Free Where Have All the Bullets Gone? by Spike Milligan

Gogh. What about me?
    “What do you like drawing, Spike?”
    I told him. “Pay.”
    Talking about Turner’s sunsets: “You never see a sunset like that,” I said. “No,” said George, “but don’t you wish you did!”
    George died a few years ago. The world is a colder place.

The Murals
    I ’m there on the plank drawing enlarged fish, octopus, squid, dolphins and crabs; thank God I’ve never had them as bad. Maria drops in to see how I’m faring; there’s a bit of flirting; she brings me figs, oranges, grapes. I ask her if she has a relative in Pompeii. We are repeatedly interrupted by the croaking voice of her mother — “MARIAAAAAAAAA DOVE VI” — accompanied by sudden rushes into the room. Suspicious, yet disappointed. One arrives at the conclusion that the moment an Italian girl isn’t visible to her parents she’s screwing.
    Their farm was a tumbledown affair, and the farm dog, Neroni, a mongrel, was a sad sight, tethered on a piece of rope that only allowed him three paces, nothing more or less than a hairy burglar alarm. The forecourt was a mess of stabling, two white longhorn oxen, a few bundles of silage, scattered farm tools and a wooden plough (in 1944!), a few chickens and goats, the latter given to the desertification of Italy. Poor Neroni, whenever I approached he would snarl and bark like crazy, but when close to, he cowered and whimpered. I got him a longer piece of rope. I stroked him, something no one had ever done before. He licked my face. I brought him some food which he wolfed down. I often think of him. Those days were among the best I’d ever have. At morning I’d breakfast and then make my way to the farm down a dusty lane. The landscape was not unlike Aries at the time of Van Gogh. I’d work through the mornings. I brought the mother some tea, sugar and tins of bully beef. She wept and kissed my hand. Never mind that, what about a screw with Maria!
    By the first week in October I had completed the murals at the Aquarium Club. I arranged to finish mid-morning so I could sneak the rest of the day off. I pack up my pots of paint, wash out the brushes. Tomorrow I will steal another day off when I come to collect them. Goodbye Maria, Momma and Neroni. I walk back by the dusty road and pass a goat flock. A large she-goat is about to deliver. The goat herder, a boy of fourteen, is stroking her and saying “Piano, piano.” Why did a goat need a piano at this particular time? Finally the little hooves start to protrude. The boy, with consummate skill, takes the heels and pulls the kid clear, then repeats it on the twin, alley opp! The little kids, shiny and shivery, lie still as their mother licks them. In minutes they are standing on jellified legs; seconds later they are at the teat sucking vigorously. It was all miraculous in its way, as moving as a Beethoven Quartet — now that needs a piano!

Il Bagno
    O ctober is still warm, the waters call. At the rear of the Great Palace at Caserta is a great cascading water course, Bacino Grande e Caserta.
Caserta — Parco — Reale — Bagno di Atteone
    The faded illustration I include, as it was bought on this very day. Ah, those marble water gardens, cascades gush over Diana of the Chase, poor Atteone being attacked by hounds. How is he supposed to obtain his romantic ends with gallons of algae-ridden water cascading over him and dogs snapping at his balls?
    This green sward where the Bourbons once sported has now been given over to the Allied soldiery and wham bam, it’s become a swimming pool. Hundreds of leaping, diving, splashing, plunging, coughing, spitting loonies are churning the waters. NAAFI stalls have mushroomed, lemonade, ice-cream, cakes, tea are all on tap. We have created Jerusalem in Italy’s pleasant land. Along with the O2E Cook House staff, I am in there somewhere, witness following photographs.
    Tell me what’s clever about: “Who can hold their breath under water longest? — winner gets 20 lire.” Believe me,