Squabble Ye Not

Picture The Scene

It is June, 1942.  You are a resident of central Paris, the City of Light, currently groaning under the occupation of your Teuton invaders as you have been for the past 2 years.  It is approaching lunchtime, at which point the Teutons make a point of forcing their occupation down your throat by parading down the Champs Elysees.  Strutting jackboots, martial music, lah de dah Eat It France.

Teuton diplomacy at work.

     Yet today, 12th June, is going to be somewhat different.  As you look to the Arc de Triomphe and the assembling enemy troops, you realise there is an enormous twin-engined fighter aircraft swanning about above the memorial.  As you are a civilian and not familiar with aircraft silhouettes, you cannot say what kind of aircraft it is -

     - and yet, as it drops a French tricolour on the Arc itself, you begin to suspect this may not be a Teuton plane.

     This perception is only further enhanced when said aircraft whams it's way down the Champs Elysees at literal treetop height - 30 feet in non-metric measurements - and you notice that it's markings are of a shapely roundel variety, rather than the scratchy, horrid Teuton swastika or Maltese cross.

"BOP" indeed.

     "Ma Foi!" you exclaim in wonderment.  Moments later you hear the appalling racket of cannon and machine-gun fire echoing across the arrondissements, at which point you realise that the Royal Air Force has been trailing it's coat and - why, of course a little excursion is called for!  And there is the Naval Ministry, draped also in a French tricolour, and decorated in brand spanking new 20 mm cannon shell holes, whose sentries look pale, disconcerted and in need of new underwear.

I say!

     The daily Teuton occupation gloat, also known as a "parade", was cancelled.  These soldiers were luckier than they knew, since the RAF Beaufighter despatched to drop flags also had the joint mission of strafing the living bejesus out of them as they marched, and they only avoided this fate as the fighter's crew were given an ETA of fifteen minutes too early.

     Thus, "Operation Squabble" and our title for today.

     As I have mentioned before, if you take on Perfidious Albion in warfare, be prepared to go the distance, to have the distance to be extremely long, with an awful lot of turnings, and to be thwarted at every turn.

Well!
I was going to bang on extensively about that thuggish-looking brute of an aircraft, the Hawker Typhoon, except I've already blathered on about Aircraft of the Second Unpleasantness already, and you can have too much of a good thing.
    So, instead, let us look to -
     - Sir Ken Adams!  Art?

Sir K. in his Volcano Lair

     You and the world at large are going to be much, much more familiar with Ken's work as a production designer on the James Bond film, than you are with his deeds of derring-do as a bright young thing flying with the Brylcreem Boys (a somewhat dismissive slang term for the Royal Air Force).
     If you have ever heard Ken in an interview, then you will be aware of his striking Mittel European accent, which comes of him being born a Teuton, and a Jewish Teuton at that, in that time when it was especially bad to be a Jewish Teuton, in that Adenoid Hynkel had come to power.*

Why this?  Because the less we see of Herr Schickelgruber, the better a place the world is.

     So, Ken and family lit out and settled on that island paradise (which could do with being a bit drier) Perfidious Albion.  He enlisted in the RAF and flew Typhoons (affectionately nicknamed "Tiffies" by their crews, and probably known by a more citric name by Teutons on their receiving end) until the end of the war.  No minor feat, this, since the Tiffy ended up being overwhelmingly used for ground attack.

Someone down there is having the bad hair day to end them all.

     Enough of doom and gloom!  Let us now move on to merrier things, such as <thinks>

Bitten By The Coincidence Hydra - AGAIN!
It's a wonder I can still sit down, as this wretched beast seems to take great delight in fastening it's mandibles in my nethers.
     "What is the maudlin old fool wittering on about now?" I hear you quibble.  Pausing only to inform you that my hearing is as sharp as ever it was, whatever state my wits may be in, I shall explicate.
     Earlier this week I harrumphed on about Paddington Bear, everyone's favourite Peruvian, and "Barry Lyndon", since both were narrated by the same person, Michael Hordern.**  Art?

Sir M again.

     By mysterious means last night I found myself over on Youtube, having come across an old (1968) BBC adaptation of an M.R. James ghost story - "Whistle and I'll Come to You, My LAd".  In this a Professor finds an old, old whistle in some seaside ruins and rashly blows upon it, summoning a spirit most unwelcome.
     Who was playing the professor?  Why, none other than -

Sir M again, again.

     I've only seen the beginning, although <cough cough> I did skip to the end, which is a bit flat, so the suspense must be in the build-up to it.  Art?

Don't fret, it has a happy ending.

     OKAY!  Okay, stop looking at me like that, I'll go back and watch the whole thing.  Happy?

Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before -
I have a feeling I've gone over this one at some point in the past.  If so it was ages ago, so you're going to get it again!***
     "Plethora", meaning "A whole lot of".  What is it's origin?  Typically, since it's not Latin, the other usual suspect, Greek, is the answer.  Originally from "Plethein", and then to "Plethore", meaning "To be full", which is what I'll be in a few minutes as I am currently consuming my lunch.

Like this but more so.

     At which point we have broken the ton, so it is time to retire for today.

*  As close we we get to satire here.
**  He was in "Where Eagles Dare", too, uttering that immortal line "Broadsword calling Danny Boy, Broadsword calling Danny Boy"
***  <Twirls moustache ends in a caddish manner>