Special Guest Blogger: Douglas Bader

Pacifists, hippies and spotty faced, 16 year old boys have long made the call of more lovemaking and less war but the only thing i wanted to get inside several times a day and take to heaven and back was my plane and the fighter planes of the Second World War were capable of all kinds of airborne acrobatics that found pilots bodies moving in the opposite direction to their blood.
The immense G-Forces could drain all the blood from the top half your body into your legs so the dogfights were a constant battle between out-maneuvering the guy trying to turn you into a flaming pile of metal and trying not to drain all the blood down into your legs, or at least, that was a problem for people who had legs for their blood to drain into because i lost mine a few years before when i pranged my kite right in the how's-your-father.
Even with no legs i could still kick arse and i did, it was up diddly up, down diddly down, whoops, poop, twiddly dee a bit of a scrap with the fiendish Boche followed by a bit of a jolly old crash landing behind enemy lines then capture, torture, attempted escape, and then back home in time for tea and medals but my story begins 10 years earlier when i was in the RAF and i showing off in front of some fillies and doing some low-flying aerobatics.
The tip of my left wing touched the runway, the hairy blighter dicky-birded into the ground and i woke up days later in a hospital bed with no use for my new slippers anymore as both my legs had been amputated and i was retired out of the RAF on medical grounds.
I kept trying to get back into the RAF but they were not going to allow a guy with no legs inside one of their machines until they were rapidly running out of pilots to take on Jerry in WW2 and then What-ho, funnily enough they welcomed me back.
22 shot down Germans planes later i was bally shot down myself and had to bale out sausage side but i lost one prosthetic leg when escaping the aircraft and landed in a field and even the Krauts couldn't miss a one legged man dressed in a British Uniform frantically hopping across a field and i was captured.
Fair play to them, they did arrange for another false leg to be flown to me from Britain, which was duly parachuted down and i was placed in a hospital but after several escape attempts, they got all squiffy and threatened to take away my bally legs and moved me to the prisoner of war camp at Colditz Castle where i stayed until the camp was liberated.
I became a bit of a celebrity after the war and appeared on radio and TV shows but finally flipped over on my Betty Harpers and caught the can in the Bertie aged 72 which is bally good because i could have so easily snitched a parcel sausage-end and gone goose-over-stump frogside all those years before.