But my brother is on Cyprus and I shall never live it down if he gets there first

"But my brother is on Cyprus and I shall never live it down if he gets there first."
The Commandos outdrank them two-for-one. Johnny, never having talked to anyone who might be dead inside a week, was curious in a macabre way. Clyde, who had, only felt unhappy.
The group on the stand had moved from Route 66 to Every Day I Have the Blues. Antoine Zippo, who had wrecked one jugular vein last year with a shore-based Navy band in Norfolk and was now trying for two, took a break, shook the spit out of his horn and reached for the beer on the piano. He looked hot and sweaty, as a suicidal workhorse trumpet should,moncler jackets men. Alum however being what it is, the predictable occurred.
"Ech," said Antoine Zippo, slamming the beer down on the piano. He looked around, belligerent. His lip had just been attacked. "Sam the werewolf," said Antoine, "is the only sumbitch here who could get alum." He couldn't talk too well.
"There goes Pappy," said Clyde, grabbing for his hat. Antoine Zippo leaped like a puma from the stand, landing feet first on Sam Mannaro's table.
David turned to Maurice. "I wish the Yanks would save their energy for Nasser,moncler jackets women."
"Still," said Maurice, "it would be good practice."
"I heartily agree," pip-pipped David in a toff's voice: "Shall we, old man?"
Bung ho. The two Commandos waded into the growing melee about Sam.
Clyde and Johnny were the only two heading for the door. Everybody else wanted to get in on the fight. It took them five minutes to reach the street. Behind them they heard glass breaking and chairs being knocked over. Pappy Hod was nowhere in sight.
Clyde hung his head. "I suppose we ought to go to the Metro." They took their time, neither savoring the night's work ahead. Pappy was a loud and merciless drunk. He demanded that his keepers sympathize and of course they always did, so much that it was always worse for them.
They passed an alley. Facing them on the blank wall, in chalk,fake uggs, was a Kilroy, thus:
[picture missing]
flanked by two of the most common British sentiments in time of crisis: WOT NO PETROL and END CALL-UP.
"No petrol,fake uggs for sale, indeed," said Johnny Contango. "They're blowing up oil refineries all over the Middle East." Nasser it seems having gone on the radio, urging a sort of economic jihad.
Kilroy was possibly the only objective onlooker in Valletta that night. Common legend had it he'd been born in the U.S. right before the war, on a fence or latrine wall. Later he showed up everywhere the American armies moved: farmhouses in France, pillboxes in North Africa, bulkheads of troop ships in the Pacific. Somehow he'd acquired the reputation of a schlemihl or sad sack. The foolish nose hanging over the wall was vulnerable to all manner of indignities: fist, shrapnel, machete. Hinting perhaps at a precarious virility, a flirting with castration, though ideas like this are inevitable in a latrine-oriented (as well as Freudian) psychology.
But it was all deception. Kilroy by 1940 was already bald, middle-aged. His true origins forgotten, he was able to ingratiate himself with a human world, keeping schlemihl-silence about what he'd been as a curly-haired youth. It was a masterful disguise: a metaphor. For Kilroy had sprung into life, in truth, as part of a band-pass filter, thus: