Yak! Yak! Yak!
Squadron Leader Bovril: Yobbles! We’ve been hit, chaps. Kraut’s banter’s got us in the upper crust.
Pilot Wiffle: Mayday! Mayday! Flowers and poles!
Gunner Shirley: I’ve still got a crate of backyard beauties if we need them sir?
Squadron Leader Bovril: Drop your knickers chaps and lets show the Kraut just what mutton we’re made of.
Pilot Wiffle: Chaps, I’ve just deciphered a message from HP Sauce: ‘If great gatsby and sugar batters means friends with which to play petanque and croquet, you’re on.’
Gunner Shirley: Crates and Stilton cheese away! Dresden will burn tonight.
Squadron Leader Bovril: Damn shame, chaps. Damn shame, chaps. Damn shame, chaps, in the midst of life we are in debt, etc, etc.
Gunner Shirley: The Smiths, old chap. A welcomed toddy to whet the black minstrel.
Pilot Wiffle: Bloody shame chaps, that Saxony’s got to burn. I love cabaret and Romanesque architecture and heffalumps.
Squadron Leader Bovril: Confirm target and reply to HP Sauce that we’ve got the Kaiser Chiefs on the turntable and I’m lifting the needle.
Pilot Wiffle: Roger that, Sir.
Gunner Shirley: Roger’s here?
Pilot Wiffle: In the dressing room trying on his mother’s apron.
Squadron Leader Bovril: Bloody damn Roger of the old chap. What with this bloody war going on.
Yak! Yak! Yak!
Squadron Leader Bovril: Damn and blast, chaps. Some Germanic tongue has just taken out our left wing.
Pilot Wiffle: Mother!
Gunner Shirley: Roger!
Squadron Leader Bovril: Hans Muller!
Fade to Flak.