A nice traditional poo story...

Right, LairdX seems to amuse himself adequately with Pokemon, but calls have been made for a good old yarn about bum gravy, here's mine:

As a kid, I did Ten Tors on the beautiful land of Dartmoor, run by 43 Wessex.

The event consisted of two days of blisters, bogs and fricking grassy b*llocks. 35, 45 or 55 miles, age depending.

In training for the 45 event, I started getting the inevitable first spasms of lightning shock indicating the presense of a very boisterous and active turtle some way inside my virging hoop. (Long may it's one-way traffic system be preserved.)

Said turtle poked a particularly raw nerve and sent a rigid leg into muscular shock.

Clenching my strained and weakened dam against the reservoir of Biscuit fruits and Chicken stew with "herb" dumplings, I stumbled on. The day was wearing thin and the sun lay low bleeding into the sky, we were all utterly exhausted.

The pain subsided, and normal walking resumed. I then made the beginner's mistake of slightly relaxing my sphincter. This proved to be fatal. A sudden internal shift of bowel content threw both legs to attention and I lost control of my lower limbs. My legs stumbled into the bane of that land - "babies heads".

I felt the proceeding action in Hollywood-style slow-motion. I lost my upright position, normally perpendicular to the ground and tumbled, like a felled tree to the boggy floor. The force of impact wrenched my internal passage and my overloaded hoop gave up its defense.

With a hot, wet spurt, chocolate sauce poured like a lava flow into my bulging boxers. Desperately my starfish mounted one last stand, but heroically failed as the bubbling mixture came out, undigested "bacon" and all...

Cue much swearing.

The Gods, deciding to have fun, had conspired to make the weather a temperate just-above-freezing, as I ditched the decorated shreddies in the East Dart River. Worse came later as I was forced to physically submerge my rump in ice cold water flow as bits of finest bisto flaked off and headed downstream to pollute the waters of Tavistock.

My five team-mates, ever-helpful, rolled around as gibbering wrecks, laughing the deep belly-laugh of he who sees poo and is satisfied it contacts him not.

They then had the cheek to "assist" in the washing process! :oops:

Gentlemen, the floor is open, we need more poo!
On a training weekend the previous year, a team-mate was fortunate to be blessed with the squits...

Dihoreaihehe, however you spell it, liquid sh*t, is bad enough at the best of times, when the afflicted is in close proximity to a flushing waste receptacle, but while in the wilderness of the South, the problem becomes a whole lot more difficult.

Now there's plenty of stories about failed containment while in civilised surroundings, but this one is slightly different. Said team-mate was, errrm, a little bit wierd. Rarely talked, very strange and we suspected he was queer to boot.

Let's call him "James" because that was his name.

James had one requirement when depositing his mr whippy, he had to perform the act under a tree. The only problem with that being there are no trees on Dartmoor. Yes, around the reserviors there are a few woods, but on the high moor people worship trees when they find them, they are rareities.

So, the team was walking along, this time I was blessedly free of colonic matter but James was purple-faced and walking John Wayne style trying to keep his slurry stationary.

In the distance the scraggly figure of a battered and probably dead tree appeared.

James' face lit up and he ran, a bit like a Komodo Dragon towards the shrub as if it were his saviour. The rest of us looked at each other in puzzlement as the boy waddled off in search of anal happiness.

When we caught up with him about ten minutes later, we found him desperately rubbing his arrse on the prickly Dartmoor tufts around him, swearing under his breath.

To our amazement he then stood up, turned his torso around and slowly pulled a long, thin and browned piece of dried grass from his hoop. The poor lad had been penetrated by his vigorous rubbing.

The five of us yelped with laughter as James swore and rubbed his rear a little more.

A dawn of delight mixed with horror cracked over our faces as we saw the runny cow-pat James had disposed of on the hilside. Unfortunately for him, his rucksack lay below the target area and the feacal matter was slowly and inevitably running downwards like a brown glacier.

The flow began to drip over a small bank and onto the harness of his bergan as the man himself, still oblivious to the danger his kit was in, was heading, sh*tty-arsed to a small rivulet below.

We eventually took pity and removed his bag from the drop zone, but only after the waist and shoulder straps had been liberally doused in the gravy.

The poor kid came back up, pleased he had a clean arse, and quickly grabbing his bag he slung it on his back. The lubricated straps oozed down onto his shoulders while James screamed and leapt out of the biohazard.

Simultaneously the rest of us howled with laughter as James cursed us and kicked his sack.

He spent the rest of the week-end honking like a back-street in Delhi, and with a strap-shaped stain over his white T-shirt. :lol:
One of our troop leaders on a ball freezingly cold winters day on Soltau, driving sleet and wind that could freeze hell.. It was so cold that the deed was done in double time. Parka off, fleece off, coveralls bunched around ankles, lean on spade and let fly. In his haste to get his warm kit on to stop his arse freezing he didn't take the time to examine his output before covering it up. If he had he would have realised that he hadn't moved his coveralls away from the drop zone and had shat into the back of them. When he got dressed he managed to get his turd smeared all down his back. Didn't realise until he got back into the turret to start an advance to contact. The smell hit him and his crew had the pleasure of breathing his shitty stink for two or three hours before he could strip his nappy looking rollneck and covvies off...nice..
I have a poo story.

It's 1990. Me and the platoon sergeant are doing a CTR on Salisbury Plain, and taking the opportunity to try out our shiny new night sight. This is sitting on top of my SLR like one of those big novelty super-soaker water pistols you can buy nowadays. Our objective is to sneak up on a section from one of the other companies, who are all dressed up as the Red Forces (wearing Hats, Silly). We are, of course, hopelessly lost.

"Wassat?" Says Sgt. There is a chugging noise. I train my SLR across the sweeping nightime vista of the plain, and see in the distance a big black lump moving across in front of us. It is one of the Ferret scout cars belonging to the local UOTC, who are obviously having one of their ging-gang-goolie weekends. Their cavalry troop is very, very posh.

"It's a Ferret." I say, mastering the obvious.

"Well, that's not the fcuking enemy, is it?" He replies. We are that lost.

Anyway, the Ferret trundles along a track and stops. Out climbs a young lady O/Cdt. who jumps down from the turret. She's no more than thirty feet away and completely oblivious to the two stealthy stabs hiding in the bushes.

She walks towards us, drops her kecks and proceeds to take a dump. The sgt is by now strangling me as we fight over possession of the night sight so we can get a better view of this unusual nocturnal treat.

We can only speculate that the young lady had been eating composite rations as she was straining considerably as she produced an impressive pan torpedo, grunting and groaning like a WWF wrestler as she forced it out.

At this point we both started cracking up laughing.

The female O/Cdt. squealed and pulled up her combat trousers with the King Edward still in mid-release and waddled off to her Ferret, got in the turret and shouted something. It drove off.

We were playing dead ants by this point, as we imagined the pong inside the ancient armoured car as the ruperts went off to find slightly more civilized ablutions.

I would like to take the opportunity to apologize to the young lady in question.

About 2 years ago i got very drunk one night at a mates house and during the evening i needed to drop the kids off, as i waddled upstairs i felt myself losing control of my bouwls, all i can say is thank god it was solid, as it slipped out i regained control of my guts and clenched quickly which was a bit of a stupid idea as i cut off the log mid turd and it plopped nicely into my ted bakers.As i reached the crapper i pulled down my cacks and finished off the job, taking a sh1t , taking off your trousers and boxers whilst keeping your trainers on is an art.I then proceeded to throw my shreddies out of the window onto the street below.
The next morning my mate and i thought it would be a good idea to have a look at my effort, we picked up a pair of the lodgers cooking tongs and went outside to pick up the undies and bring them back in. We took the soiled crusties into the kitchen and rolled the turd onto the work surface, at this time the tongs accidentily went straight into the chocolate log ( which was an impressive size by the way), after laughing at my follow through we decided to set it free again and threw it and my soiled undies back out of the window.I glanced around but there was no washing up liquid to use to wash the tongs with so being the gentleman i was i just quickly rinsed them under the tap and put them back.I came down the stairs 10mins later to find said lodger using the tongs in a fresh salad to be served to the parents of his girlfriend, i put the marks on the tongs down to balsamic vinager. 8O
During the late 80's I was on the p1ss with a mate in Limassol (drinking/sunbathing/swimming). As we came to a private (hotel) beach we went in for a dip, and I felt that familiar rumbling/gurgling feeling.

I swam out a couple of yards further, dropped my keks and drunkenly imagined I would let something loose which would instantly dissolve.

What came out was about a gallon of highly buoyant, extremly pungent bum gravy. This instantly clung together again and headed for shore like a brown version of the tory canyon spillage.

Have you seen the jaws scene, where the shark is spotted and everyone flees from the water screaming :oops: :oops:
When I was growing up I had the misfortune to be the eldest of all the assorted children in our mob. When there would be the inevitable "get togethers" for weddings, christenings etc I was used as free child care. I was always the one left in charge of about 9 kids (give or take a few depending on attendance and ages) whilst the adults went and did the swanning about boozing thing. Not too much of an issue for the most part except for one occasion I remember fairly well.

One of the cousins had a seemingly endless supply of children and was always turning up expecting or just delivered.....well it seemed she did anyways. This one do was for some great aunt I had never met and as usual "oh yes just leave them with miz she's fine" yeah thanks mum 8O. Heifer who dumped the squalling infant on me neglected to mention child had had its vaccines for distemper or ebola or something like that a day previous. Charming! So not only did it keep howling for its mother, which only earned me a "Can't you look after Little Rimjob better and keep it quiet?" but it decided to have a go at overflowing its nappy too as a reaction. This last bit was the worst bit, in my view, because I quite literally got left holding the baby as it overflowed.

It had been squalling and screwing up its face and I had tried to palm it off back to its mother, younger cousins, anyone I could find really. I even left it in its push chair for a while till I was ordered to take it out. It was at this point that things became less pleasant. The brat let out a fart that would have made a grown man cry, I know I was crying at that point, then it made this horrible wet bubbling fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz sound. I was not quite fast enough to get it out of the way. The cloth nappy it was wearing was gappy at the legs. The gravy it produced would have been enough to fill a bucket. I swear it deflated in front of my eyes. I had it out at arms reach and trying to return it to its mother at same time. The high powered spray got me right down the front of my skirt, face sprayed the various shorter cousins surrounding me (some of whom had been moments before hysterically laughing at the farting infant) and then left a trail across the carpet as I raced it to its mother. She and the people around her were horrified, not to mention covered in liquid shite in short order. It was a great party stopper. I shoved it into her arms and said "it shat itself" (that comment in itself earned me a whole raft of extras) and then I ran off to the bathrooms to try and decrap my clothes. It didn't take long to have the bathrooms full of screaming, crying, stinking kids who needed to be cleaned up. Needless to say I copped the blame for "not handling it effectively" 8O

Then again no one else wanted the mud cake that was for dessert after that display so I got to scoff two pieces. Bonus!!
After a bender in BFG a rather drunk Hammer farted and followed thru.. in desparation he legged it to the nearest sparkasse bank and furiously ordered many bank statements with which to wipe his arse and tidy himself up. all was well until i got my bank statement the next month and had umpteen additional charges for bank statements.
Giving birth to a death adder has always been one of lifes little joys,be it alfresco with mother natures glory or atop the finest , music playing arrse washing, padded seat ,Japanese trumping pot money can buy.
However having recently suffered a set of Chalfonts that left the bowl looking like Jeffery Dahmer had made his breakfast in it ,the siren song of the crapper has somewhat diminished. Indeed the kind doctor who shoved a large camera up my jacksy told me to limit my self to short sharp bursts to prevent a reoccuruence.
Such was the extent of my hoop reconstruction , the sides dont quite meet up any more, so I read these posts with a tear in my eye and a trickle of bum gravy in my kecks for pleasures lost.
You know those 70’s disaster movies? The ones with Exclamation Marks at the end of the titles and starring Charlton Heston as Middle America – how they start with a geek forlornly warning of the disaster, how a everyone remains oblivious until disaster strikes, how dodgy primary-school science saves the day and asks you not to examine how it does it in any detail. Well, I shat myself this weekend and it was just like that.

It all started, as it does in the movies, with an innocuous occurrence that hints at the forthcoming Armageddon. In this case it was a violent spasm of the lower colon caused by a Motorway-side Whopper and fries prepared by an Albanian economic migrant named Saski. Saski hasn’t grasped the full implications of the Food Safety Act because he can neither read, nor indeed speak a word of English beyond “David Beckham” and “Lady Di” (pronounced “Lyerdy Dee”) – oh, and he learnt a new word this weekend: Live 8, but he dislikes Africans and considers them freeloading layabouts who refuse to sort out their own countries’ problems. Saski left his goat farm in the foothills because of his countries many insurmountable problems, which he blames on the Americans. Anyway, Saski’s background in rearing goats has failed to prepare him for burger manufacture, and the only E-Coli he knows about is a Right-wing Punk Rock group from his hometown, Tirane. As a result of all this, I have gut-rot.

Not one to let health concerns dictate my lifestyle, I spend Friday night drinking funny beers named Hobgoblin and White Wych. This is the gastronomic equivalent of pouring 6 bottles of water, 18 packets of lemon screech and a jerry can of unleaded onto an electrical fire. My guts enter a catatonic state and the towering inferno that is my bowels remains contained until the next day…

…when I get up at 7, have a proper full English and drink 8 pints of Warsteiner before the final whistle of the All Blacks/Lions match.

Then we go to the pub.

I sh1t myself in a swanky quayside bar surrounded by well dressed young people who are strangely sober considering it is 1330 on a Saturday afternoon. I’m in the middle of a heated debate with my girlfriend over whether Jet from Gladiators is pretty enough to be included in a fantasy blancmange-Jacuzzi deathmatch cage-wrestling championship that already includes Zoe Wannamaker, Avril Lavigne, Kylie (pre-op, naturally) and Natalie Portman. As I thump the table in emphasis, the vibrations cause my rectal muscles to crumble like the Mohne Dam. I instantaneously become a rigid, terrified statue on my seat, looking as if Her Majesty herself has just walked in and Gen Jackson has just barked the command: “Sit Up!”

This action prevents a major voiding of the bowels. As far as I can tell only as much as a sloppy handful has escaped. I try to manoeuvre my sphincter in such a way as to defy biology and create sufficient suction to 'inhale’ the wettest bits back up. It doesn’t work, but if The Creator is reading this, it would be a useful modification.
I get up gingerly, i.e. I’m embarrassed, trying not to draw attention to myself and by now smelling very much like a Moss Side bus stop. I walk like metal mickey and lay a thousand puss-ridden curses on the eejit who started the trend of putting toilets up 3 flights of stairs in these trendy metalled bars. The stairs weave above the leather couched seating area, where giggling shopettes in strappy tops are relaxing over frozen margaritas. Unfortunately the stairs are slatted, so between each step there lies nothing but air. As the rusty water starts to run down my left leg I up the pace, like Frankenstein’s monster shuffling away from the homicidal villagers, hoping desperately that I don’t start muck spreading. I make it to the top with only maybe a couple of errant drops (no one screamed so I’m guessing they missed), I leap into the toilet just in time for Catastrophic Loss of Continence (CLC). My once-lucky blue boxers get a hero’s burial behind the cistern, and I promise that they’ve earned their place in Valhalla. I clean up, then walk to the sink for advanced decon.

A rather embarrassing moment is dealt with when a random punter walks in while I’m gripping my ankles below the hand dryer and naked from the waist down. I look up and say, simply: “Shat meself.”

He nods wisely, in complete understanding, and goes about his business.
On exercise in hildesheim many years ago, our section had the most disgusting trog panzer driver in NATO.

One day the female RMO needed a sh1te and being keen to look ruffy tuffy she let us know she was going for a dump.

off she trotted with shovel and compo arrse wipe, oblivious to her cammed up follower.

she returned to the panzer somewhat bewildered saying that she had laid a cable but couldn't find it, her face was a picture to see that same turd sat on the card table surrounded by 9 medics all guessing what she had eaten.

same guy also smeared shite on the steering levers 30 seconds before a bug out, since that day all the other drivers have worn gloves to drive.
i had a particularly heavy saturday night/sunday morning this week, which culminated in my traditional hangover cure of sloping off to my brothers to sit in his garden and drink stella, i know it's only putting off the inevitable but f*ck it eh!

his daughter,my niece is as kids go a pretty little thing, well behaved cute and funny ...she is also potty training at the moment well, when i say training she's sh*tting herself and having it popped in the potty with much pointing and goading to "get it right next time"

so, i'm sat head in hands contemplating facing up to reality and letting my head turn into a supernova when i become aware of something in my periferal vision.... it's my brother ...... he's holding the pot....
.....oh ....my........god....WHAT THE F*CK!!

i had to double take from the potty to the 2 foot person that this ...this thing had emerged from, her insides must be like a tardis, the only way i can describe it is like one of those tubes of coloured sand you get from the isle of wight, not the cheap one the really big one that costs about £40.00, this thing was laid up both sides of the pot and was rearing up at one end like a phsycadelic cobra...
"kev, what the f*ck have you been FEEDING her .... poster paints"
i said to my now hysterical brother
any grown man would of been proud of this behemoth and i quizzed kev if he'd secretly done it himself then blamed it on her, but with tears of pride and an inability to speak due hysteria he just kept pointing at the now confused but beaming toddler.
At this point in time, a stench of semi digested sweets and marmite sarnies overcame me and in my weakened state i unashamedly parked my lunch in his hedge.... but later none of the expected hangover symptons appeared, perhaps theres a place in the hangover cure market alongside products such as RU21 and andrews liver salts for multi coloured toddler poo ??
Right, sorry this is a long ‘un but hey, it may or may not be worth it…


Maturity is a relative quality.

If you look hard enough, you might be able to find a "mature" Para but taken out of his usual surroundings he will seem as sensible and level headed as David Blaine.

In the same way I was sometimes seen as sensible at Primary School. I got to Photocopy worksheets (until I got the damn thing stuck on an infinite copy of my young buttcheeks), I got to answer the phone (until Clare decided that it was her job and ran off to answer it much to the teacher's surprise) , I even got to moderate the glue guns (sadly that reign too came to an end when the teacher returned from the library to find the new fat kid stuck to the table by his bellybutton.)

My "maturity" was very comparative. Amongst kids like Nathan who regularly used to deposit Bisto in his drawer because "he was scared of the wolves in the toilets", I couldn't help seem the model of sensibility. When Jake jumped on the table one day and liberally covered the surrounding kids in greenies, I seemed a perfectly normal and balanced child.

However my wicked side was always lurking beneath the surface ready to pounce.

One year, the whole of class 2 went off to see for ourselves how The 'oo' was put back in the zoo at Paignton. The residential trip was the highlight of every child's time at ******* Community Primary School.

First came the coach trip. These journeys were quite predictable, a rolling repeat of I found a peanut and Show off yer legs would continue with various degrees of enthusiasm while the big year sixes in the back seats would show just how hard they were by taking off their seatbelts and standing up until an teacher would scream "sit down!" in a prim and teacher-like manner.

Once established in the B+B which was to be our home for the next five days, we ran wild, chasing each other up and down the five floors until a little kid fell down three flights of stairs and come to an arrested halt by means of a head/banister interface. The kid in question was sent home proudly sporting an egg-shaped luminescent red lump and the headache of his life.

Settled in our rooms for the first night, we had to find some form of amusement to break the dull throbbing sound of the female dormitory below, filled with sobbing home-sick and pig-tailed girls.

My evil underside saw it's chance to shatter my "sensible" persona once and for all. I proclaimed I would give a chocolate chip cookie to the loudest fart I heard. No response. Were they all asleep? A few seconds passed and then, instantly, without warning, the bunk across the room wobbled as an enormous air-biscuit left my all-time friend‘s arrse.

"My cookie!" He triumphantly proclaimed.
The room erupted into fits of pre-pubescent giggles as each boy struggled to push air from his underside.

I got ready to hand over the well earned Maryland Double Choc Chip when the bed in the far corner rose up as a cracker of a fart split Duncan's buttcheeks with all the graces of Concorde breaking the sound barrier.

Boys everywhere, unable to contain their joyous mirth and excitement, jumped out of beds and careered around with the bliss of it all. A couple darted across the landing and, with tears of laughter in their eyes, related the enjoyment to be had to the other room.

As twenty more boys dutifully filed in, I was standing on the table in the middle, holding up a cookie for all to see and declaring the fart competition open. Duncan, spent of gasses, sat thoughtfully on his bed, nibbling the biscuit gratis I had given him, while scratching his arrse.

The first contender stepped onto the podium (one of those little red plastic wendy-house tables), bent forward slightly, and let out a little squeal from his southern cheeks. More giggles followed but it wasn't superb enough to merit a cookie. Another kid took his place, pushed his rump together for maximum effect, but was disappointed as the compressed bum swallowed the vibrations. Next, J**** B**** took the stage. Known for his prowess as a farter, he was sure not to fail. He took a deep breath, bent over and let rip a long, wet, and absolutely honking afterburner of a fart.

"Cookie!" chanted the crowd, as I handed over Maryland's finest, while putting my finger over my lips telling the boys not to alert the teachers.

Next, a skinny, lanky looking boy took centre-stage. He had just moved from somewhere 'oop north.
To the awe of the crowd he loosened his pyjamas and bared his bum as he let a slow-melting musical fart.

The boys went mental with excitement while I tried vainly to keep them quiet.

A steady throughput of boys now took to the table, deposited their fart with a bare bum and melted back into the crowd. Some boys gained new respect that night as I solemnly handed biscuits to those the crowd thought were loud enough.

Finally, a scrawny little youth took his position, took down his pyjama-trousers and pushed his Pelvic Floor Muscles with all his strength. His face went red, but nothing happened. “False alarm“ someone shouted. The kid then dropped his jaw with fright as his stomach turned and the contents of his mother's packed-lunch came flowing forth, splashing down on the little table. Most of the surrounding kids screamed and ran away. The boys from across the corridor dived back to their dorm and most others scuttled to the nearest empty bed.

A teacher, alerted by the noise, opened the door a minute later to find a gently sobbing little year 3, standing in a pool of his own slurry, as all around loud snores came from the bunks.

To her credit, she didn't scream, or even retch from the smell of the fart-infested room. (With the benefit of hindsight I now realise she must have been a Dutch-oven specialist.)

Slowly, she approached the whimpering kid, who stood with shat-drenched PJ trousers around his ankles, lifted him out of his puddle, and took him off to the nearest bath.

In parting she told the snoring lumps they would get their come-uppance on the morrow.

About half and hour later, when most of the snores were genuine, one of the little old ladies who ran the place came in, and with a sigh began to mop up the muck oozing around in a big brown sticky mess.

For the rest of the week, no-one dared to even contemplate farting, and everyone swore they could smell the little guy’s cr.ap impregnated into the carpet.
Shat myself in the shower this morning. Tried a fart and got a load of liquid shit down the back of my legs instead.
Was desperately trying to tread it all down the plug when wife walks in. "What's that smell"? Umm sorry, aarghh...
A long time ago, in a HQ squadron far far away.............

There was a spate of turd thefts not dissimilar to the one mentioned above with the female RMO.

Apparently, an unknown soldier was following anyone who went for a shovel recce.

Just as the 'victim' was growing a tail, he would delicately hover a shovel above the target area, and when the act was concluded, he'd fcuk off with the finished product!

Thieving git!

We never found them though.........

except for one,

which some poor sod had laid on a tortoise when our convoy stopped and he'd nipped into someones garden for a tom tit, and the tortoise had got up and walked off.!
Prior to the hoop reconstruction I was given PicoLax powder to take to clean things out .

Absolutely everyone must try this stuff at least once . Within an hour of taking it the rumbling began ,as I tried to master the monster within . By one hour forty five the game was on in earnest as I desperately tried to maintain a semblance of normalilty to my day as my over excited colon turned somersaults ,eventually it all became to much and I headed to the bog , what came next can only be described as the most violent yet strangely satisfying experience I have ever had.
Dropping into postion saw the first and final solid occupants expelled by what can best be described as a fire hose of bum gravy ,a raging torrent which no mans arrse muscles could stop. Initially it held both stench and colour , but,as the day progressed and I consumed the prescribed amounts of water , each visit to the temple would result in a resounding crack as the pressure was eased and a cascade of slightly dirty water.
Next morning I had to take more and essentially became an irrigation system as litres of water raced from one end of my body to the other to be released under high pressure from a trembling and bloodied nozzle.

Try it once and you'll never find Ghandi's revenge a chore.

PicoLax ask for it by name!!
Back in the '80s on Lionheart or Crusader, can't remember which, I recall being in a convoy in which an Artisan SSgt was driving along when he realised he needed a shit. Demonstrating the inate ability to problem solve which had earned him his crown he tells the young Cfn (who'd only been in the unit for about a month) who is his co-dvr to pass him his tupperware "sanny" box.

The young guy dutifully does so then watches first in bewilderment as the "sanny's" are carefully taken out and stowed away uneaten? Then in absolute horror as this mad jock SNCO bares his arse and, whilst carefully weaving all over the road, proceeds to dump a log into the tupperware. Bit of cleaning up later, lid securely replaced, combats readjusted and windows opened to release the stench everything is back to normal. Well, as normal as driving around with a large, plastic contained, turd seated between you can be.

The young guy pretty perplexed asks why they don't just dump this precious cargo out the window. At which Staff says, "Dinna be daft, ye canna jist dae that." Anyway the convoy plods on until a couple of hours later, when going through a small German village, there at the side of the road is a couple of kids with their grandad

Joyfully the adolescents wave to these brave squaddies who's mere presence alone dissuades the
Russian hordes from invasion of their homeland. Imagine then their delight when in return one of the trucks slows to a crawl, throws them a package, and only speeds up again when the driver has seen the looks on their faces on opening their gift... He was always glad to do his bit for Anglo-German relations. :)
I was on-watch one night, one of the lads crawled up the gangway drunk as a fart. Insisted he needed the toilet and in full detail explained how he was going to take a sh1te. Which went down well seeing as I was about to tuck into a Maccy D's. The carried out my rounds that night. When I got to the Diving store I noticed an odd smell, turning into a disgusting smell. I opened the Locker hatch and found this lad spread out on the floor, runny sh1te every where. Apparently he attempted to take a sh1te in the basin to p1ss the Diving CO off. He did more than that!
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