Darlings! Well, this IS better. It's January, it's appropriately cold, we're sat in my (now freezing) Belgravia mansion, smothered in scarves, with a roaring fire in every grate, and drinking Daddy's nineteen-forty-six single malt.

Well, I'm drinking Daddy's nineteen-forty-six single malt. I wouldn't waste it on Phyllis. She was drinking hot chocolate.

Or at least, she thought it was hot chocolate. It was certainly chocolate-flavoured, but it's getting so hard to get her to take the medicines.

Still! It's 2014! There's hope yet. What are your resolutions, dear readers? Mine is naturally to continue being my fabulous self. It's a long-held resolution of mine, and one at which I am darling. Though if I could rid myself of Phyllis in a legal, or failing that untraceable, way, that would be excellent too.

And I'm getting my least pleasant resolution out of the way early – let's watch some more of this god-awful tragedy. Film.

If you've only just joined us, dear readers, we're not even a quarter of the way through Stormbreaker. It's taken us five years, several hundred quarts of alcohol and a few drugs to get this far, so let us press on and bring out the big guns. And by 'big guns', I mean the whiskey. The Chateau D'Yquem just isn't cutting it any more. Nor is Phyllis cutting the Chateau D'Yquem, for which I am grateful.

Anyway.

When last we saw you all, Alex had been strong-armed into picking up MI6's copious slack and hauled off to the Brecon Beacons to train with the SAS. (Don't question this. Just accept. It will be easier.) It's difficult to tell who is less delighted by this: Alex, the SAS, or Alan Blunt, who has just had his light o' love removed from his sphere of influence. He was also distressed to find out that Tesco were unwilling to refund his Milk Tray purchase, even in pristine condition and with a receipt.

But these are mere trifles, because Alex is currently in the Brecon Beacons unsupervised and surrounded by military men. And I must say the first sight we get of him in the barracks does look remarkably like the beginnings of a gay porn film. He looks like a party favour, thrown in by Command to keep up morale and remind the soldiers that there are other options to the Female Ladies during their military incarceration. And who knows? Perhaps he is. Sadly, no one knew that.

Anyway. Onwards.

Alex emerges from his Generic Military Vehicle (which looks suspiciously like a Chelsea Tractor with a bad paint job) and stares, uncomprehending, at the soldiers surrounding him. Granted, these soldiers are carrying a log like so many worker ants and appear to be chanting Satanic verse, but surely this is what's expected of the SAS.

The camera cuts to the barracks, and – hang on. Do they have a picture of the Queen framed on their wall? And not just any picture of the Queen – a picture of the Queen on the day of her coronation in nineteen fifty-fucking-three. Is this standard for the SAS? Or has Alex managed to light upon the only group of loyalist nutjobs? Glancing at the guy on the left (and his moustache), I think we can safely say it's Option Two.

"GENTLEMEN," says the crazy-eyed person we assume is the sergeant – not that it matters because he never appears again. "THIS IS OUR NEW RECRUIT."

This seems like a strong way to describe Alex. Perhaps we'd go so far as to say 'optimistic'. 'Bloody stupid'. 'Joke' would be more appropriate. Then again, looking at the way this likely bunch are eyeing him up, 'leisure centre' would be the most apt.

The best is yet to come. "HE'S HERE FOR TWO WEEKS' TRAINING."

"But Sarge-" quoth the token voice of reason.

"DON'T ASK ME ABOUT IT, 'CAUSE I DON'T KNOW A THING."

That much is obvious, sweetie. This appears to be one of those delicate souls who has to consciously remember to breathe.

"I JUST DO AS I'M TOLD," he adds menacingly, eyeing Alex like he's been told to do him.

"WE HAVE NO NAMES HERE. WE DID ONCE, BUT REMEMBERING THEM WAS TOO TAXING. I MYSELF ONLY ANSWER TO 'SHREW'." Oh dear God. "WE HAVE NO RANKS."

Ah, excuse me? That's a lie. This is, lest we forget, the military. Rank is everything. I can't help but think that this is another instance of them being unable to remember. Then again, what does Alex know of the military? They could have sent him to Ipswich and he wouldn't have known the difference.

Alex nods sagely, as though he completely understands. For once, I envy him. I wish I had his ability to accept inanities without question.

It would make Phyllis so much easier to deal with.

She's out at the moment, at one of her classes. Soft-playtime is so good for her. I think it's healthy for her to interact with other people her mental age. The other parents were worried at first, but I soon convinced them she was harmless, and she makes a wonderful climbing-frame for the other children. Nanny's taken her. The poor dear misses Wormwood Scrubs, but she seems happy enough with Phyllis to discipline. Phyll seems oddly cowed these days.

Oh well.

The crosses I have to bear.

"THESE ARE FOX, BEAR, EAGLE AND WOLF," Shrew says, blatantly picking animals at random. I suppose it's a blessing he didn't pick 'Vole', 'Gerbil', 'Hamster' and 'Pigeon'. As it is, it's a small miracle he can even name four animals. We could have had 'Dog', 'Dog', 'Dog' and 'Dog'. He then uses up most of his brain-power managing to point at Alex. I can't work out whether it's reassuring or frightening that it's not just Alex who has this problem. I'm going to go with 'frightening', mainly because these people have guns.

Anyway. Having achieved pointing, he clearly has used up his mental resources for the day. "YOU'LL BE-" desperately, he thinks back to his long-ago school-days and tries to recall a fifth animal. Most of the SAS is made up of units of Eagles, Wolves, Foxes and Bears. This man, God help us, is in charge of several British military units. It may be a relief that we're drawing out of Afghanistan, but it was probably a miracle we even found it if he was one of the people in charge.

"YOU'LL BE-" the sergeant's mind flails desperately for an animal. Pygmy? Marmoset?

Deep in the recesses of his brain, a long and determinedly suppressed voice of reason pipes up, "Cub. You moron."

"...CUB. GET HIM A BED."

He beats a swift retreat and the music makes a turn into the 'bow-chicka-wow-wow' of soft-porn. They circle Alex. And look menacing. And, dare I say, promising. Until, that is-

"What the heck is this?"

Heck.

Heck.

HECK!?

Well, fuck.

These are soldiers. Heck shouldn't even be in their vocabulary. Heck hasn't been in my vocabulary since I learned to spell 'fuck'. I was disappointed by this film before this scene, but now I'm really annoyed. No, sorry. I'm really fucking annoyed.

The shortest man in the room – and therefore the one least qualified for intimidation – unless he's their resident torture expert – squares up to Alex, who is fully a head taller than him and says, "Who the heck do you think you are?"

Firstly, this is clearly a trick question, because as we all know, Alex doesn't think. Alex suppressed his thinking urges at an early age. Secondly, this seems unfair, because all Alex has done thus far is walk into the room and be introduced as 'Cub', which does, admittedly, put him at something of a disadvantage. A little like walking a secondary-school leaver onto a Navy ship and introducing him as 'Princess Twinkletoes' and then asking them to treat him as the delicate flower he is.

Literally, he just walked in, and this guy (Bear/Fox/Eagle/Wolf/Dog/Dog/Dog) is asking him who thinks he is. It's not as though he's already tried to assert dominance by piddling on all their belongings; he's just standing there. I am no advocate of fair play by any means, but I do like to make people think they might be guilty of some social solecism.

Thirdly... heck.

Ohhhh.

OH IT GETS BETTER. "Who do you think you are... a schoolboy?"

... yes? That's exactly what he is. Come on, guys. Keep up.

They give these people guns.

"You gotta be joking," opines one of the others (Bear/Fox/Eagle/Wolf/Dog/Dog/Dog).

Alex looks as though he might like to look at his accuser but doesn't dare break eye content with Dog lest his leg be humped to death.

Finally, the man softens and asks, "What's your name?" Inexplicably, Alex flinches back from this totally-normal question. But we know why. This question requires an answer, never Alex's strong point. "Who sent you here!?" Dog demands.

"I can't tell you," Alex says, with some reason. I will relish this moment as the most sensible thing he has said all film. It's not likely to happen again, especially as the assembled goons giggle like schoolgirls at this riposte – and then promptly grab him by the throat.

I wish I could bring myself to care.

They opine that he may have been sent by Special Operations. Well done. On the other hand, honestly, why do they care? He's there, there's bugger-all they can do about it and anyway, he'll probably die during the first day of training, so what does it matter?

"They're the only ones stupid enough to come up with something like this." Accurate. But at the same time, oh Dog, darling, you should not be throwing that kind of stone around.

Alex, once again displaying his unfailing talent for making friends, shoves his assailant backwards and then kicks him not once, but twice, in the balls.

There's 'making a point' and then there's 'condemning someone to perpetual childlessness'. Alex has yet to learn the difference.

"Has someone been teaching you self-defence?" Well, that all depends. Has someone been teaching you gross stupidity? He kicked you in the balls, man. Twice. I think we can safely say he has some knowledge of self-defence, even if it's just 'go for the squishy bits'.

Although, his block is terrible. He is, at the moment, dedicatedly protecting his aura – or perhaps his updo? - while leaving his physical being wide open to attack.

According to Bear/Fox/Eagle/Wolf/Dog/Dog/Dog, Alex's prior knowledge of self-defence won't help him at the military training camp. Well then. Apparently, all they're going to teach him is a strict adherence to orders which will be, if possible, even less use to Alex in the field than his self-defence skillz.

What follows is a surprisingly enjoyable montage of Alex's SAS training. We watch, with not a little schadenfreude, as Alex crawls through mud, crawls through water, crawls across rope – all with the accompanying sound of machine-gun fire. The SAS clearly take a very literal interpretation of 'survival of the fittest'.

Then, on Day 9, Cub does zip-wire. Two things: one, it looks remarkably sunny for Wales. Two, I did zip-wire at prep school. Admittedly, it wasn't going over a lake, but it was higher than that one, and it was raining – because it was in Wales, unlike this particular SAS camp, which I am relatively sure is situated in Southern Italy. Because if you're going to be killed by friendly fire, you might as well be weighed down by pizza to help you along.

Alex goes across the zip-wire – helped along by a hefty shove from Dog-Wolf – and hangs in mid-air. Now, this stop has clearly been orchestrated by Bear/Fox/Eagle/Wolf/Dog/Dog/Dog, but – as per usual – they have not thought this through. (A running theme for this film, one feels. Both inside and out.) There is a fatal flaw in the plan. He has stopped because they're holding down the wire. But when he lets go, his zipwire thing (technical term) is not going to magically detach with him, and will still be in place when they go across. They will hit it too, and presumably go the same way as Alex. There will be a damp pile-up – nay, a menagerie – in that lake, and that is a montage I would pay to watch.

MY GOD, THE SHREW-GEANT HAS RETURNED.

"YOU'RE NOT IN THE PLAYGROUND NOW, CUB," he says, continuing the film's awesome ability to state the bleeding obvious, "MOVE IT!"

...where to, pray?

Alex, in a move of surprising sense, obeys orders, and goes the only way he can: down.

His unit watch him fall with expressions of inexplicable shock and betrayal, as though they never really expected their prank to end this way. While some of this is explained by their sheer ineptitude, surely someone, somewhere must have realised the logical conclusion to this misadventure. Their expressions basically read: 'shit, shit, shit, we fucked up, we fucked up, shit, shit, shit!"

Oh, I'm so sorry. "Heck, heck, heck, we hecked up, we hecked up, heck, heck, heck!"

Alex hits the water, demonstrates his o-face, and we all collectively shudder back, cringing and recoiling.

He flips his hair (because he's worth it) and I wish I could die.

Suddenly, they are on a night exercise – Wolf is reading the map. Wolf is clearly a typical man, and will not stop to ask for directions, despite Eagle's insistent urgings. His skills, however, lead them into a trap! And they are surrounded! By bright lights and people with guns, hopefully people who are fractionally more intelligent than them.

(In the books, the reason they don't like Alex is because they think he'll get them 'binned', dropped from the SAS. This is reasonable. However, in this monstrosity, I desperately HOPE he gets them binned, so they never have the chance to interact with guns. From the business end, at least.)

The Shrew-geant's voice comes the tannoy (WHY IS THERE A TANNOY?!). "K-UNIT! YOU HAVE FAILED THE EXERCISE!"

K-Unit looks crushed, and Eagle, face dark with resentment, says bitterly, "I told you we should have asked at that pub, but noooo, Mr. Manly-Man wanted to prove himself! Well, he proved himself alright. He proved himself a giant idiot, let's see if he can navigate himself to the doghouse, eh?"

The scene cuts to them being locked in to what I can only assume is the SAS equivalent of the naughty step.

Bear/Fox/Eagle/Wolf/Dog/Dog/Dog strides about the tiny room, head bouncing off the rafters as he goes, and booms, "WE'RE FINISHED! WE'VE BLOWN THE WHOLE EXERCISE! WE'LL GET KICKED OUT!"

This actor has but one line. He is determined to deliver it with gusto. And gusto, he manages. But talent, he lacked.

I'm sure he worked again. (In a fish-and-chip shop.)

Mean.

True.

Alex has apparently lost what tenuous grasp he had on sanity and is patiently tapping the walls. In the source material, this is because he saw the chimney coming in. In this version, it's probably because the walls are his only friends and they whisper happy songs to him when he is at a low ebb.

We can only guess.

Wolf seems worried by his unwanted teammate's slide into insanity, blithely ignoring his own part in greasing the slippery downward slope.

This film would be infinitely better could we be certain that the rest of it was just a hallucination produced by Alex's broken mind. Sadly, however, I have it from a reliable authority that it's not.

Fuck.

Sorry. Heck.

Alex then kicks the wall, which really is no way to treat his only friend. "There's a fireplace!" He says brightly – and, true to form, inanely. Nevertheless, his teammates converge upon him, sensing a potential leader for their group of incompetents, neatly demonstrating how far they've sunk ("You won't last two days" – "And then, they made me their chief...").

"How'd you know?" Which utterly moronic – you know what? I can't be fucked.

Sorry.

Hecked.

Apparently, the chimney is open. ...to their sexual advances? Surely, you're meant to buy the chimney dinner first? Anyway. Silliness aside. But Bear/Fox/Eagle/Wolf/Dog/Dog/Dog points out that the Powers That Be wouldn't bother blocking it up because they knew that no-one could climb up anyway.

"Well you couldn't," Alex points out bitchily. "You're too big – and stupid. It's a straight upward climb but you'd probably get lost. But I can," he adds.

How the he-heck, did he make that sound sexual?

I don't know and I don't care. What filth are you watching, Dorothea?

Nanny! Readers, this is Nanny! It's a project I'm doing pro bono, Nanny.

You know how I disapprove of that free stuff, Dorothea. I've put Miss Phyllis down for her nap. Shall I put the kettle on?

No... not for the moment. But you could pour me some more Glenlivet...

Please?

Oh, Nanny! I do love you. ...please?

None of your taking ways, Miss Doll. You're altogether too like your mother. A real goer. Very well. Don't be up too late. I'm off to bed. There's a churching going on later and I want to attend.

Yes, Nanny. I love you. Goodnight!

...ah, Nanny.

Anyway.

The scene cuts to Alex popping out of the chimney like some kind of twisted Father Christmas, as filthy as that simile would suggest. Below are guards – GUARDS!? – who are clearly only in this scene to demonstrate that this takes place in Britain. BRITAIN. Not Italy, no.

"Cuppa tea?"

"Oh, yeah, ta." Did you know I'm British? I just wanted to make very clear that I was British. I also like fish and chips, and Marmite, and suet pudding and watching the changing of the guard on TV while I darn my tapestry of Queen Elizabeth and occasionally do patriotic morris dances whenever the mood strikes me.

They're just that British. In their off-time, they dress exclusively in Union Jack togas. Much like Ginger Spice (another idol. Alongside the Queen and Wayne Rooney).

Darlings, I love you, never say I don't do anything for you, but this is just about as much as I can take – particularly when I don't have Phyllis to torment as light relief. For now, I bid you adieu and gratefully embrace Daddy's Glenlivet to get the taste of this horror out of my mouth.

I hope you all have a wonderful New Year – just not as wonderful as mine.

Much love,

Doll xx