As a master of martial arts, MOD top dogs beg my advice in ending their pointless foreign wars by next Tuesday. "In his ART OF WAR, " I begin, " Sun Tzu says: Send our sons of art, particularly the crap ones." So Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin parachute into the warzones with their pickled sharks and unmade beds. Spying the obscene price tags for such useless tat, insurgents wet themselves, and their explosive fuses too.
Squads of weak cartoonists litter the souks with bitter dawbs of rebel bedsheetas, with tasty ankles but dangerous bacon sandwiches. Outraged hubbies explode fatwahs in all directions, including on themselves.
The monstrous regiment of quiz show satirists drop in without parachutes, but with old school tactics: if you can't bum your foe into submission, bore his patriarchal arse off with anti-authoritarian cant.
GCHQ Flash: Insurgents invade Emin's gallery and make unmade bed. War is over.
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