Beer Goggles

From recent experience i have discovered that a corner of a billet, hidden behind some cupboardy things looks very much like a toilet when drunk and seems an incredibly good place to pi$$ even though the same billet contains a major and several s/nco's :oops: :lol:

any other tales of things not looking like they really are when drunk - other than the obvious one of women.

there is also the story of a particular person thinking he was outside his flat and decided to kick the door in (which was made of reinforced glass) so as to be able to get in when the whole time he was actually standing inside :? :lol:
Staggered back to my room in the block only to find the door unlocked. Could not find the light switch so bounce around off the walls while taking my shoes off. Then try to get into bed to find someone in it. Dawns upon me that I am in the room below me in the block and am trying to get into bed with whoever lives there. Make a speedy exit and return the next day with a six pack to beg for my shoes back. :oops:
Story of officer in Germany got absolutely destroyed, broke into a school and found by GCP trying to smash the window of a German Job Centre to find somewher to sleep.

Proper job! :lol:
walked off the balcony at a club in pompey, thought i was in another club that didnt have two floors
sweet - keep em coming. once thought i by a petrol station in cippenham (nr slough) when was infact outside a co-op in london. that was during a forgotten 2hrs 30mins of wandering round london blind drunk at new years. 3rd time in a row i can't remember new years - second time in a row i was walking around somewhere lost
in phase 2 i got rat arrsed after a sqn do climbed into bed half way through the night i need to go for a pi$$ so wondered in to the toilets opened trap number one and went. woke up the next morning and found the guy in the bunk across from mine was annoyed with me off of one of the others in the room. didnt see fellow across from me all day after duties went to my pit and talked to him i had decided in a drunken state that i couldnt be bothered to walk to trap 1 so i had opened up his wardrobe and used it as a substitute, all over his uniform. then found out that another person from my room did the same in his own bed space.
G.W.A said:
there is also the story of a particular person thinking he was outside his flat and decided to kick the door in (which was made of reinforced glass) so as to be able to get in when the whole time he was actually standing inside :? :lol:
Would that be someone that lives in the same flat as someone who had achieved entry to said flat when he'd forgotten his key through judicious use of a fire extinguisher???
Roof of the Aberystwyth arts centre becomes very like the refuelling station in Starwars III after a pound night, look out for a drunk first year running around thinking hes C3P0 leaping over ventialtion ducts!

Also on leaving my local pub, and starting to walk home decided I was far too drunk to make it in one go. So stripped naked and lay in a cow trough waiting for the cold water to sobre me up, when it didnt I ran to the next one stark bollock naked, and continued this all the way back to my house. (4 of them) Parents are surprisngly accepting of naked wet son stood in the hallway declaring "Ive been swimming" at three in the morning.

God Bless the west country!!!!!

oh and after a few beers in the Falkland islands had a small incident with roads with corners looking like they were straight! remarkably strong the roll bars in Landy-110
I once got to the top of the stairs in my folks house and then lost my balance and ran backwards back down the stairs and smashed the inside pane of the double glazed window halfway down the stairs with the back of my head.
I blamed the incident on an 'upset tummy' in the middle of the night and got away with it scot free. Choice!!
1. A couple of years ago, a night on the p1ss in Peterborugh with some guys on the Harrier force had an unfortunate ending when we sent home the cab that took us back to Wittering. After a few minutes discussing how quiet the was, one of of the guys remembered that that they had recently moved the Harrier force, lock stock and barrel, to Cottesmore some 10 miles or so further up the road.

2. P1ssed up baby fast jet pilot locks self in room. Wakes up during the night needing to curl one out. Cannot find key to room and becoming desperate decides to defecate into a knee length aircrew sock and goes back to bed .

Hethen realises that the smell is keeping him awake, so he picks up the sock, opens the window, swings the sock above head like a lasso and throws it outside and returns to bed again to work on his bedspin-recovery procedures.

Wakes up the next morning to find sh1t all over the room. The silly fcuker grabbed hold of the wrong end.

3. A guy I went to school with spent a night in the nick in Portsmouth because he got caught by the rozzers trying to kick in the back door of a sub-post office. Turns out he got trolleyed, miscounted and thought it was the back door to his girlfriend's house, which was next door.
On the ferry to Hamburg when 3 Div went over to test the prospect of decamping to BAOR (that long ago) got totalled in the casino bar, needed to go in the night but couldn't find my bunk afterwards. Wandering around the various decks dressed only in bogroll, stressful experience, especially for those pax I had to run away from. Still can't remember anything afterwards until on an autobahn in the passenger seat of my L/R.

On the way back, half the div HQ got zapped by customs at Harwich, the other half at Tidworth; they'd never seen so much attempted booze smuggling before; happy days for the buggers.
There was a lad at a unit i once served with who was not shy of a night on the peeve, However unfortunately for him he had the bladder retention of a goldfish. Anyways we were on exercise in Denmark and were staying on a camp not far from Copenhagen which everybody agreed was a result. However young £$ZZ was obviously not used to the superstrength lager that we were guzzling and instead of knocking it on the head at the fishhead equivelant of the colonel, He decided with a couple of other duty lunatics to get their hoops downtown Hagen for some more booze and helga action. Unfortunately for young &^zz he got seperated from the rest of the patrol and in his pissed up state did the only decent thing and got his head down (as by now it was quite late/early in the morning) anyways he awoke at sparrows fart and (fair play) even in his inebriated state knew that he had to get on pde for some PT so there he was keks round his ankles looking for his road slappers and by his own admission (ALL I COULD SEE WAS F'IN WATERMELONS) as you may now have guessed he had not made it back to his basha, but was infact in the fresh fruit display of the local 24hr supermarket. The manager of the supermarket was suitably unimpressed by his actions and took him as an escapee out of the local lunatic asylum and promptly called the men in white coats. It was by a pure stroke of luck at this stage that the ambulance driver was an ex-booty, who had married a danish bird and settled over there saw that he did not have the local loon on his hands but indeed a pissed up parachutist. Anyways being a good egg he got the lunatic back just in time to be spotted by the RSM trying to sneak onto the sqn parade that was already underway, on see-ing this the badge got understandably upset and called him to the front of the squad to enquire what the f*&^ he thought he was upto, on getting front and centre and by this time in full view of the unit it was now obvious that he had got his head down on his right side due to the massive map of cyprus on his jeans, that was it the whole unit was in fits i have never seen a man go from mildly irritated to f'in ballistic in such a time span. priceless!!
Thought a vending machine was a phone box once and got really annoyed when the door wouldn't open. just before i started smashing it in a mate stopped me and asked why i didn't just use my mobile that was in my hand - i thought i had lost it :? :D
After a hard night on the Herforder, my mate needed to slash. For reasons best known to himself, he got out of his pit and climbed out of the adjacent window - fortunately single-storey accommodation. He then turned round and slashed all over his own pit, climbed back in the window and wobbed out once more. In the cold, hard light of day he spent yonks trying to find out what dirty ba$tard had slashed on him as he kipped. :lol:
When in my Pte days we were bivvying next to a range we were to use the next day. The heavens opened and the opinion amongst the headshed was 'sod this!' and so that was us all in a range hut. It was like those holding cells in Thailand when all and sundry are bunged into a concrete room big enough for 10 but normally contain about 40. Anyway someone had the bright idea of rousting L/Cpl Knacker and getting him to drive us all to Wathgill camp and have a few beers on the NAAFI. Consequently, on our happy return, the arms, legs, elbows, feet and knees of 40 dishevelled and worse for wear infantrymen made frequent contact with the heads and bodies of each other during bad attempts to take doss bags out of bergans, roll mats onto the floor, etc. When the fuss died down, and the last 'elbow me in the face, you cnut, I'll ram my bergan up your arrse' had petered out, it was time to sleep. The light went off. All was peace. All was tranquil. Pte Stabtastic could sleep.
An hour later there was a scrabbling at the wall.
I'm trying to find the light switch
Just shut the fcuk up!
Where's the light?
Aaaahhh! What the fcuk for?
Need a piss, dunni?
Well go outside. Don't need a light!
Can't find it?
......... mutter..fcuks sake... WHAT?
S' the door. Can't find it.

And indeed he couldn't. There was one door, but where was it? He'd scrabbled his way all round the inside of the hut and couldn't find it. By this stage everyone on the outside had had his size 11s in his face or all the way along the length of his body, depending on how he was lying. 'Rumpus' is the word. In the dark.

Where is it then? Oof. Ouch! You cnut! Arrgh - who was that? Ooo. (x 40)

Cpl Ginger Tache spoke up. Shut the fcuk up or I'll deck you all. he would 'n' all. We shut up. All except for whimpering needing-a-piss man who had a need but was now too scared to go. He was alone in the dark (figuratively speaking) with his 'problem'. He saw a solution. It didn't involve a door, still less a light. Indeed light would have scuppered his plan. He put the plan into action. You could hear the sigh of relief.

Unfortunately he'd not chosen well. He'd gone all the way round the room in the dark earlier and unbeknown to him, he'd chosen his own bedspace to 'tinkle'. Unfortunately the man next to him was awake too and 'caught some'. Cue revenge. Unfortunately several others caught some. It continued. All became involved. It turned into a mock-up of a fire service demo of water sprinklers, except with sources at waist height, and with Cpl Ginger Tache decking all and sundry.

Pte Stabtastic took his chances with the storm outside where he'd be drier and bivvy'd up against a fence, and that week applied to be an officer cadet.
Got drunk in the back of a car on the way to a house party a fair few miles away, arrived there too drunk to stand crawled on my belly to my mates bedroom, as crawling on all fours still put my centre of gravity too high!

Woke up in the middle of the night needing a piss, broke open his window which had been "mastick-ed silicon sealant-ed polyfilla-ed "shut to stop the draft, fellt a bit thristy saw his homebrew bubbling away in some old evian bottles on the central heating pipes, drank back about four swallows, realised it was full of crud and had a healthy layer of oil over the top (dont think this guy knew how to make homebrew) spat that all over the bed. fell back into it woke up the next morning to ask where the car that had brought me there was.

It was fourty odd miles away at the other end of the road. The party had happened i had missed it and they couldnt find me to take me back!!!!

thankyou North arm social!!!!!!!!
A mate came to see us at School of Inf. After a top night out in Bath he got into a taxi and said 'alright mate, wake me up when you get to Wells, and I'll direct you'.
90 minutes later he wakes up to see the Severn Bridge receding behind. Where the fcuk are we?
Wales - that's where you said, wasn't it?

An expensive night out.
genius stabtastic. a mate of mine once got absolutly plastered and at the end of the night tried to go to the toilet in a local kebab place. made it into the toilet and didn't emerge fo about 30 or so minutes until suddenly everyone could hear the sound of breaking glass!! turns out he had got lost when he came out the toilet (he only needed to turn left) and had broken into the basement, climbed ontop of a low-lying freezer and then fell against a window, breaking it with his head. woke up in the nick the next day being told that he was being arrested for suspected burglary. he wouldn't have been able to pick anything up let alone steal it. got reduced to criminal damage :lol:
Once had a friend, now dearly departed from Penglais, who whilst drunk became very concerend for public sanitation. and refused to urinate in the street. forcibly argued hs way back into the club from which he had been evicted so that he could use the conveniences.

On a not dissimiliar night same friend mistook a ChinkyCHento for a public convenience, might have got away with it had someone not been sat in it at the time. in fairness there were three people washing the dust off the "cars" doorhandles that evening. same night we forgot where the doors were in the pub and so did a ten man exit through the windows.
God, I make myself sick every time I tell this story, but whatever....

German exchange, 1999-ish, just before A-Levels. Belushi and about 40 of his sixth-form pals had convinced their parents to part with the cash on the understanding that cultural immersion in a foreign language would not only broaden our horizons, but give us the vital edge in the 20 minute "Don't mention the war" agony of A-Level oral exams. Naturally, all thoughts of linguistic improvement vanished out of our minds as soon as the aircraft wheels left the tarmac at Heathrow, and we spent ten days roaring up anything which moved, wore a tight pair of jeans, and given the curious preponderance of Goths in Germany, didn't look like Boy George would if you smacked his grid in with a spade, killed him, and dug him out of his grave ten years down the line.

It had been a mixed visit. The genius of the German department had managed to match up British prop forwards with nicknames like 'Mental', to bespectacled 4' 9" German computer science students whose consuming passion in life was painting their Warhammer Armies, and there were indeed several complaints from Herr Guttermeier that he'd chanced into his son's room to find a hulking neanderthal of a sixth former rhythmically pounding his first born's head into the game table, intoning "I 'ain't playin' no more stoopid fcukin' Dungeons and Dragons, so where's your fcukin' Lager, Fritz?" One of our number, who was lodging with a girl, had managed to get himself removed from the house within 48 hours after installing a Strip Poker game he'd brought, featuring 4 Texan cowboys in a hot tub, onto the family computer, and following up this feat by asking his exchange partner if she'd mind terribly teaching him how to masturbate. Actually, fair one there.

Anyway, it had been eventful if nothing else, and it culminated in a massive end of exchange p*ss up in the local. Everyone was there, exchange partners were merrily dispatched with the words "Fcuk off Heinie/Erwin/Adolf, I've done fcuk all but play 'Magic: the Gathering' with you all week, now it's 'me' time. I'll be home when the pub shuts." Hardened drinkers that every 17 year old thinks he is, we were plastered disappointingly soon. Horrified locals looked on as we burst into bastardized versions of the 'Horst Wessel Lied', as all thoughts of diplomacy and decorum were chased out of out pickled brains by high strength German Lager. In spite of having been informed by our teachers on pain of death that we were in a very real sense ambassadors for our country, we weren't acting like it. In fact, the state we were in, if anyone had chanced to offer us Ferrero Rocher piled up in an improbably high pyramid, he'd have been panned with his own serving tray, and informed, 'Oh, Ambassador, viz zese chocolates you are reall....gaaaargh...grrruuugh...Dave, Dave, mate, I'm chokin' on the fcukin' wrapper mate...."

Anyway, by the time lifts turned up to take us back to our exchange houses, things had seriously deteriorated. The car park was full of struggling teenagers being manhandled into the back of Volvos by irate parents, some of whom were clearly professionals, as they gave the customary "Mind your head, Villiam." before driving young William's head with as much force as possible into the door frame. Meanwhile, little Gottfried would be sitting in the front passenger seat looking daggers at the rest of us giggling by the pub door, as William rhythmically kicked the back of his head rest, before struggling valiantly with the child locks, throwing up on himself, and looking folornly out of the back window at his mates as the tail lights faded into the distance. All a bit like 101 Dalmations when the puppies look out of the back window as they're driven off by Cruella de Ville. Except the puppies weren't covered in their own sick and they didn't have a beer mat stuck to the side of their head.

Fortunately, I lived close enough to the pub to walk home, so with a couple of mates who were also within walking distance, we set off in the furious wake of Magret, my exchange partner, who was, charitably, a dog.
As I had no desire or ability to score with her, and was frankly resentful at having been referred to as 'Der Englander' by her entire family for ten days, I felt no need to be particularly co-operative.

"Come on, Belushi. Ve must go to zee home now, it is more zan two o'clock. Vhere are Tom und James?"
"Wai' wai' wai' wai', I wanner kebab, uh?"
"Vell ziss is not possible, vee must go home. Do you know vere Tom und James are?"
"S'Possible, I wanner fcukin' kebab, yeah? Wai' a second, uh? Where's Tom n'James, worr 'ave you done wiv' my mates, yeah? Eh? Where'v you put 'em?"
"Ziss I do not know, please, Belushi, zis is most....unreasonable."
"S'not unreasonable, I tell you wass unreasonable, is not lettin' a bloke gerra kebab, yeah? Where'r Tom n' James you filthy Kraut?"
"I don't know, ve must leave zem und go to....Oh, zere zey are."


"Vot are zey doing to zat bin?"

Tom and James, in the time honoured and traditional fashion of the morbidly inebriated, had taken extreme offence to an inanimate object. In this instance it was one of those recycling bins with the three different bags for plastic, metal and, old Barbara Cartland novels, or whatever the third one is for. From the incoherent shouts in the distance it seemed they'd taken offence to this German bin because it thought it was "so fackin' clever, yeah", and appeared to stake a claim to be better than "British bins, we don't need no fackin' diff'rent bits for diff'rent stuff, eh?" Equally traditional was the fact that Tom and James were losing. Heavily.

Eventually we managed to prise them away from their adversary, and we stumbled on as a foursome, one Teutonic and livid, one British and hungry, and two who'd forgotten their own names, were covered in banana peel, and were muttering dark threats about coming back when there weren't two of those fcuking bins, and then they'd really see who was boss. Magret eventually relented and allowed me too get my kebab, and I reciprocated by taking three bites and hurling the whole thing into the distance.

So by the time she manhandled me up the stairs and dropped me unceremoniously on my bedroom floor, she was not in the best of moods. A red plastic washing up tub was slammed next to my head as I lay spreadeagled on the pine floorboards, trying to commune with the big white rug next to the bed.

"Und so. Now you must go to bett. Do not be vandering around ze house, yes? Ve must get up in six hours und take you to ze airport. I haff left you zis bucket if you must be unvell like Villiam."
"Wai' wai' wai' - can I have a kebab?"
"You haff had your kebab, you bought ziss and zen threw it at zat police car. Haff you forgotten zis already? Zey asked you your name und you told zem you vere Montgomery of Alamein. But I told zem you are home tomorrow so zis is now alles in ordnung."
"OK, thank you verry verry mush."


"Magret, you're verry verry beauti..." I slurred.
"Gutt night, Belushi." she said firmly.

The door slammed, and that was the last thing I can remember.

I woke up. A thin grey pre dawn light filtered through the window. I tried to raise my head, before collapsing with a groan on the pillow. I felt like the Queen had said: "Hmmm, Trooping of the Colour coming up soon, Philip. I'm bored of having it in the same place every year. Tell you what, give that Belushi fellow a call and ask him if we can hold it in his skull."

But my headache, and the sweating, and the nausea, were the least of my problems. As my senses slowly gathered themselves, and I gradually rejoined the human race, an overpowering stench hit my nostrils and nearly made me gag. It was this smell that had woken me up. Lying in bed I prayed I was wrong. But I had to look.

I turned my head. There, on the floorboards, lying scant inches from the white rug, but a good foot and a half from the red plastic tub, was what could best be described as a cowpat. Measuring a good ten inches in diameter, it lurked, malevolent, leering, and smelling like all the Evils of Hell.

Gott. Im. Himmel.

For a reason which is unknown to me to this day, I looked under the bed. I'm not sure what I expected to find under there - maybe a Jersey heifer who would wander out cheerily and say: "What? Oh, that? No, it was me. Look, don't worry about it, I'll make sure it's gone by the time they come and wake you up for the flight home."

Oh Jesus. The flight home.

I looked at my watch. 5.30. Fu-uk; they'd be in to wake me up in two hours! I had to do something. But what? Out the window? - damn it, no go - I was on the top floor and the window was set into the roof - half of it would probably end up all over their house. In any case, I might be seen; I'm sure the local postman had a difficult enough job without being greeted by the sight of a wild haired half naked Englishman flinging sh*t out of a window.

Think, man, think!

God, could I? No, I...I have to hold my hands up and say the thought crossed my mind. Moving the rug a foot to the left had a certain beautiful simplicity about it. I'd be out of the house in four hours - all I had to do until then was cuff it, and I'd get away scot free. But as soon as I thought seriously about it the notion fanished. We Brits have done some pretty inexcusable things in our time; using poison gas on the Arabs in the 1920s, inventing concentration camps during the Boer war. But taking a dump on the floor of a family who've welcomed you with open arms, and then covering it up with a prize fur rug until you can get the fcuk out of there, takes some beating.

It left only one option. Frantically I cast my eyes around for a mug, a glass, anything which meant it didn't have to be a bare hands job. But in typical German fashion, the place was plainer than a Spartan Ikea. There was no choice. I had to step up to the plate.

I'm not sure how many of you have spent an hour and a half shovelling your own sh*t into a red plastic tub with your bare hands, but I can honestly say there are better ways to spend your morning. Occasionally, the smell got too much for me, and I had to be quietly sick into the tub, all the while aware that too much noise would mean someone opening the door to find a scene from Dante's Seventh Circle of Hell being played out in their spare bedroom. While I worked, I marvelled at my drunken ability, casting a professional eye over the room in the manner of Gus Grissom from CSI.

"Looks like the perp was gonna sh*t himself if he didn't work fast. It's the Guinness, y'know, sends 'em cra-azy mad. But he was just too far gone to even come close to the tub. Poor little b*stard. Only 17. It breaks my heart to see this John."

"Yeah Gus, I know. But look on the bright side. He had the brains to wipe his ass with his exchange diary. There might be hope."

But by far the worst bit was stealing out onto the landing to a. dump the evidence, and b. collect a cloth to get rid of the residue. My German was actually alright at the time, but with a typical lack of foresight, all our role plays focused on asking for a tourist map, or ordering a bottle of Merlot from a restaurant in Hamburg. Nowhere in the A-Level curriculum did it teach you the correct response to "Why are you creeping past my aged grandmother's bedroom in your boxers carrying a bucket of your own sh*t?" I had my IA drill planned - I would start speaking in tongues and smearing myself with effluent, and hope to get off on an insanity plea.

But there was no need. For stealthy cat that I was, I got away with it, and all was reasonably well. Frantic airing had the room smelling semi-normal by the time I was 'woken' by Magret's mother, and I responded with a cheery smile when she asked me how I'd slept. My cherubic face bore all the signs of a wholesome night asleep, instead of the scars of the most horrific ninety minutes of my entire life.

Only I, a few of my closest friends, and now everyone on this website, know any different. You ain't seen me, right?

God, that took a long time.
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