Colonel Blunderbuss
Chapter 1. The Colonel.
Julian sat on his couch staring at the large brown box that had arrived by UPS that morning. Finch & Sparrow Solicitors had contacted him last week to inform him that his Uncle Barry Bennet had left him a “treasured item” in his will, and asked whether he’d collect it or have it delivered.
His 18-year-old daughter Serafine strode into the room.
“What’s in the package then, Dad? Please tell me you didn’t buy more fast fashion. You Boomers fetishise your Patagonia like you’re actually saving the planet!”
She tapped the parcel as Julian slowly peeled back the tape.
Serafine was strong-willed like her mother. Her shaved, blue hair broadcast a clear message to anyone foolish enough to meddle: I will bite.
As Head of Community Integration & Wellbeing at Leicester City Council—a job he took very seriously—Julian couldn’t resist demonstrating his “understanding” of the younger generation.
“It’s Gen X, Sera, and all my online purchases are ethically sourced from sustainable manufacturers. And what pronouns are we today? She, her, they, them?”
As her dad he couldn’t resist lighting the blue touchpaper, no matter how dangerous the explosion.
But she couldn’t respond, because the room was suddenly filled with her father squealing with delight. He leapt to his feet, holding the contents of the box aloft with both hands.
A ventriloquist dummy.
“What is that?” she asked, instantly flattening his excitement. Julian settled back onto the sofa and perched the dummy gently on his knee.
“This, Sera, is none other than the legend himself—Colonel Blunderbuss. Highly decorated officer in the Highland Light Infantry. And your Uncle Barry’s
ventriloquist dummy.”
“Oh my God. That’s the disgusting, misogynistic, homophobic, racist, colonialist puppet Uncle Barry the Bigot used in his—” air quotes “—‘performances’?”
Her disgusted expression ressembling
a cats bum.
“The one and the same. I loved those shows. Don’t roll your eyes, I was nine, Sera. It was the ’80s—yuppies and shell suits—nobody was ‘woke’ and we didn’t know any better…” He sighed affectionately, lost for a moment in the memory of the dingy working men’s clubs in the Midlands. Then added, “Uncle Barry and the Colonel were on TV a couple of times you know—Stars in Their Eyes and a guest appearance on the Little and Large Christmas Special—and there were all the pantomimes: Jack and the Beanstalk with Noel Edmonds and Les Dennis in Dudley Hippodrome.”
He continued, “Not like now, where you’d get cancelled for even thinking half the things the Colonel used to say on stage.”
This is it, Julian thought as he slid his hand up into the puppet’s headstick, fingers searching blindly for the mouth lever.
Opposite him, Serafine watched like she was observing a slow-motion car crash.
“Oh—ugh, weird, it’s warm in here?” Julian grimaced. “It’s… sticky?”
The Colonel twitched as his fingers found the mouth lever.
Suddenly a tiny shudder ran through the dummy’s wooden frame.
His eyelids fluttered. He yawned.
He slowly turned his head as if waking from a long, unpleasant nap.
His head looked around the room; when he spotted Serafine, he performed a theatrical double take. His painted brows shot up and his blue glass eyes bulged.
He snapped back to Julian and barked in a hollow, rattling falsetto with a dash of a Sandhurst parade-ground:
“By GOD, Admiral — hold steady! We’ve got one of them in the bloody room. The ones they warned us about in HQ’s diversity briefings. Can’t tell if it’s a lad, a lass, or some new invention cooked up to confuse our troops!”
Julian and Serafine locked eyes — mutual shock, shared trauma. Even the living room was in shock.
The Colonel barrelled on:
“ATTENTION SOLDIER! A Chinaman, an Indian and a Lesbian walk into a bar. And the barman says—”
Julian slapped a hand over the puppet’s mouth before the punchline hand grenade could be thrown as Serafine’s eyes widened and she prepared to explode.
“It’s not me! It’s HIM!” Julian squeaked to Serafine, before yelling, “Ow, he bit my hand!” as he whipped his hand away from the Colonel’s gnashing jaw.
“Unhand me, sir!” the Colonel roared. “D’you think you can muzzle an officer? You’re no better than the Nips in Burma!”
Serafine’s jaw dropped. Julian froze.
The Colonel continued in his thin, nasty nasal squeak, “Now then! What do you call a woman flying a plane?”
“Nope! Absolutely not!” Julian yelled, trying to yank his hand free from the back of the puppet.
“Why won’t it come OUT?! Sera, HELP!”
He stumbled around, the dummy kicking against him like a furious toddler in uniform.
Serafine stood, staring at the scene, unable to accept what she was seeing.
“Wow,” she said flatly. “Like… actually wow.” Then she turned and strode out, shaking her head without another word.
The Colonel bellowed, “Show some RESPECT, laddie! Salute an officer when you’re dismissed!”
In Therapy
Chapter 2 - In Therapy.
Weeks later, Julian sat with Colonel Blunderbuss perched stiffly on his lap in the office of Dr. Myriam Von Trotteridge — a specialist in relationship therapy and split-personality disorders.
Dr. Trotteridge began their session gently.
“So, how are the two of you feeling today?”
Julian cleared his throat.
“I’m… okay. A bit confused, and, to be frank, often quite disgusted by the things he says.”
“And how are you, Mr. Blunderbuss?” she asked, looking at the puppet snug against Julian’s side.
“It’s Colonel Blunderbuss, you young filly,” the puppet snapped. “I’ll take two sugars and a splash of milk, my dear. Now chop-chop, choi — before the man doctor arrives.”
Dr. Trotteridge sighed.“Julian, have you thought about what we discussed last week? That you might be subconsciously projecting, and what you’re experiencing is a form of… anti-woke Tourette’s, expressed through the Colonel?”
“OFFICER ON DECK!” the Colonel screamed. “Claptrap, young lady! If brains were leather, Private Bennett here wouldn’t have enough to saddle a flea!”
Julian stared miserably at the carpet.
“You’ve got to believe me,” he muttered. “It’s not me speaking. He’s got a mind and a will of his own.”
“TEA WALLAH!” the Colonel bellowed, his head snapping left then right. “How does one get a cup of tea in this bloody mess?!”
Dr. Trotteridge folded her hands with
saint like patience.
“Julian, the Colonel’s outbursts are a manifestation of—”
“INFESTATION?” the Colonel barked. “Infestation of Johnny Foreigner, is it? ZULUS thousands of em—FIX BAYONETS!”
Julian clamped a hand over the puppet’s mouth.
“Sorry. He’s… worse in the mornings.”
“Yes,” she replied dryly. “I can see that.”
“Colonel,” she continued in a firm, parental tone, “we use indoor voices in this office.”
There was a string of muffled swear words buzzed behind Julian’s palm.
Julian leaned towards her, whispering urgently.
“Doctor please get me out of this nightmare.”
Dr. Trotteridge adjusted her glasses.
“If the Colonel is truly independent… perhaps we should let him speak freely for a moment. Without interruption.”
Julian hesitated, then reluctantly removed his hand.
The Colonel’s wooden eyes glinted like a man preparing to charge the enemy trenches.
“Colonel Blunderbuss,” Dr. Trotteridge said gently, “is there anything you’d like to say that we haven’t heard yet?”
The Colonel inhaled dramatically — a bizarre sight in itself — then delivered, in calm, cultured tones:
“A disabled Pakistani, a neurodivergent Chinaman, and a transgender Irishman are sitting around a table in a pub…”
Julian and the doctor braced themselves, shoulders tensed, jaws clenched.
“…What a fabulous example of an integrated community we have here in Britain!”
He turned slowly and gave Julian a sly, conspiratorial wink.
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