For Your Reference, Our Characters:
Major Richard Sharpe: Gritty, pretty, and not very witty.
Sergeant Patrick Harper: Irish, but otherwise very nice.
Rifleman Benjamin Perkins: A Teenager.
Rifleman We-Don't-Know Harris: Scholarly perma-squinting gingernut.
Rifleman Francis Cooper: Nothing in particular.
Rifleman Daniel Hagman: Musical, sharp-shooting old coot.
General Jean-Paul Evilfrog: Murderous, Sharpe-shooting old bastard.
Lady Marie–Susan: Sharpe's gratuitous love interest.
Lieutenants Pringles, Walkers and McVitie: Elitist Officer Sods (Standard Issue)
In the interests of Sharpening(hah!) my parody-writing skills, THIS is an affectionate piece of nonsense, riddled with grievous formatting errors (I apologise) in which our Grittier-Than-A-Mugful-Of-Army-Tea hero, Sharpe, must survive one episode equipped with ONLY the following five phrases:
Bastard!
Yes (Sir)
I love you
Yorkshire pudding/tea
Fire!
Sharpe's ParodyThe scene is early one morning, some place somewhere in some European country. Nobody knows where.
The viewers don't give a damn because all they want to do is dribble over Sharpe, the writers don't give a damn because all they want to do is write about some of the weirdest characters frankly ever created, and Sharpe gives even less of a damn because all he wants to do is glower, shag and/or shoot people.
'I've shot a frog, sir!' Harris cried, head and shoulders popping up out of the long grass like a demented marigold.
'Bastard?' enquired Sharpe, grimacing for no particular reason.
'No, Sir. Unfortunately I meant an actual frog. I fell in the, um, pond…'
Harris sadly picked the tiny green corpse up.
Although the doctors didn't yet have a name for the condition that caused him to blunder about the Spanish countryside with all the grace of a runaway steamroller, there was no doubt it was a very real mixed blessing. On one hand, Harris was useful against enemy soldiers (they prodded him in the general direction, and he immediately took five or six out just by staggering ontop of them.).
On the other hand, it gave him a tendency to fall into just about every hole, hill or body of water they came across - Perkins had lost count of the number of times he'd had to fish him out of the laundry boil-wash, orange and steaming like an undercooked koi carp.
No-one was quite sure how Harris had managed in the pre-army days, when everyone lived in the Real World. He hadn't told anyone as such, but he was suspected of coming from a rather seedy affair that started with enrolling as a Private Tutor to the vicar's daughter pay off his debts, and ended with the vicar having him arrested. Apparently, the things he'd been caught teaching his Pupil across a large school-desk in the classroom had almost certainly not beenon the Curriculum.
'Sunshine dust and leprechauns, Sor,' Harper said contentedly, beginning the sentence in his usual cheery manner, 'But Oi think it's safe to make camp around here– how's about we finish this Recce patrol and report back?'
Sharpe nodded, standing up out of the long grass.
'Yorkshire tea,' he said.
'Moonlight and sparkles, yes Sor! Oi'll make ye some once we make camp…'