When I was in Ireland we had an horrific installation known as the p-iss-pond. A couple of years earlier, one of the lads in the unit, an engineer, decided to spruce up the bar surroundings a bit and built a small fountain just outside the back door. He used various bits and bobs that were knocking around to construct a little set up that Carol Smillie would have loved. A central spout coming up through a concrete goldfish, gobbed water into a brick built pond with about the same capacity as a kid's paddling pool. He was chuffed to bits with it and went as far as mounting a little plaque with a completion date on it. As with all lovingly created things in the army, someone smashed it to pieces within a matter of weeks. The goldfish was far too magnetic a target. They waited till Chris, the engineer, went on leave and one night, that bunch of mindless vandals, hoyed pool balls at it until it lay in ruins in the pond, with the water still spuming straight up, like someone splashing down with a semi-on. When he came back, he dealt out retribution beyond the legal requirement but that's another story. After a couple of days of watching his creation lamely vomming water back and forth he declared it an eyesore and turned off the supply. The pond was left to fester and may have been forgotten had someone not noticed something very important one night. It took fourteen steps to make it to the bog from the bar, but the pond was a mere eleven steps. It seems like a small difference but three steps over an 18 p-iss night mounts up. Before long, the traps were only getting used for solids and the pond was receiving the entire lag output of a 38 person unit that had a half full bar every night. I was posted in, the summer after this filthy practice had began. By then, the pond was completely toxic and entirely filled with wazz with the occasional bit of rain dilution. It had also become the practice to chuck newcomers in to the fcuker on their first night in the bar. Always a willing participant, I got thrown in head first, managed to cut my swede open on a piece of the hardcore-algae coated goldfish. Changing out of your clobber was considered the pu-ffs option, so I spent the entire night in my p-iss soaked threads. By 7am all my stuff had dried out rigid, and I smelt like John Mcruricks sideburns. For my two years, the p-iss-pond was lovingly replenished every evening. It was always brimful, with an interesting wee-wee meniscus across its surface. After a bit of practice I could reach it from the back door when I had enough pressure built up. By the time I left, the entire pond had the consistency of olive oil and looked a bit like piccalilli. Since being away from the army and encountering H and S nazis, I often wondered what they would have made of the p-iss-pond. I could just picture him walking through the back door with his clipboard and encountering a 6ft 2in head-the-ball with his strides round his ankles, doing a no-hander with his hands on his hips, sending a great big p-iss-arc into something the mozzies were avoiding. It being his first visit, it would have been quickly followed by his near drowning in other peoples lag. Does anyone else have stories of practices that the health and safety executive might raise an eyebrow at?