ARRSE Regiment (V) Reserves

Auld-Yin

ADC
Kit Reviewer
Book Reviewer
Reviews Editor
Indeed standards need to maintained. There seems to be some mention of catering which conjures up nightmares of sausage rolls or sandwiches with the crusts still on the bread. I trust there will be a comprehensive celebrity chef in residence program.
@Joker62 will fill the role. Not sure if he currently holds Sleb status, but following his Court Martial for mass poisoning he certainly will be! ;)
 
Quagmire in the desert, it was lush.

My shell scrape doubled up as a plunge pool.

“Quagmire in the desert”?
“Shell scrape”?

Was at a loss for a moment but I’ve got them now.

Shell Scrape is a treatment in the hotel spa.
Quagmire in the Desert is a cocktail you had later in the hotel bar. Does indeed sound lush.

Sorry for being so silly.
 
@Joker62 will fill the role. Not sure if he currently holds Sleb status, but following his Court Martial for mass poisoning he certainly will be! ;)
On a cold, wet, windy night in an OP on a dangerous Border, I found my personal centre in turmoil. I felt it as a heavy, unwelcome weight upon my soul, between the wet and muddy ground and the camouflage, my beloved rifle, the photograph of my dog and my very being. It was hard to distinguish between the rain on my face and the tears on my cheeks, and I did not try; nobody in my tough little squad of RRF soldiers saw the discomfort I felt, or the fear that I would not be able to make the final rendezvous.

I left my position, quietly and discreetly, and bowed double, retreated to the field and hedges to our rear. There, with a prayer to my gods, I opened my centre to the elements, and cried out to the heavens as the pain left my body. It was a cathartic moment, and later, in the bowels of the Middletown Base, I completed the catharsis with an expression of displeasure to the cooks who had caused it.

My application for inclusion in this unit as an expert and experienced digger of small holes follows.
 

OneTenner

LE
Book Reviewer
On a cold, wet, windy night in an OP on a dangerous Border, I found my personal centre in turmoil. I felt it as a heavy, unwelcome weight upon my soul, between the wet and muddy ground and the camouflage, my beloved rifle, the photograph of my dog and my very being. It was hard to distinguish between the rain on my face and the tears on my cheeks, and I did not try; nobody in my tough little squad of RRF soldiers saw the discomfort I felt, or the fear that I would not be able to make the final rendezvous.

I left my position, quietly and discreetly, and bowed double, retreated to the field and hedges to our rear. There, with a prayer to my gods, I opened my centre to the elements, and cried out to the heavens as the pain left my body. It was a cathartic moment, and later, in the bowels of the Middletown Base, I completed the catharsis with an expression of displeasure to the cooks who had caused it.

My application for inclusion in this unit as an expert and experienced digger of small holes follows.
Brilliant!
No amount of training will ever prepare you for that moment, half way through a sixteen hour patrol, when you realise that the half dozen egg banjos you scoffed that morning would eventually have worked their way through your system, and a shovel recce, without the shovel, of course, is now inevitable.
Not too bad if you're out in the oolu, bit of a problem in Ballymurphy High Street.
 
Brilliant!
No amount of training will ever prepare you for that moment, half way through a sixteen hour patrol, when you realise that the half dozen egg banjos you scoffed that morning would eventually have worked their way through your system, and a shovel recce, without the shovel, of course, is now inevitable.
Not too bad if you're out in the oolu, bit of a problem in Ballymurphy High Street.
It’s just one more turd on the road.
Sums it all up, eh?
 
On a cold, wet, windy night in an OP on a dangerous Border, I found my personal centre in turmoil. I felt it as a heavy, unwelcome weight upon my soul, between the wet and muddy ground and the camouflage, my beloved rifle, the photograph of my dog and my very being. It was hard to distinguish between the rain on my face and the tears on my cheeks, and I did not try; nobody in my tough little squad of RRF soldiers saw the discomfort I felt, or the fear that I would not be able to make the final rendezvous.

I left my position, quietly and discreetly, and bowed double, retreated to the field and hedges to our rear. There, with a prayer to my gods, I opened my centre to the elements, and cried out to the heavens as the pain left my body. It was a cathartic moment, and later, in the bowels of the Middletown Base, I completed the catharsis with an expression of displeasure to the cooks who had caused it.

My application for inclusion in this unit as an expert and experienced digger of small holes follows.
Ten pints before you're allowed a p*** in 1 RRF.
It's a Geordie thing.
Apparently.
 

RTU'd

LE
Hot of the Press:
Annual Camp destination in September 2021 just announced and it will be BATUS.
But in reality 10 days at South Cerney waiting on Crap Airlines at Brize.

All trades welcome.
 
Indeed standards need to maintained. There seems to be some mention of catering which conjures up nightmares of sausage rolls or sandwiches with the crusts still on the bread. I trust there will be a comprehensive celebrity chef in residence program.

Gordon Ramsey. Teach the soft crunt to melt down and swear properly.
 

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