Drying Room Underpant Amnesty

I know it’s a long shot, but I’d still like to know who nicked five pairs of my Bill Grundys on September the 11th 1985.

Almost two decades have passed since the theft, yet I still feel the pain as if it were yesterday. My mum had bought them for me two weeks before I joined up, taking succour from the fact that, although many miles away and under the care of borderline psychotics, at least my underpant needs were squared away, in the form of 5 sets of enormous applecatchers.

They were blue and horrible. The elastic around the legs was almost non-existent and this, coupled with the fact that I was built like Charlie Drake, meant that my spuds permanently hung outside. The chafing I experienced whilst marking time in barrack dress trousers, made both teds look like Corinthian figures of Simon Weston.

Nevertheless, they reminded me of home, and I was fond of them. When the washing machines were broken one night, I lovingly hand washed them, with a nail brush and a toffee hammer. When I let the plug out, a Norgies worth of oxtail soup drained away. A quick twist-rinse using a bass broom and the door handle, got them almost dry, so I slung them all over my shoulder and headed off to the drying room.

I had to elbow my way past three victims of bass broom crucifixion and a bloke in a bin-bag doing burpees so that he could make the weight for the boxing. I got them all stretched out and hung up and retired to my bed, safe in the knowledge that the next day, would see me with 5 fresh gussets to attack.

I went in the next morning and some c-unt had proffed them!!!!

Many questions have occurred to me down the years, but I find myself returning to the fundamental one. WHY??

Surely it was the act of a truly desperate criminal. Their price on the black market must have been negligible, and nobody in my recruit troop was any bigger than Jeanette Cranky. The only person they could have fit snugly was BBC.

I searched everywhere for them, paying particular attention to the Camnet and Tent store but it was as if they’d never existed. I earnestly reported the theft to my troop Sargeant, and was told to “Fcuk off,” He even had the audacity to start calling me Knickerless Parsons, the unfeeling brute.

Well look, there are 6,000 members on this site, and one of you has got ‘em. Please let me have them back. I still kid my mum on that I wear them every day, but I’m dreading the moment that I let it slip, that they were nicked.

In fact, this is an opportunity for a drying room amnesty. I would be interested to hear of any other ARRSE members who have been victims of Drying Room based tomfoolery.
On the ships, Wrens have their own lockable cage in the drying room for their lady-things. It has been known for certain low-life, Stoker scum to use bilge grabs to filch panties, using the 2 cm gap between the bulkhead and the cage. I even caught one of them at it, once. He had his face pressed up against the bulkhead, and his brow was sweaty with concentration; his target was a minging old grey set of "smalls", that looked like they could of been used as gas turbine uptake covers. The problem was that they were quite a distance from his point of insertion, so he was working at it like the World Sex-Pest's Lucky Grab champion on a training day. I watched in silent and fascinated horror, as with a croak of triumph, he finally snared his prey. I couldn't even bring myself to say anything as he shuffled passed me, taking his prize away to be used for unmentionable purposes....... 8O

By the way Convoy, I feel your pain. Some weasel proffed my training kit once, and it really was minging even when washed. The shorts were lacier than Victoria's Secret pants and the T shirt was a thing of horror: it had 'RN' printed on it in 8 inch letters... he even took the socks, which had gone a greenish grey colour. My only comfort is that he took it because he was obviously jealous, and could not bear to see me become even more physically perfect than I already was, the loser...
I used to go through an extraordinarily large number of OD PT shirts whilst at RMAS so decided to take matters into my own hands and in the dead of night sneaked (snuck??) into the drying room and went through all the t shirts hanging there. Eventually found two of mine with my name crossed out and another name cunningly added below in felt tip. What a nobber! Needless to say i managed to retrieve most of my other items of PT kit from said offender, didn't have the balls to go searching through his undercracker drawer though - god knows what i might have found.

I even had a jock strap nicked when i was at school - what the f*ck is that all about?
I once had two pair of undercrackers and a pair of socks robbend fromt eh tumble dryer....

I never understood why someone would want to prof a pair of warm undies from a fella that regularly follows through and shits himself....

I still give it thought today.

Convoy had re-reminded me of a convo we had last week.... A smell that still haunts me to this day in the gopping smell of the insides of a squaddies drying room, especially if a load of sprogs have just hosed down thier kidney pouches.....

It smells like the inside of a corpes arse... apparently...
Oh you were lucky, a drying room.. a fucin drying room(do they still have them?

We had a drying tent and after a few trips round the Assault cse, put me lightweights and stylish red V necked 1946 PT top in there with my DMS size 12. (Big feet , know what that means??. Yes more surface area to fucing bull up.)

Next morning one of my boots has gone and been replaced by a size 9.

1. I'm knacked as I can't even put the damn thing on but ...

2. Still don't know now who the fu*ck was clomping round with one normal boot and the other flapping around like one of Coco the Clown's

Must have been a moron not to notice the difference.


When I went through basic, we were forced to wear the issue vest and grundies. Fashion victims we were not. We had loads of issue grundies stolen and some lads after a few weeks were down to a single pair, which having been washed nightly were all skew wiff and faded with wrinkly elastic. I remember one lad during locker inspection had exactly the amount of issue pants in his locker. Thinking that they were on a winner, the DS told him to drop his kecks. We were all watching through the corner of your eye as you do , thinking that he's been caught wearing civvie skiddies, when low and behold he was wearing an issue set. The DS were in thier element....they had found the grundy thief! He was oredred to remove the grundies so that they could check the name in them. Low and behold, he had another set under them and anotherv set under those. Now all fear of the DS had gone and instead of sheepishly squinting at the fiasco, we were all stood gawping at this c*nt as he removed about 4 or 5 pairs of stolen grundies.

He was made to put them all on his head and was marched off to the Guardroom in that funky RP stylee. Never seen th c*nt again. He got booted out for it.

Just for fun the Pl Sgt charged everyone who owned the stolen pants for failing to safeguard MoD property. They all got fined about 50 quid apiece.

The good old days eh? Where would we be without them.

Convoy, where have you been mate?

i recently lost a pair of twisters !
Drying room .........isn't that where you used to have to go and stand in the middle with arms outstreached holding the top rail and legs spread on the bottom rail so the Plt staff could get a decent punch on your chest :D

character building, thats what it was called :wink:
Eggbanjo said:
that where you used to have to go and stand in the middle with arms outstreached holding the top rail and legs spread on the bottom rail so the Plt staff could get a decent punch on your chest :D
Yep, the same one where you would be crucified with a broom handle through your coveralls and have everyone flick big placcy bands at yer nob.......... then one of the bast@rds would feel left out due to lack of placcy band so he would swing the iron flex and get your nads with the plug.

Just recalled how much that hurt and if I really deserved it 8O


Mighty_doh_nut said:
Eggbanjo said:
that where you used to have to go and stand in the middle with arms outstreached holding the top rail and legs spread on the bottom rail so the Plt staff could get a decent punch on your chest :D
Yep, the same one where you would be crucified with a broom handle through your coveralls and have everyone flick big placcy bands at yer nob.......... then one of the bast@rds would feel left out due to lack of placcy band so he would swing the iron flex and get your nads with the plug.

Just recalled how much that hurt and if I really deserved it 8O
That wasn't a punishment.........that was a regular Friday night in at 664 Sqn!
An almost as unscrupulous activity as basic theft was the wet/dry swap.

I was a victim of this countless times. It once took me three months to get a pair of socks dry. Every time I went in to collect my dry gear, I would find that they had been swapped for an identical wet pair.

I'm sure that the transgressor didn't consider it theft, as I wasn't actually diffy anything, but I still considered it a bit of a cu-nts trick. Putting someone elses socks on was always a gopping experience, especially when you saw some of the hideous, werewolf feet that were knocking round our troop. There was one bloke from Silloth who looked like he had ten big toes. His toenails looked like barbecue Pringles.

I wonder "dryness theft" is covered in Queens Regs? If it isn't, it fcuking well should be.
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL Fcuk me Convoy I had forgotten about the Dry thieves too......

I have also ventured into the drying room and had the same pair of socks drying for over a week, only to discover later on I've been diddled by a serial dry thief.

How can a small room with a radiator cause so much myrth and merriment.

Not quite a drying room story but it involved a warm room. ( a sauna)

We had a fella called Muzzwell.... a milk bottle skin coloured Jock who always had ugly women in tow. He wore glasses that looked liek Jodrell bank space telescopes and had an armpit odour that would repell a buffalo.

He had issue corrective lenses and if you ever buddied up with him in the NBC chamber you were gauranteed a lungful of CS as there was no way your seal would stay intact laughing at the huge eyes that filled every square centimetre of the S10 lense.

Anyway....... he had been to get some contact lenses from the optician and until he took his clothes of he looked semi normal. He made his way to the sauna and took position on the bench, just lobbing a sprinkle on the coals........ being from Scotland he stripped down to his shreddies just to venture into York.

We did the decent thing, lobbed two full buckets of water on the coals and jammed the door shut............. the Sauna looked like a Bucks Fizz concert with Dry ice everywhere....... then there was silence.... we looked through the window and Muzwell ( the snowman with a spotty back) looked like a lobster... He looked cockily and defiantly at us and gave us the Vs.

As the V salute came up he buckled... he flew to the floor and began to scream like he was being bayonetted..... It was real pain... we were in no doubt..... We held the door tighter, he was likely to have lost his teddy and no way did I want an outraged lobster bearhugging me and windmilling all over the place

The wailing continued and we had to open the door... eventually......

He stumbled out and got in the shower...cold....... his nob vanished inside him sharpish and he held his face like a leper with no E45.......

The daft cnut had forgotten to take out his Contact lenses and they had scalded his eyeballs....... the poor cnut was in agony for ages. :D

I don'k I have ever laughed at someone elses agony as much in my life


Kit Reviewer
I found the best way of avoiding the Underpants Gnomes was to wash shreddies with the wheelspin gripped hard in one hand.
While they dry the clag stuck to the gusset still remains and will generally put potential thieves off.

If you're that prissy that you won't put crispy rods on again, the offending splash can be removed with the carbon scraper from a Gimpy or a good scrubbing with a large wire brush.

If however they're stolen with a decent lump of axle grease stuck in the back, then the 'thief' is definitely not squeamish, has a great sense of humour and more than likely a damn good bloke to go on the p!ss with - find him & hit the NAAFI.
i often found that entering the steamy enclosed fug of the drying room was a frightening experience , something akin to aliens , you know , the bit where they enter the space station and it's all gooey and steamy , and no matter how far you had to go in you always ended up getting a pair of dangling damp shreddies cob webbing over your fizzog.
i thought that someone had killed and beheaded someone in our laundry room and was rythmically drumming their severed head on the floor until i realised it was a bloke in my troop stress testing miele's finest again by seeing if he could wash his boots, webbing, helmet and mess tins. :roll:

when it went onto spin it sounded like a bedford full of cooks kit driving off a cliff.
shortfuse said:
a bloke in my troop stress testing miele's finest again by seeing if he could wash his boots, webbing, helmet and mess tins.
I didn't believe I would ever need to get in the shower fully dressed, let alone in fighting order and carrying my rifle, but the Lympstone endurance course made me do it.

Drying rooms = thieving rooms and it's not just in the Army, either. Some toerag had one of my bush shirts away from the drying room in my hall of residence. But then, it was in Glasgow.
Not a thieving dit, but quite good anyway.

At a dinner night once an oppo had done himself rather well on the red wine and port. Wending his unsteady way back to his grot he felt a familiar and unwelcome churning in the stomach and, desperate for relief, crashed through the first door he could. Unfortunately this was not the heads but a laundry room and he deposited the lot into one of the machines. As his head cleared he realised he had vomited into one of the machines.

Always a quick thinker he carefully emptied a handy pack of washing powder into the machine, hoping a good wash cycle would clean off the offending sick, and staggered off to sleep. He was awakened the following morning by outraged shouts from the owner of the kit in the machine.

Unfortunately in his addled state my oppo hadn't realised the machine he had parked several gallons of port, wine and marmite potatoes into was a drying machine, not a washer, and the clothes therin were encrusted in baked on washing powder and sick...
I thought it time to bring this back and see if, four years later there are any fresh drying room tales


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Pub_Regular said:
HOW much spare time do you have to go trawling back to 2005 looking for inspiration?
It was threads like this that made Arrse great. Pity they seem to have dried out (see what I have done there eh? good eh?). We need inspiration like this (or should that be aspiration?) to get the NAAFI forum back to low standards it once used to boast.

Well done MDN for reminding us of the required standards.

p.s. your dry cleaning will be ready on Thursday.
Not exactly drying room related, but washing related. In basic training we those shapeless baggy pt tops, the ones with the 'v' neck that went down to your navel. One red and one white. We were lucky enough to have a top loading washing machine that occasionally worked and was large enough for everyone to get one top in at once. Being a top loading machine you could lift the lid and stuff extra items in when it was running. (you know where this is going don't you?)
We all had our white tops in, including a couple of civi t shirts, well they were white until one utter knob sticks in his red top. Thanks to that fool my HA t-shirt went pink along with all the white pt tops.
It was bad enough wearing those baggy tops as it was, but at least on pt 'white' top days we all look equally gay.

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