Take a Beaconsfield GP, and put him in charge of your Navy.
Give him a 300 ft long nuclear powered cigar tube to play with.
Allow him to pack 98 hand selected men into the minute space left after he has filled the tube with dozens of tomahawk missiles.
Give them five showers and five toilets to share between them.
Ensure that at least one of the men is a rapper who has changed his name to ‘Reggie Moondog’ and who writes violent lyrics about dead presidents.
Turn twenty percent of the other 97 men into individuals filled with murderous rage, suicidal thoughts, or homicidal hallucinations as detailed by DSM-III-R’s list of side effects of category 292.0.
Plunge under the ocean for 60 days ignoring rapper who says he is stressed and ‘fit to snap’.
Allow all on board one text message per week to keep in touch with family.
Whilst your combustible cigar tube is underwater – firing tomahawks off Libya? – announce that Royal Navy will be taking the brunt of the defence cuts, to ensure a merry atmosphere on board.
Return cigar tube to Southampton with the notion that all on board will finally get the time honoured sh*t, shower and shave, to say nothing of the fag and s*ag they have been looking forward to.
Cancel shore leave and announce that you will be putting back to sea for another 30 days.
Hand sub-machine gun to rap writing rating who is most stressed by all this, invite on board some visiting dignitaries and assorted school children for prawn sandwiches.
Announce that the five toilets are unavailable to ratings whilst the dignitaries are on board.
Stand well clear and get the GP to write your press release – something along the lines of being ‘deeply saddened’ by the ensuing ‘tragic incident’ should do the trick.
Retreat onto budget airline for flight to the one destination they are about to cancel for ordinary folk who bought a home in the area.
Return and announce an investigation to figure out why you are now minus one experienced Lt Commander and another senior officer is in hospital – to say nothing of the pride of your fleet cordoned off as a murder scene and riddled with bullets.
Refuse to broaden the enquiry parameters to include any discussion of why it took a retired local politician to disarm the gunmen, and where were the other 98 highly trained pride of the British Navy.
Ignore the whirring sound in your left ear; its only Nelson revolving at a rate of graveyard knots.