We had a lad, who begun to stink, producing a light mist which followed him around, various beastings didnt do anything, even a block court martial did feck all. He used to proclaim it was his genes and he couldnt do anything about it.

Even though when we Regi bathed him, the water had a crust like a week old scab he still stunk, till he was escorted for a better word to the MO to see about his genes, only for him to come back with the words to the effect of, your a gungy smelly twat, cue being bathed at the Tank cleaning pen.

He left not long after, but the smell took weeks to go.

Humph isn't a grot, many just consider him a bit of an oddball who likes the sauce too much, I however know that he's a fucking loony. Humph is a small, quiet, unassuming man with a shaven head Ghandi glasses and the cold calculating stare of a serial killer. I was the block senior of a couple of corridors when I first met Humph, the one I lived on and the one above where he lived. Above his floor was female accommodation.

A terminal singly, a block orphan with a few unusual hobbies. He had a girlfriend for a while, one of the lads asked him what she was like, he thought about this for a while, then replied "Zelda from TerraHawks". Humph likes a drink, when I say this I don't mean a couple of Stellas, I've seen him get through 1 1/2 to 2 bottles of JD a night, mixed with coke in a large plastic beaker. He sits in his room on his own, tamping down glass after glass in anticipation. Fully prepared he emerges silently from his room like a creature of the night, naked save his geggs and the bow shackle attached to his button mushroom cock. The game has begun and the chicks upstairs are in for another night of Humph loving. The screams from above are the first indicator that the phantom has struck again. Before long the guard will again be chasing him along the corridors trying to drag him kicking and screaming back to his room.

The next day sees Humph back in the OC's office having another little chat about the clinic. The girls upstairs generally get off lightly, strength in numbers protects them. The civvie didn't get off so lightly.

One Saturday night Humph went on the piss in the Shot with the lads. At some point during the night he disappeared and was next seen walking into camp, bladdered hand in hand with a very camp fella. The guard just looked on bemused as they walked in together happy as larry. A few hours later said civvie comes tearing into the guardroom, tears streaming down his face, screaming "Ring the Police. He tried to rape me!" before breaking down. The guard commander was obviously chuffed to bits with this and fucked him off out of the gate sharpish, then sent a patrol to check on Humph. They found him unconscious on his pit after following the trail of liquid shit from the shower cubicle to his room. The next morning none the wiser he inquired if any of the lads knew who the civvie was that he had found wondering around the block the night before.

The last I heard was that Humph is a full screw again for the third time! I hope he keeps hold of it this time. I'm sure he's still out there keeping JD and Golden Virginia afloat, I'm also sure he's still emailing the FBI to tell them he knows what they’re up to.

Humph. I salute you.

Temporarily moving this to the top of the NAAFI to demonstrate benchmarks.

There once was a man who, when sober was at best an irritating sh*t but, when p*ssed turned into 'The Hardest Man in The Universe'.

A typical night would start in the bar, having a laugh, playing shock, the usual form.
As the evening progressed, the hero of our story begins to change.
It used to remind me of time-lapse photography, in particular, the one where a fruit bowl turns rotten.

The first sign of tranformation was the 'slitty eyed' look, almost shut but menacing in the extreme.
Then it would move onto the 'lip curl' which, when combined with the 'slitty eye's' gave him an Elvis like presence.
In his King of Rock and Roll posture, he would then begin to mumble. Barely audible witterings punctuated with 'F*ck', 'W*nker' or the ever popular 'I'm gonna furkin batter you later......hic'
Now comes the most terrirfying stage. It takes nano seconds to go from 'menacing Elvis impersonator' to 'Hunched over the bar'. A few gutteral expletives later and he's looking up again. He no longer looks like Elvis, the sight is truly horrific. It now looks as if some invisible force is squeezing his neck, his eyes are literally on stalks. Bulging and blood shot, his face is pale and the muttering has become full on threats of violence. This would then continue for the rest of the night, trying to have a laugh with some frog eyed pissed up hard case threatening to 'knock the f*ck' out of everyone.
He would be guided, not always gently, whislt doing his Amazing Rubber man impression, back his room to sleep of the evening metamorphasis.

Mornings were always a joy (and the reason I've put this tale here). He was, without fail, late up for parade, so someone would have to venture into his lair to wake him up. On the odd occassion I had the task he was invariably semi dressed, by which I mean, trouser round the ankles. Sat on his sofa, hand round c*ck, baby gravy pooling in his belly button and porn 'conveniently' paused showing standard beauty receiving an eyeful. Although he was clearly comatose, worringly, there was always one bulging eye staring aimlessly at the corner of the room.

The phantom shitter, now this guy was class, in our old decrepit block now long converted into a decrepit 'well' block, one squadron shared the bogs and showers, never fail though come Monday Morning, a log curled like a walnut whip on steroids would lie supreme in the center of the floor.

Slightly warm and moist, it would lie glistening like a snake, now this wasnt a small log, but one that only an Emperor could lay, sometimes it would appear before a shitter, but most times it sat and stared at us as we entered. Who was this phantom, never found out, but bowels of steel he had.

Of course you had those who tried to emaluate this shit house hero, but the offerings would be just pickles to our lumberjacked shitter. One day though the strain must have been too much, and the floor looked like the afterbirth of a chocolate factory, though even in his defeat he had an impressive killing zone, with one solitary footprint embedded in the shite, barefoot warrior indeed.

So hail to the Phantom, whoever he was.

'Freddie' the phantom shitter. Phantom in his own mind only as everyone knew him as a poo freak when he'd had a drink. He once confused a stereo on a shelf for as toilet. Would've been funny but it belonged to me. Every time I operated the tape deck afterwards, flecks of hardened poo would fall from the cracks.

We were at Lydd and Hythe for a months range package and had pissed it up in Dover the night before. On wakening we were assailed with shouts coming from the washroom.

On inspection it looked like Willy Wonker had spent the night in there inventing a new chocolate bar. There was thick, dark brown, almost black, lumps and smears everywhere with a beautiful sculpture rising majestically from the urinal. It was CSI's dream as there were perfectly formed fingerprints along the walls and on the mirrors.

Freddie wandered in, red-eyed and still hung over. 'Who the fuck has done that? The dirty bastard. I swear to God you cunts are animals. I fucking despair sometimes!'

He turned and walked out but not before we'd spotted the crushed, slightly gooey dog egg adhering to his lower back. The 'phantom' had struck again.

By the way, Freddie if you're reading - send me a PM you scat freak.

Originally Posted by JesterRIP

The fat honker in question sounds rather like an infamous BAT I'm sure we both know. He lived on a diet of 40 Marlboro's, full-fat coke and more porn than all the other guy's collection in the entire block (and probably entire camp). In fact I remember it well - the new 'temp' accommodation in Ally Pally was fitted with pine-effect built-in furniture and included a substantial 4-drawer chest - 3 of which contained his 'rhythm-mags' and one of which contained his clothes in one half, and cartons of tabs in the other. And what he didn't spend on porn or tabs, he would change into nuggets and feed the fruity in the bar on payday.
Last I heard, he married a foreign lady... I wonder if you know who I'm referring to Mr Fugly?

If its the one I reMELber,

Ahhh, I remember him well for he was on my crew circa 1991, I remember being amazed by the amount of sweat that could be produced by one man pitting his wits against one fruit machine in one afternoon when the mess bar was shut!

Well thats greenies for you....

I like to read a good dit but in this case I have a bit of visual enhancement to help speed things along. After a quiet night in the bar not so long ago I headed to the bog before bed.

As I approached the door I felt a slight burning in my nose and my eyes started to water slightly. I didn't really register this until after pushing the door open and suddenly feeling such an assault on my senses, that I hadn't encountered since being pootached by a fat sweaty arsed Rechy Mech, one hot summers day in Pristina.

The cause of my discomfort soon became clear as I eyed the offenders legs poking beneath the cubicle wall.



The photo can never give the smell justice, the heady tang of piss, shit and vom, delightfully influenced with a strong hint of part digested lager, kebab and chilli sauce.



I tried to wake you up fella. I fought through my mirth at your predicament, I almost conquered my desire to capture your moment of glory.

Readers, you will be glad to know this poor unfortunate didn't spend the whole night with his shitty bare arse, in a pool of his own making and his face inches from a potfull of his own logs. When I returned five minutes later for another giggle he was lying in it.

To the unknown soldier, thankyou for brightening up my evening, you shitty wretch.

Originally Posted by spaz

I like to read a good dit but in this case I have a bit of visual enhancement to help speed things along. After a quiet night in the bar not so long ago I headed to the bog before bed.

As I approached the door I felt a slight burning in my nose and my eyes started to water slightly. I didn't really register this until after pushing the door open and suddenly feeling such an assault on my senses, that I hadn't encountered since being pootached by a fat sweaty arsed Rechy Mech, one hot summers day in Pristina.

The cause of my discomfort soon became clear as I eyed the offenders legs poking beneath the cubicle wall.



The photo can never give the smell justice, the heady tang of piss, shit and vom, delightfully influenced with a strong hint of part digested lager, kebab and chilli sauce.



I tried to wake you up fella. I fought through my mirth at your predicament, I almost conquered my desire to capture your moment of glory.

Readers, you will be glad to know this poor unfortunate didn't spend the whole night with his shitty bare arse, in a pool of his own making and his face inches from a potfull of his own logs. When I returned five minutes later for another giggle he was lying in it.

To the unknown soldier, thankyou for brightening up my evening, you shitty wretch.

I can't believe I've only just seen this post. Mate, that's fucking awesome :D