This is a stand-to for an incoming competition, one of our most expensive yet.
Later this week we're going to be offering the opportunity to Win £270 Rab Neutrino Pro military down jacket
Visit the thread at that link above and Watch it to be notified as soon as the competition goes live
I once rolled up to a car containing Joe Kinnear then manager of Wimbledon AFC in a traffic jam on the M6. As one occupant of a minibus full of squaddies, we all gave him both barrels of the humour shotgun. Fair do's to him, he took it in good faith and shot most of us down. Very funny bloke!
I've mentioned this in another thread but what the Fuck. I made Prince Michael of Kent look like a pornstar in a facials movie when he inspected us during the Fireman's Strike. We were in Chelsea Barracks and Crab Air had demonstrated one of their foam tenders so the Drill Square was under a foot of foam. As he approached my Green Goddess I sprang to attention and a spume of foam shot up and covered the twat from head to foot. A big, shouty man was gearing himself up to be big and shouty but in the end relented. I had too make do with a stern glare instead.
Used to be a club in Chesterfield in the early mid 90s, called Xanadu and we used to bump into Jo Guest and her mates pretty often.
Speaking of glamour models, my cousin became a professional make-up artist and hairdresser, eventually dabbling in modelling and doing a brief stint as a page girl 3 herself. Met quite a few cracking birds, from behind and in front of the camera, thanks to her. (Get to fcuk if you think I'm telling you who she is.)
Daft one, but whatever: My and a mate's one and only foray into windsurfing ended when oppo collided with some corroded metal wreckage and broke his board near St Michael's Mount. I joked it was a piece of HMS Warspite, he took it and ran with it, and has claimed ever since to be the last person sunk by a battleship.
I managed to get a snog off Sir Bruce Forsyth's daughter Debbie on New Years Eve 1979 when she was part of a dance troop touring Belgium. Well actually it was two snogs, as we celebrated both Belgium and the UK New Years one hour apart! The venue was the Barracuda pub off Carnot Straat in Antwerp. But my evening was truly complete when I shagged the owner's wife, a Spanish former whore called Dani, who refused to let me pay for anything that night........and I still managed to turn up the following morning on time to take over as Guard Commander, unlike the two others on guard. So when they eventually turned up around 10am, I offered them the choice of Orders or stagging on continuously-whilst I had a kip until lunchtime.
A few years back one of the pubs in the village changed hands and the new landlord brought his kitchen staff from his old gaff. One was a 3'X3'X3' black lass who apart from being the weirdest shape on earth (spherical) was a bloody good chef, extremely pleasant and very funny. She also claimed she was of Royal descent which we all assumed was a wind up.
Fast forward a year or so and she was well into one of the local lads and wedding invites duly followed. Come the day, all us Herberts we're in jacket and tie when a very serious kerfuffle developed outside the church. Her old man had arrived.
He was King of some African tribe and was in full tribal No1s, half the wildlife in Africa had gone into his rig which made even the happy groom, a farmhand now crammed into a rented morning dress look pretty drab. It was all the more surreal as he had a protection detail with him straight out of Wild Geese but updated to include Brooke's Brothers suits and mirror Raybans.
Formalities complete we repaired to the pub for refreshments and found out where the non skin / feathers bits of the Boss Man's regalia had gone; all dried or smoked and fucking delicious.
By way of hospitality we mere serfs decided to introduce the King to real ale which he took to in a VERY big way. I merged with the carpet around 0300 only to vaguely surface around 0900 to find the man still at it. He pulled me a beer as though he'd been doing it all his life, pulled himself one and necked a pint in a oner. I did my national duty to preserve honour but pretty uncertainly.
A few days later and feeling strong enough to walk unaided I ambled into the pub and had a chat with his daughter and expressed my admiration for her old man. She reckoned he was slowing down in his old age and had probably only managed 30 pints!!!! She went on to explain that the local tribal piss was distilled from goats' scrotums or something and was about 160 proof, drunk in around 1/2 pint "shots"......
Is that before or after she stuffed a digit up your wrong 'un?[/QUOTE]
If getting digits slammed in your backeye is the sign of a medical experiment then John G must have donated his body to medical science.