"More tea, Thistlebottom!" bellowed the Field Marshal.
Ernest J. Thistlebottom, Professor of Unconventional Trousering at the University of Basingstoke, sighed gently to himself and tugged on the bell pull by his arm. He had known Field Marshall Witheringly-Smalls since he was a small boy but still could not quite come to terms with his roughshod assault on the English Language and life in general. If it wasn't for his fond memories of terrorising the various members of the diocese that ran their childhood boarding school with him, the Professor wondered if they might be friends at all. The maid walked in carrying her tray.
"Another pot of tea please, Meredith."
"Ha! Aha!" snorted Witheringly-Smalls. "You're too nice to them Botty! Too nice by half. Why, I don't have the faintest clue what my maid's name. Women's business, what. Now the gardener, a gentleman and an officer should always be..." he was cut off suddenly as a tumultuous fart ripped from the depths of his stomach. His face dropped, the blood draining swiftly from his cheeks. Thistlebottom started to speak.
"I say W..."
"THEY'RE COMING!" roared the Field Marshal. "The Zulus are coming man! Can't you hear the rumble of their drums; their inhuman howls? Where are the rifles? WHERE ARE THE RIFLES?!" he leapt from his chair sending it spinning backwards into the bookcase.
"I say W.S., be a little more careful will y..." started the Professor. He was cut off abruptly as the Field Marshal's face, having recovered from its blood loss and now returned to its normal beetroot shade, appeared within inches of his own. He lifted Thistlebottom slightly off the chair by his lapels.
"RUN YOU FOOL, THEY'LL BUTCHER US ALL!" He threw the Professor back in the chair with such vigour that he careened backwards on the rear chair legs, feet slamming into the table as they shot skyward, sending the cups and saucers arcing across the room. The Field Marshal clambered over the chair and the Professor, thrusting a foot enthusiastically into his compatriot's groin, barking, snorting and honking wildly as he did so. He charged for the door, opening it into the maid's face and splattering the hallway with a freshly brewed pot of India's finest. He trumpeted something incomprehensible at the maid who was cowering against the wall clinging to the silver serving platter, her face a picture of terror, before charging through the front door. Thistlebottom watched from his prostrate position as the door slammed behind him. He surveyed the carnage that had once been his living room with resignation and sighed gently to himself.