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"I much prefer Agassi's early, funny games."

The Hitler Moustache Explained

The Hitler Moustache or the Toothbrush Moustache… which was it first?

The history books tell us Hitler derived his sub-olfactory style from a craze that was, surprisingly, American in origin. On the back of that piece of pub trivia, we might surmise the term toothbrush moustache was the pioneering one. But of equal merit is the following sequence, submitted for your approval:

***

The scene: Hitler's bunker in the final weeks of the war. Eva Braun was turning the place upside down in search of something.

Hitler: “Eva, for goodness' sake! You're making such a mess of my Führerbunker. My Führer-sheets were on the Führer-bed and now they're on the Führer-floor! What are you doing?”

Eva: “I've lost my toothbrush. This is a disaster. I never should have married power. Look at where we're living.”

Hitler: “But darling, many newly weds rough it a little at first. It's an inner-city bunker today, but tomorrow we'll find an Anderson by the sea.”

Eva: “My toothbrush is a family heirloom, Herr Hitler!”

Hitler: “That's a lot of hair!”

Eva: “I'm talking about teeth, not hair.”

Hitler: “The teeth of today are not all they've cracked up to be.”

Eva: “What? Look, my toothbrush came from my father. And he got it from his father, and the same right on down the line, back ten generations. It's our family toothbrush. It's a Braun.”

With that crack, Hitler wondered if Eva wasn't pulling his leg. He looked down to check, but she wasn't there.

Goebbels entered. He looked around and noticed the mess.

Goebbels: “Trouble in paradise?”

Eva (agitated): “I've lost my toothbrush.”

Goebbels (deadly serious): “Why don't you use Adolf?”

Hitler: “Say, what?”

Goebbels: “I'll hold him sideways and march back and forth. We haven't had a good march since arriving here! It will be wonderful.”

Eva: “I fail to see how your marching back and forth while holding my doting Führer sideways will solve my problem.”

Goebbels: “Look, you daub a bit of toothpaste on his moustache and stand there. Stand proud and erect, so I don't battering-ram you down while I brush. Tits and teeth, as they say in the business. Your teggies will be brilliant, and if nothing else your chest will be minty fresh.”

Hitler: “I like that.”

Eva sighed, but resigned herself to Goebbels's flight of fancy, which, in the oxygen-deprived Führerbunker, seemed like genius.

***

From then on, the Hitler moustache was called the toothbrush moustache.

Shortly before the war ended, Hitler shaved. Eva was mortified.

“But, darling! I did it for you!” cried Adolf. “Now we can smooch without you breaking out in Führer-hives!”

“But, my dear,” said Eva. “What will I brush my teeth with now?”

Eva's dismay was justified. Her breath quickly became rancid.

In the end, this is actually what happened: Adolf Hitler did not commit suicide. He gave Eva a big kiss.

 

Goebbels demonstrates brushing with a toothbrush. An inferior method, he explains, compared with the Führer-brush.

Christmas on the Frontline

It was the tail end of the war and Jerry had lost his stranglehold. Our unit was exchanging gifts in a trench, with the odd stray bullet whizzing overhead.

Pugsy handed me a squishy package, which was wrapped in a piece of burlap sack. I unwrapped it warily, but it was only mud. Pugsy's last squishy gift was something far worse. "It's all I have to give," he had said, still trailing his fatigues round his ankles. Filthy swine.

Rufus ran towards us with the field telephone. The wire reached its end and pulled tight, creating a limbo wire the length of the trench. Pugsy thrust himself backwards and attempted to limbo.
"I picked this up from a Caribbean girl," he said.
"You should have put it back again," I told him.
Rufus handed me the phone.
"Go on, you can call your lady," he said. "The brass is making allowances for Christmas."
"That's fine. Did you call your wife?" I asked.
"Yes. It was good to hear her voice. Go ahead, you do it."
"You want me to call your wife?"
"Ho, ho," he replied with sarcasm.
"Oh, Santa Claus is still here."

I called home. My dearest picked up. She was happy, possibly to hear me, or maybe because she'd already started boozing. I asked, "Is everything okay on your end? Or at your beginning, if you prefer?"
She laughed, possibly at my jest, but maybe because the third double was kicking in. Pugsy started tugging on my trouser leg. He was bent over backwards at my feet. He'd locked his back doing limbo and couldn't get up.
"You bloody fool," I said.
My wife started screaming, enraged.
"Not you, dearest," I stammered. "What's that? No, I haven't started drinking yet. I don't drink generally, you know that. I don't drink generally, or even majorly. Or mere infantry, for that matter."
"Ho, ho," said Rufus, standing by with the telephone box.

Later on Pugsy handed out Christmas crackers. He'd fiddled with the gunpowder, adding a little from our arms supplies. He pulled the first cracker with Rufus. After the war, the two were fitted with prosthetic hands. They toured the music halls together. They had a double act where they'd slap each other until their hands fell off.

Artist's rendition of yours truly. He was going to draw Pugsy too but Pugsy would only pose for a nude.