The Helen Mirren Pussycat Club, New London

Well, by Jove! Here I am enjoying some leave with young Miss Mirren and attempting to correct some of her more mischievious companions with my riding crop when I hear that a fresh trio of pink-cheeked trump-card holding troopers has been tipped to reiterate the rules and ream those resistant to regulations. It makes one's groin positively seep with delight at the news. Miaow!

Now Herr Schprockets is well known to me, I having personally savoured his sweaty exertions in the name of Bretonia and the perpetual glory of our fair demesne.

Yon chap by the name of Marburg may have the occasional bout of flatulence physically but his character, wit and tenacious spirit are as perfumed pomegranates in the Gardens of Delight.

This Joe fellow many of the serving men refer to as the "Gentlemen" and he has in fact, in my time here, demonstrated chivalry, decency and a sense of fairness that have put me to purple-headed shame.

I wish this triumvirate of top chaps a ball-burstingly loud "Huzzah!" Here's to you all delivering a "Boo sucks" to the vile elements out there who seek to disgrace and abuse their fellow players. A blistering bottom-reddening to the lot of 'em!

Miss Mirren promises me she can squeeze a few of you in at this evening's presentation, though frankly how I manged to manouvere my hefty weight into her neon den of devilish debauchery is beyond me.

See you later, chaps. Please bring some olive oil or marmite.

Captain Sir Roger Brinkley, Bretonia Armed Forces.