Fights.

On R and R in Borneo there was a thing going called the 'Flying Bog Roll' at a fee of about 5 dollars you could nominate someone to be 'Bog rolled.' It entailed the 'Duty bogroller' soaking a roll of shiny bog paper in water, (piss soaked was extra) and then getting your target in the back of the neck, normally as he was halfway through a slurp of his pint. I saw it go wrong twice and witnessed the most ferocious punch ups, the secret was to sit with your back to the NAAFI tent wall, otherwise you risked a bogrolling! It was a bit nerve racking but I managed my four days bogroll free... others not so lucky!
Them Welsh boys do love a ruck, don’t they?
 

endure

GCM
It's a very cringeworthy moment, when you come across one of yours involved with the Police and the little sh!t shouts your name across the street.

It's even worse when you get taken to the local station with someone who says 'my Dad works here' and who turns out to be the son of an Inspector at the local copshop...
 
Whilst queuing for chips in Northcamp (Turner's tuck in?) a bloke spun me around and head-butted me in the side of the head - I was slightly stunned and sat down heavily. Imagine our mutual amusement when he suddenly apologised, pointing out that he'd nutted the wrong bloke. Apparently someone looking very like me had had a surreptitious go on his bird's knockers.
He wasn't about 5' 1/2" was he?

I was in Einer Bar, sat on a swiveling bar stool when out of the blue I'm lying on my back on the floor getting booted.

This short arse had come up behind me, tipped me off the stool and started the kicking-his-fùcking-head-in process before realising I wasn't the Royal Anglian he had a dispute with.

Much as it became a source of hilarity to my mates (the height difference was about 14") it wasn't funny, I'd hit the floor head first and wasn't well for days.

Little twat.
 
Well... Finsbury Park.
I cannot believe that this is the same Islington that used to be subjugated, if not with a rod of iron certainly a well used wooden club, by the boys of N Division to the total disgust of local left wing councillors. Indeed when one such pinko had the audacity to complain about police and attended the station, the Chief Superintendent who had just finished a very detailed debrief with late turn CID in the annex and was mouching around the front office waiting to ponce a lift home from Night Duty was forced to physically remove said communist from the hallowed ground of the police station and kick his arse down the front steps. Lucky he didn't spend the night in the cells ( the pinko not the guvnor)
 
Used to have a fairly big detachment at the embassy, they had a barracks out west London somewhere
It was at Eastcote. It was flattened some years ago and is now a housing estate. It was a rather curious place. Duty free bar that took dollars or if you paid in sterling, you got your change in dollars and cents.

It was where GCHQ first started off after WW2.
 

pinback2001

War Hero
Our school 'bully' was an aggressive little tit but not hard at all. The day of the BCG injections and we were all queued up for the shot.

One person gave it the waterworks and had to be bribed with a Mars Bar before he'd take it; guess who that was.

The subsequent písstake was brutal, and very, very funny.
Guess who was the one who fainted in the queue for his BCG injection? Woke up in the medical room and still had to face the injection
 
I was brought up in a somewhat large cultured port city, No.2 son to an irish catholic Dad and an Orange marching Mum.
What is this fighting you speak of and how might one go about it.
 
Many years ago, I was out on the lash with a cousin. In one pub, my cousin went a little quiet and started looking a bit green around the gills. He eventually excused himself and made with all haste to the bogs. Only about a minute later he came back out, took me by the arm and said, "Come on, we're going". I protested that I hadn't finished my pint. I felt the grip on my arm getting more insistent. "I said we're going", he repeated urgently as he guided me firmly to the door.

I found out later that he'd only just made it to the bogs, where he kicked open the door of one of the stalls and spectacularly emptied the contents of his stomach.... all over a guy who was quietly sitting having a shit. My cousin panicked as he realised that this faux pas could very easily and quickly land him in a whole world of pain. In a fit of panic driven pre-emptory self-defence, he twatted the guy and then left the scene before the bloke had time to react.

I often wonder about that poor chap, sitting there minding his own business with his trousers around his ankles, when in bursts some psychopath, who pukes lavishly all over him and then proceeds to beat him up.

Life can't get much worse for a chap.




You twat, I just gobbed a mouthful of tea into the keyboa.......
 
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I have never started, been involved in, or even witnessed any alcohol fueled violence of any kind.
I've done public order for an Orange parade so am probably bang to rights on all three.
 
On R and R in Borneo there was a thing going called the 'Flying Bog Roll' at a fee of about 5 dollars you could nominate someone to be 'Bog rolled.' It entailed the 'Duty bogroller' soaking a roll of shiny bog paper in water, (piss soaked was extra) and then getting your target in the back of the neck, normally as he was halfway through a slurp of his pint. I saw it go wrong twice and witnessed the most ferocious punch ups, the secret was to sit with your back to the NAAFI tent wall, otherwise you risked a bogrolling! It was a bit nerve racking but I managed my four days bogroll free... others not so lucky!
The funniest fight I ever witnessed was after a Christmas function in Aldershot.

The fight was caused by a certain non para trained SNCO throwing grapes at another SNCO ex PF chap. The grape thrower was given several words of advice in Anglo Saxon which were duly ignored.

This was followed by an errant grape striking the face of ex PF bloke's wife.

The resultant one punch knock out was a truly delightful thing.
 
Apart from the usual playground scraps as a nipper, just one in my teens and nearly one.

Christmas one year at a relatives, I must have been about 16 when it was decided the men would head for the pub whilst the ladies got on with preparing the Christmas lunch. We're in a pretty rough pub in Netherton a.k.a. Dodge City with 3 of my uncles. Uncle #1 is at the bar waiting to be served when a local knucklehead accuses him of eyeing up his missus (you really wouldn't though - dog rough) and they're standing facing each other wondering who's going to unload first. Then Uncle #2 steps in between them and says "That's my brother and if you're going to punch him, you'll have to deal with me first". A second later Uncle #3 leaves the table and is now between Uncle #2 and said knucklehead saying "And I'm his brother and if you're going to punch HIM, you'll have me to deal with first". And then they all looked around for me. Me, I'm sitting there supping my pint of mild thinking, why was I the last one expected to step up. Then they all burst out laughing. Oh the shame.

A few years later I'm on a work placement as part of a Uni sandwich course - remember them, and I'm in digs in a farmhouse outside a small rural town about 1/2 mile away form the IT company I was working for. There were 6 of us billeted there and I became best mates with Andy who was a fellow scouser. One weekend we'd been out on the pull and managed to convince two local girls to come back with us. Unfortunately the one I pulled wasn't interested in anything more than a coffee as she claimed she had a boyfriend, whereas Andy and his conquest were upstairs banging like rabbits. After about an hour she comes down and the two girls head off home. Later next week Andy, myself and a few other lads from the Rugby club are having a quiet pint and a game of dominoes in the local when in comes the two girls, both with boyfriends and a couple of other young farmers too. Glances are exchanged, curses are muttered and I said to the others I think we should go, when it kicked off. Big time, like a scene from a fight in a Western. Chairs smashed, tables overturned, landlord pulls down the shutters on the bar. Someone was caught in a headlock and used as a battering ram on the fruit machine. It must have only lasted a few minutes but the whole bar was trashed. I don't know how we got out but we did as the landlord shouted "You're all barred - for life". Never went back to the pub, and when the work placement finished, never went back to that town again.
 
Mine was in a "funpub" i.e. not a nightclub and not a pub but somewhere in between on a New Year. I had already made plans so my new bird of 3 months went out on her do and I on mine.

Having a good night but some loner who was all fidgety and trying to look angry and hard was near me and I was a happy drunk so I bought him a pint and gave him a ciggie and asked him to chill out and join our group.

For a few hours, all seemed good, we were all having a good night, some lads copped off, other were dancing, chatting to everyone, good times.

Then our loner started backing off again, he starts to say he is a 'street fighter' (hello, we are in out mid twenties here), starts to say someone is going to get battered tonight and all the while I am asking him to chill out, its all good.

Then he says it one too many times and I get this paranoia, in my head, he is going to hit someone for no reason as he has said it too many times, it might be me, it might be a mate, it might be a random, but he has said he is going to lay into someone.

So even though he has been pretty cool for a few hours and we had a laugh, right now, this cnut is a threat, I put my pint on the bar, turn to face and windmill the cnut.....many hours of drinking I completely miss, the surprise Sucker Punch was sliced and I fell into cnut, luckily my momentum takes him down and I drop a couple of hammers on his face, one of which catches his front tooth and splits my thumb knuckle.

Next thing I remember was lying on my back in the snow and a bouncers size 10 stamping on my chest (I know the size because of the bruise).

Anyway, cue to next day and my girlfriend comes from her night out to stop at mine for dinner.

GF: "What happened to your hand?"
Me: "There was a broken glass in the sink I didnt know about"
GF: "Thats bad, its pretty deep, your mates (they lived in my house) are a bit scummy (cant remember the right words).
Me: Yeah I know, no respect....

Queue my mate opening the lounge door whilst my GF looks at the split knuckle:

Mate: "That was a fucking great punch, you must have knocked his teeth out"....

Me looking at GF in awkward silence....
 

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