We took over The Bar at about the same time that the Argentinians took over the Falkland Islands.

The war was followed with interest. We placed a map of the disputed area at the end of the bar, beside the cash till, marking the battlegrounds and shading territory gained as the fighting continued.

When the war was over, Big John, who had served with Para 2, had a splendid idea.

“Let’s give them a party! Eh? Eh? How about that, Joe? Eh?”

“A party for the whole of Para 2?”

“Well, maybe not all. Just the officers. And to make them feel more at home we’ll get in some sheep. Better make sure they’re pretty.”

Invited, they came.

By the time the soldiers and their ladies filled the room the sheep were standing on their hind legs.  The only navigable area was my small patch behind the bar, which I jealously guarded.  If someone had put just one foot in it I would have killed, though on second thoughts I was probably with the wrong crowd.

“Nice to see you,” one officer barked to another

“No, no sign of Hugh,” was the reply. “Wasn’t he with you?”

“Who?”

“Hugh.”

“Who’s Hugh?”

The noise was becoming considerable.

Another G.O. – gallant officer – approached the bar, sheep in the area giving him a respectful space.  “Have you got the tune, old boy?” he shouted.

“Which one?” I asked.

“You know the one. ‘The Raid on the Viaducts.’

“Well, I’ve got ‘The Ride of the Bikeries.’  Is that the one you’re after?”

“Sounds like the same sort of thing,” he bellowed. “If that’s in F sharp it’ll do.”

“It’s probably that, or jolly close,” I screamed at him anxious to show I knew a thing or two about music.

“Well then, let’s give it a whirl.”

It turned out to be the same.  Trouble was he wanted it played at top volume. He wasn’t wrong. It was the only way it could be heard anyway.

It occurred to me that these fellows could be were deaf.  Too much shooting.

The officers mingled screaming at each other about the old days.

Then one found the boxes of party poppers Claudette had left artfully around the room. They threw them at each other before finding the string that let them off.

All this and with their anthem playing at maximum and on a loop, created a cacophony that could have kept hell at bay.

The party continued.

Some time during the evening the G. O.s gave a vivid demonstration of the term yomping, prompting the sheep to take deep cover.

The noise, and one or of the sheep,  blasted through to the back of the building.  It was here that Old Dot, our cleaner, kitchen help, dish washer and source off all wisdom,  worked elbow deep in hot water and suds.  Even for her this was too much. “Bloody hell!” she shouted. “This is worse than the Blitz.”

She left early that night, shaken, to seek the silence of her bedroom up the street. She was off the next day. Her doctor said she was suffering from mild shell shock.

Meanwhile back at the party  it was time for the buffet.

With an eye to our guests the chef had prepared a most original menu.

It commenced with lnda Soup, an Argentinian specialty, followed by  British Beef or Chicken Galtieri or ‘Good Thyme Lamb’ each of which were served with delicious Goose Greens.

And for sweet, there was the always popular, Argie Crumble.

Two days later when we had found the last of the sheep in a colapsed and snoring state  we were in no doubt why the Argentinians had surrendered and gone home.

The British Army was too bloody noisy.

Joe Hepworth C 2010