Allo Allo

There’s a tense atmosphere at work today.

War is on the brink of being declared. I can’t go into too much detail as I’ve been informed that some of my more discerning colleagues occasionally peruse the propaganda machine that is this blog so I need to be circumspect. The walls have ears, etc. I have to keep things mum.

But comrades I can tell you this: a fellow work colleague has, in my opinion, been appalling treated by the upper echelons. Manoeuvres are afoot to see her removed from office. Manoeuvres which she in turn is countering.

The union are involved. The battle lines are being drawn up. Sides are being picked. Troops are amassing on the beaches.

I know which side I am supporting but feel more like a member of the French Resistance rather than a fully paid-up member of the armed forces. I have to watch my position, you see. I have kids and a wife to support. And, although it feels cowardly, I have to protect the patrons who come in from the street and use my café and admire the portrait of the fallen Madonna with the big boobies.

There are many ways to fight and I have chosen to fight in secret “from the inside” while the bombers drone overhead and the foe loot our art galleries and our mini-markets out in the ruins of the town square.

It’s going to be tinned meat from now on. But only if we’re lucky.

I can hear the air-raid sirens shattering the peaceful warbling of local birdsong.

Allo allo? Can you ‘eer me? I shall say zis only once, eet is René ‘eer...