry rules. A bit like Lara Croft in an anorak. Bonzer’s a very lucky man.
I wish I could post a picture of cousin Bonzer. Unfortunately, in the only one I have of him without his balaclava, he is in a compromising position with the regimental goat, and I don’t think that would do at all.
They still write to each other
