My grandad fought the Nazis, you know. In Africa. REME. He was injured out. Never fully recovered. Spent the next 50 years gradually deteriorating.
I don't think grandad was a great idealist. He fought the Germans because he had to: we were at war. He was probably totally unaware of all the evil stuff the Nazi Party was up to, but he probably thought he was fighting for king and country, to preserve our way of life. A way of life which, let's face it, is worth preserving.
But one thing's for certain: grandad didn't go to war against Rommel for us to have to put up with shit like this:
Have you ever seen a dog on a beach? It's just about the most joyous sight there is. Dogs are what beaches are for.
I'm thinking of hiring an elephant, painting a Union Jack on the side, and taking it for a walk on Bridlington beach, just to make some sort of point.