It was a pretty, bosomy, upper-class lady being roughly manhandled by ten leering French soldiers. Of course it was!

Because it wouldn't be an episode of 'Sharpe' unless a minimum of 5 women succumbed to the grizzly charms of our battered hero, or someone's wife popped up with a lot of barely disguised references to pricks and shagging, or the 95th Rifles going out 'hoorin'. Or even, failing that, an amusing imagined sub-plot of slash entitled 'It's More Fun If Everyone's Gay!'

However, in the interests of writing a decent parody, none of this is going to happen.

The amusing bonus effect of this is, by halfway through the story, everyone will be so murderously frustrated that the only thing with breasts it would be safe to let them near would be a dinnertime chicken (and even that would be dubious, depending on how imaginative the Rifleman in question could be).

'Eek. Eek eek eek. Unhand me, I'm the Comte De Fromage's wife!' she screamed, her two brain cells clearly failing to inform her that a bunch of under-sexed French soldiers were not about to stop molesting her just because she told them to.

'Fire!' hollered Sharpe, charging in with his sword drawn, and flanked by the rest of the yelling Rifleman, looking murderous in an ever-so-faintly-attractive manner. Six shots instantly rang out, snapping like a homicide's Christmas cracker. In the brief skirmish that ensued, the Frenchman flailed defencelessly.

They twisted horribly to the ground, bleeding, although it doesn't matter, because there was no chance of it being the equally-comradely, just-as-much-beloved French version of the Chosen Men that they'd just killed without a thought. Why? Because the French were the baddies. Duh.

Hagman and Cooper stood up out of the shrubbery, jaws set grimly. Everyone surveyed the scene impassively, but something didn't really feel right. Cooper broke the silence.

'Oh shit, I know what we did wrong'

'What?'

'We shot the woman by mistake'

There was a nasty silence, as everyone turned round, and was met by the sight of the Comtessa De Fromage, hacked gorily to bits and shot five times in the head, and bubbling nastily away in a pool of her own blood.

There was a long pause.

'Well,' Harris made some attempt at comforting the fretting Chosen Men, 'by the law of averages, she probably wasn't that important. There's lots of bosomy ladies about. I'm sure if we hunted about a bit and maybe checked up trees and in caves, we'd find lots scattered around…'

'Yorkshire pudding! Yes, bastards!' Sharpe bawled madly at them, spit flying heroically, 'Bastards! Bastards! Oooohh…Yorkshire pudding, y'bastards…!' And he shouted at them in this vein until they all formed up in ranks again, and continued on their way, heads hanging in shame. Sharpe did this because shouting at things was what he generally did whenever he disliked something, and yet wasn't allowed to kill it.

They jogged down the cliffside, and continued on their way.

'Ooh, I don't be as spry as I once were…' Hagman grinned, shunting his Zimmer frame downhill.

Fortunately, Harris was right.

And this was particularly fortunate, because the universe would probably have exploded if he hadn't been. Harris knew everything – although not why, despite the bosomy ladies having money to burn, they couldn't afford to buy themselves enough dressmaking material to ensure their ya-yas didn't make a bid for freedom out of the top of their dress. Nobody knew that.

They hadn't gone far before they came across another evil gang of French baddies manhandling a Bosomy Lady, whilst their leader sat by on a magnificent dappled cavalry horse, ribbiting and croaking with mirth.

'Fire!' shouted Sharpe, and they shot most of the soldiers. As they dropped down to the ground, they shoved an enthusiastic Harris in. They watched, cringing, as he laid into the French soldiers like a toad from a catapult, making the kind of accompanying facial expressions more usually entitled 'It's Caught In My Flies!'. And then they all came charging in, decimating the remainder of the French soldiers, and Sharpe sweatily wrestling their leader to the ground with a flexing of his manly muscles.

Sharpe held him in an armlock, pistol to his head.

'Y'bastard,' he grimaced menacingly, ' Yes, y'bastard'

He grasped the Frenchman's neck tighter, making the officer (who was, incidentally, not at all good-looking, thereby making Sharpe look even more of a handsome goodie next to him) choke and gasp.

'Bastard!' he snarled, jabbing the gun at the Frenchman's scalp. Harper bent hurriedly down in front of the Officer, pleading with his delectably Irish puppy-eyes.

'He'll do it, Sor! He really will blow yer brains out if ye don't tell us the answer!'

'Wait!' the Frenchman struggled, 'You've forgotten to actually ask me a questio….yaaargh!' he screamed as Sharpe remorselessly pulled the trigger.

'He did 'av a point, Sir,' Cooper pointed out tactfully, scraping bits of brain off of his shins, 'It is sort of fair that you arsk 'im a question before you shoot him for not answering it'

'Bastard,' Sharpe glowered mercilessly, 'Bastard'

'Here, don't yez be questioning Major Sharpe's orders! He's got enough tae worry about without lipfrom the likes of yez,' Pat Harper said sternly to Cooper, turning to try and find out where Bosomy Lady No. 2 had run off to, 'Least none of us was wounded'

Suddenly, Perkins pointed at Harper.

'Oh my God, Sarge, your leg just fell off!' Perkins screamed girlishly, shocked.

'Boobah! And oi hadn't even noticed! 'Tis nothin', lad – whoi, over t'rainbow and back home in Donegal, it used tae happen tae me everyday!' Harper jollied, hopping merrily along behind Sharpe.

'Yes!' Sharpe exclaimed with concern. He pointed at Harper's arm, which had just that moment dropped off at the shoulder.

'Oh Sor, it's just a scratch,' Harper smiled, and waved calmly with his one remaining hand, 'Look, if ye're really worried, Oi'll stick moi limbs in moi haversack and take them back home, an' moi wife Ramona'll sew them back on again, how's about that?'

Good old Pat. Good old 'It'll take 14 cobras and an A-bomb to bring me down, so it will!' Pat.

'I say,' said Harris, 'isn't it about time we headed back to camp? Major Sharpe's gone at least three days without being shouted at by some knob of an Officer for something that he didn't do'

'Jesus wept! We can't have that!' Harper exclaimed, rounding up the latest Bosomy Lady. Sharpe took her by the arm and looked deep into her eyes, whereupon she was so lost for words that she fainted clean away and had to be carried heroically back to camp by Sharpe.

'Permission to warble, Hagman,' Sergeant Harper smiled, suddenly feeling terribly charitable.

'Oo-ar, yes sir!'

'Karma Police

Give it all I've gots,

But it's still the same…

This is what you'll get,

If you m…' Hagman began, off-key and plaintive, yet curiously absorbing.

'Oh, sing somet'in' wit' a liddle more bounce, will yez?'

'Sticky hair, sticky hips

Stubble on my sticky lips,

Michael, you're the only one I'd ever want,

Only one I'd ever want,

Only one I'd ever want,

So come and dance with me Michael,

Come and dance with me Mi…'

'Bouncier!'

'I believe in a thing called love!

Just listen to the rhythm of my heart!

If there's a chance we can make it now,

We'll be rockin' 'til the sun goes down..!'

'That's better!'

Perkins was having a crisis.

Every man within a hundred mile radius got pissed, snorted white powder, smoked, made inordinate amounts of noise, swore like a sailor, and slept with anything that moved. What was a teenager to do? All available routes of traditional rebellion had been firmly slammed upon his skinny nose!

Still, a teenager had to try.

Step One, he thought, swapping his green jacket for a leather one with an Iron Maiden logo on the back. Like most people who wore one, he had no idea what it meant - but it looked very offensive, that was the main thing.

Major Hogan pushed open the tent-flap of Wellington's tent, falling over another pair of pink, muddy Wellies on the way.

'Yes?' Wellington looked up, 'Anything new to report on – oh, yes, Hogan be a dear and pass me those Wellies, they're my wife's…she's been looking for them…'

'Well, Sir,' Hogan sneezed, eyes streaming as he popped another Vicks, 'Major Sharpe's back again'

'Already!'

'Yes, already, Sir. He's brought some woman back with him, though'

'Well, dammit, Hogan, don't just stand there! Go out and tell him to find some secret clues to solve or some stolen property to return or something. We can't have him sitting about idle – it's at least a week before the next attack on the French is planned for, and he'll damn well pick a fight with anything that moves if he gets kranky!'