When I was a child I was subjected, along with many million other unfortunate Sugar Puff addicts to a bombardment of propaganda featuring a cartoon squirrel that looked like a rat with an overacive thyroid gland dipped in red dye, his name was Tufty.
Tufty preached to children on the relative merits of crossing the road safely, he also went so far as to patronise parents by instructing them, should they care, to reveal the adult secrets of successful road traversing to their naturally suicidal toddlers. Tufty was an maniacal egotistic pompous lunatic lying bastard. How you say?
If the above seems to echo the language of the military, it is because it does. Drill you say?, Halt. Quick March you say? Off we jolly well go with Red Squirrel Von Barron.
So then to my accident. I had intended to march forcefully across a quiet village street here in Andalusia. As indoctrinated by Tufty, I looked dutefully Right then Left then Right again and guess what happened? I was killed, well almost, by an octagenerian man with Parkinson's disease on a moped with a dog in the front basket. I was killed, if not completely, by the thought that I might have met my end in such a trivial and predictable way. The oldman was totally unharmed and seemingly unaware of the accidents' occurrence, but the dog took note. I suppose it could have been worse, or better, if I had been terminated by a Mister Whippy icecream van, a demise that would surely have provided enough material for the uncomfortable suppression of a smirk at the funeral.
Thus it seems then that Tufty's campaign was to wipe out all future Brits trying to make their way Abroad. Perhaps he was the creation of a disenfranchised Musssolini protege.
The fact is the little red rodent had no idea how to cross a road. He had lied through his buckteeth to make money.
What the F££k? I might sue the bastard.