General,
I write to you in our hour of need. We are stretched to breaking point here, and I can think of no gambit, no ploy or stratagem, which could realistically save us. We are a camp of approximately 20, mixed in abilities and experience, but fighters to a last. Unfortunately, we are encircled by enemies on three sides - Susannazis to the North, Natacolytes to the East, Sophiesticates to the West - and the impassable bulk of Ben Cohen prevents retreat to the south.
All day, the guns thunder, and all evening the cats call. Sgt. Audrey Jenkins took a nasty insult to the hips last night, and it's doubtful she'll last until the results. Three scouts - Brenda "Wazzer" McClafferty, Primrose "Dutch" Jones and Julie "Tombstone" Noble went scouting in the barbed post patch last night, and have yet to return. Supplies are desperately low - tea, Blossom Hill sauvignon blanc and biccies are at critical levels, and our synonyms for "vile" are nearly exhausted.
Still, it's not all grim - fierce skirmishing late evening turned good for us when Private Jenny Harkness hit upon the genius tactic of pointing out that Sophie acts like a public schoolgirl, and rumour has it our tech boys are working on an experimental new technology where we compare Susanna's skin tone to creosote.
But it's not enough. We realise things are tough all over, but we cannot afford to lose Digital Spy. Please send as many good men and women as you can - preferably someone who can convincingly pretend to have ballroom credentials, a skilled Biased Judge Spreadsheet Compiler, or someone who's skilled at playing the Racist Dogwhistle.
I go now, back to the front, this respite all-too-brief. If I die, let it be said that I went down calling Susanna the vilest of muttons, dressed as the finest of lambs.
Yours,
Major Farquar Jeremy Oicho von Throw III
51st Highland Clancynauts.