Some background. You may, perhaps, have seen me take a turn or two at the West End - no big parts yet, but the critics say I am destined to become a well-known comic film actor (they sometimes use the term 'Brian Blessed-esque', whatever that might mean), known for my beardy presence, ribald humour and entirely legitimate Highland accent, having very definitely been born in Dornoch and not South London. I was briefly educated at both University College London and the University of Bonn, and have had quite the interesting and varied career that I didn't at all fabricate, having worked as a insurance salesman, gold miner, lumberjack, dishwasher on a Dutch freighter, the secretary of the British Ice Hockey Association and racecar driver. I am a renowned polyglot - some (me) say I command over twenty tongues!

I came to Spain in January 1937 a dashing captain - in the prime of my life! - after a highly successful stint as a League of Nations policeman in the Saarland, where I was definitely a captain and definitely not responsible for the deaths by gunshot of several innocent bystanders, which in turn definitely had no bearing on my decision to come to Spain. No sir! I merely wished to allow the beleagured Republican government the chance to make use of my many and varied talents. Not on the front, of course - a man of my talents and experience can be better employed elsewhere. I became commandant of the International Brigades base at the town of Madrigeuras (a village famed for its knives, wine and spatulas).

Here is the rub, of course. Alongside the good stout-hearted Britons that made up my own company there were - you'll not believe this - also French volunteers encamped in my town. This was an affront to my Englishness Scottishness. Of course, ever the diplomat, I confined my distaste to a few choice comments in the ears of my countrymen. Could I have ever predicted that this might encourage them to waylay their French comrades in arms, leading to several affrays amidst 'a great deal of Anti-French feeling'? Really, had they not wanted to be vigourously assaulted, could they not have considered simply not being French? That's what the Saarlanders did at any rate, and look how well that turned out.

My superiors of course had little sympathy for the plight of some Froggy degenerates. But my peace was short-lived. A trifling amount of medical supplies went missing - such things happen in war, you know - and the vilest slanderous questions began to emerge:

'Did you take the missing morphine, Captain Justice?'

'Exactly who made you a Captain anyway?'

'What exactly happened in the Saarland?'

'For christ's sake man, you're high as a kite aren't you?'

Thus, I was inelegantly dumped back over the border - into France, of all the indignities. The Spanish Republicans insist on calling me 'disruptive', 'careerist', 'opportunist' and a 'drug addict'. What say you dear reader - AITA?