Get on....PARADE!

Now I'm not a big fan of drill or other standing still in the rain related activities but there has been the odd occasion which has made me chuckle. Granted the vast majority of these involve me laughing at some other fucker's misfortune.
A few months ago I was stood on a regimental parade, bored stupid and attempting to make the time pass more swiftly by spotting likely candidates for a tarmac breakfast. Nothing much seemed to be happening this morning and I was preparing myself for a poor show when I heard a splattering sound from about fifteen feet to my front. My interest piqued I scanned the ranks to my front hoping someone was lashing their trews or was following through in a particularly unpleasant manner. It took me a while to locate him but I spotted a weak looking specimen who even from behind appeared to have a translucent head, he appeared to be trembling somewhat and as I looked at the ground in front of him I saw a pool of watery bile.
There was about thirty minutes of this parade still to go and I would have put good money on him imminently faceplanting into the deck. Chuckling to myself I watched on as (fair play to the fella) he stood bolt upright with just his head slightly tilted forward as a steady stream of gastric fluid dripped onto the parade square. I could feel his pain as I struggled not to laugh my cock off and remain straight faced. For over half an hour he stood like that streaming, growing paler, beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck.
The Scripture Reader came on and waffled about god in his lispy voice and offered a little light relief with his claim that "God loves oursouls" the subtle humour lost on this lad.
Finally the officers and the badge disappeared and the coys began to march off. The CSM spotted the puke and marched over.

CSM: Who threw up on the square?
Cfn: Hmmmpf glmpf *raises hand feebly
CSM: Get it out.

At this the lad squatted down before getting onto all fours like a dog and opening his mouth wide, he wasn't sick at this point but the mouthful of puke looking very much like thick custard fell out onto the square. This fella had been stood there for a half hour with this tasty treat in his mouth not knowing what the fuck to do with it.
I hadn't had this much entertainment on a CO's parade since the Caribbean lad toppled over into eight inches of snow and disappeared beneath it before being dragged off the square looking like he had been tarred and feathered.
I don't think that's any bearing on what you've written. I think it's more to do with the whole pointless post thing, and not wanting to add a one-word 'outrageously, not funny' type reply.
Also there's not too many squaddies online at the moment - so maybe this one will pick up this evening?
Add to that, as well as the odd beret flying off and the odd rifle slipping as the legs go, I think you have already highlighted the worst possible thing that could happen on an RSM's.
I'd be very happy to hear of anything worse however...
i saw a middle ranker puke on the back of the right hang marker, that was funny, esp when it ended up in a punch up the SSM and badge were not laughing :) but how i did until they spotted me, it was funny after no tea and no biscuts :)
We had a parade in Catterick and the Queen Mum was attending, she turns up with a spendid new set of wooden teeth and the parade is in full swing. One of the guys at the dias decides he's had enough of this standing still lark and decides he's going to practice for the next world championship diving competition. 3 1/2 somesaults with pike into tuck, high degree of difficulty. He started off brilliantly but was tragically halted when his face smacked the tarmac with a sickening 'thwump'. Stood to attention, no attempt to break the fall, down you go son. F*ckin funny, not sure if they turned him over to drag him away, which would have been the decent thing to do, although dragging him by his feet face down would have been more amusing.
Rememberence parades are usually a hotbed of portly rlc stackers hitting the tarmac, I like it when their boots get scrapped along the pavement by the St Johns chaps
I'm a big fan of puking, especially when it doesn't involve me. I was once witness to a mass puking which would make the Jim Jones poisoning of 1978 look like a slight tummy upset.

May 1990 and 5AB were practicing sim 45's and general airborneness in preparation for a mass drop in front of the Queen and her yellow toothed matriarch.

Close to a thousand blokes wearing all shades of lurid tropical trousers mixed with smock parachutists 190/112 were living quite happily side by side until 'soldiers non-ferocious' were moved in to assist in the parachute cleanup on the DZ after the training sorties. Obviously one of them was sickly and wheezy as he spread a rather virulent strain of D&V throughout the brigade.

It came to a head during the last training drop where blokes were quite literally collapsing unconcious in a torrent of their own fluids, in some cases whilst hooked up awaiting the green light.

I remember being transfixed at the sight of a C/Sgt sat opposite me, turning green before trying to stifle a comit (combined cough and vomit). His cheeks expanded, his eyes were reduced to bloodshot holes and an entire breast of chicken forced itself out of his left nostril.

He gave a quiet moan which conveyed desperation, self-pity, pain and probably embarrasment as he'd sharted his trops too. The PJI's being ever helpful, opened the doors early to dissipate some of the smell but the initial inrush of wind only scattered lumps, and jelly-like strings of bile throughout the aircraft encouraging those who weren't sick to part company with their stomachs.

I remained strangely unnafected, my stomach hardened after a prior 6 month tour of Belize where I ate out whores on a nearly daily basis concentrating my main effort on tonguing their dates.


Prior to passing out of basic training, we had the obligatory full dress rehearsal the day before. The usual sketch, march on, band playing, inspection and “So have you enjoyed training what what”, march around in circles and bugger off. We were out on the square for the same length of time we would be expected to be out for on the day itself, so we could be prepared for the amount of time we would be holding our rifles, and all that good stuff.

The RSM was also cutting about. A giant of a Jock Guard, he also held the MM for being a loon in the Falklands. He wasn’t a completely heartless bastard though, and was nipping up and down the ranks, spotting lads who were wobbling a bit and discretely taking the weight of their rifle so they could flex some life back into their fingers. A couple of places down from me, he was giving a pasty faced lad a pep talk when all I heard was “Hang aboot son, are yous about to……” and suddenly a gallantry award winning WO1 was picking himself up off the floor, having gone over on his arse trying to get put of the way.

A stream of projectile vomit, there must have been about 3 litres of it, had blasted straight out of the poor lad, and smashed into the bloke in from of him. It hit him straight in the back of the head, knocked his cap off, and completely soaked the back of his No 2s. The source of the vomit, with the remnants dribbling down his chin and the front of his uniform, stood there white as a sheet, looking nervously back and forwards between the lad he had just puked all over and the RSM who was now inspecting the fresh new scratches all over his pace stick.

The RSM flicked a couple of carrot chunks off his sleeve, and turned to the DS who were now also bricking it. “I’d go bananas right now, but at least these two are sill stood to attention. Get them both a new set of 2’s and make sure this daft cunt doesn’t do it in front of his mam and dad tomorrow”
"Excercise Black Gap"

Not a run into downtown mombassa to eat out the local whores as you might imagine, but AMF(L) practicing with their partners how to stem the red hordes advance through Denmark/Northern flank by the medium of some international cross training/drinking.

this culminated in a massive BBQ and drinkathon of biblical proportions on the last evening during which umpteen fights kicked off, and at least one member of our squadron awoke to realise not only was he wearing the uniform of a different nationality, he'd swamped it, and had no other dry clean kit to attend the final "closing ceremony" parade in.

So, it was looking like a collection of pasty faced, swollen jawed, black eyed south American mercenaries that we attempted to keep up the good name of Her Maj's armed forces by stepping off across the tussocky grass to the German oompah band providing the stirring martial music for the occasion.

All went well on the march on, with only one person being hysterically felled by a deliberate heel kick, and with the parade being in a large field no one actually saw him go down until he emerged at the back of the squadron like he'd been run over by us.

The closing speeches by the commanders of the nations involved in their own languages is where the wheels quite literally started to come off. It was a warm June morning and the effects of a weapons grade night on the wazz, no sleep and little breakfast was taking its toll on the men, I think the first bloke to bark up was a planty from support troop whose efforts to keep it in his gob only compressed it into a high velocity curtain of bile which as it left him sounded like someone opening a tin of coke that had been shaken up.

2 more men from 1 troop swiftly succumbed after this, and learing from the unfortunate planties comedy effort, simply leaned slightly forwards and launched down their own legs, things were gathering pace now, and I distincly heard our troop staffy growl "any f ucker in this troop hoops and I'll f ucking force feed you it ye c unts" ..... just before the bloke 2 down from me executed a perfect backwards flop, as if he'd been shot in the head, and laid perfectly this day I'm still unsure if he fainted or just fell asleep.

Things degenerated further as a chap in the rear rank "excused himself" and wandered off to the rear where he let loose a long lazy wazz into the treeline before sauntering back to his place, past a now volvanic troop staffy with a "Whats the problem???" look on his face and a shrug (in his defence he was still hanging drunk, this didn't prevent his eventual jailing though).

The final humiliation came with the march past, as the combined disorientation of alchohol, lack of sleep, an uneven surface and an "eyes right" had the effect of making almost a third of the squadron trip up and collapse into the people in front before we lurched off to our tented lines for one of the most monumental collective bollockings I have ever heard, with at least 15 blokes warned for orders on the spot, resaulting in 9 demotions and three jailings.
We had a chap in our intake at brats. A dark skinned gent from Brumistan who despite being bone idle, continually getting the troop fcuked was popular and a laugh. He couldn't get out of bed, he was unfit but looked immaculate in everything he wore.

His tinted venier fell off on one triple drill period prior to the troop above us rehearsal for pass off.

Whilst performing 'rights forms' he raised his hand and asked the worlds scariest Irish Guards drill sgt if he could go for a p1ss. He was politley told not and that if he asked again and dared to raise his hand on Gods acre the consequences could be quite bad for our Afro Carribean pal.

Within three minutes, and whilst marking time, not wantign to look down, but on a Glorious Dorset morning it sounded like the troop where walking on the spot in a body of shallow water. Thats because we were, Barrat had done an enormous horsepiss in his Barrack dress, and it had leaked all over the place...... Because we were marking time it was hidden, but I think he'd realised his error would be there for all to see the moment we advanced leaving a puddle the size of Poole market with p1ssy footprints following us.

Despite being Irish Guards, the Drill Sgt quickly used all of his detective skills and worked out who the culprit was.

In fairness he was gobsmacked, but his rage was visible from the 30 metre distance he was away from us. There was no way Barrett would survive this and deep down I think this was going through his mind when the next bizarre series of events took place.

Knowing death was imminent, and seeing a 5'11 barrel chested, peaked capped effigy of evil quick marching towards him bawling threats and promises, all involving him ending up dead.

Barrett promptly dropped his SMG, broke ranks and legged it........

This stopped the Drill Sgt in his steps and he was quite clearly more shocked at that than he was at someone using his sacred area as a latrine.

Clearly we paid the price for his bad mood for the remainder of the lesson, Barrett appeared cowering in his bedspace much much later after seeking refuge all day in the bin area at the back of the Sgts mess.

The picture of a very smart black guy swastika-ing accross the square and off into the uhlu will remain etched on my retinas for ever


Gen Sir Mike Jackson came to vist 16x at Al Amarah in 2003. As usual the "5 minutes before the 5 minutes before" rule was firmly in place, and so everyone from the Bn was lined up outside Bn HQ just before dawn.

Of course no allowance had been made for the extra 5 minutes of OJAR time every officer was trying to grab with the General, so we were all left standing out in the sun for some time before he eventually graced us with his presence.

One of the Toms was in the early stages of the chronic D&V doing the rounds at the time, and could be seen looking more and more uncomfortable as we stood there in the now blazing sun. Eventually the General and the large gaggle of escorting officers finished asking about boots and post, and this lad thumped into the dust face first. With barely a backwards glance, they noticed he had piled in and walked off ignoring him.

So far, so normal. The lad was then loaded into the back of the OCs FFR to be driven to the RAP for a check over. It was at this point that he decided to grand slam in the back of the FFR, ensuring that pish, puke and liquid shite was sprayed all over the place, and the movement of the FFR sloshed the resulting mixture under the battery boxes and into every crevice in the back of the wagon.

The stench was unbelieveable, and the flies were thicker than the dustcloud following the waggon. Brand new Pl Comd gets the job of clearing it all out as it was "his fault" that the Tom had piled in on parade, and he was therefore responsible for the ensuing mess!
Training for our pass off parade in JLR, a smell similar to a freshly opened can of pedigree chum emanated throughout the ranks. It become stronger, muskier and somehow sweeter as time progressed.

'Aboooooooouuuut..........tahhnnn' rang out followed by 'What the fuck!'

'Stand fucking still you cahhnts!'

The DSM strode across and pointing his stick toward a sickly cockney wretch named Davies said 'What is that stain on your No2 trousers?'

There was a muddy puddle the size of a dinner plate on the back of Davies' strides.

''s coffee Sir'

'Coffee? Fucking coffee? Are you filtering it out of your fucking arsehole? Get off my fucking square! Sgt.....jail that shitty arsed cunt!'
Spaz mate, this particular incident wouldn't happen to have been at SEME probably june at a guess, this year (Q coy CSM doing the shouting)? If so, I was standing nearly behind the fella so had an ideal view of the whole thing. Funny as fcuk! :twisted:
worm said:
Spaz mate, this particular incident wouldn't happen to have been at SEME probably june at a guess, this year (Q coy CSM doing the shouting)? If so, I was standing nearly behind the fella so had an ideal view of the whole thing. Funny as fcuk! :twisted:
Certainly was, 10 Trg Bn formation parade.
Another SEME related incident from a couple of years back, having just finished the parade we are marched up to the top of the square where everybody was crammed into a room who was not currently on a trade course to sit around all day and watch Jeremy Kyle whilst refusing to volunteer for anything and not falling into the who has a motorcycle license trap. Having just halted the command for right turn is belted out, cue the attempt to all turn at the same time. At this moment one bloke having survived the entire parade takes this as his cue to fall face first into the road, as is customary a full on face plant with no ability to raise the arms to save ones face. I believe the poor bugger ended up with a broken nose, made my day at least anyway. :)
Yet another similar SEME (sorry, now 10Trg Bn) story. A recent COs parade, we'd not been standing there 3 minutes when some girl just rigid as the sgt majors pace stick drops forward.... still standing to attention as her chin hit the ground. Massive respect all round for her as there was no noise other than the horrendous crack of bone on tarmac. She did look dumb as hell for the weeks following as she had to walk round camp with a crazy bandage on her chin (think jim carey in "me myself and irene").
Shortfuse, did the exercise start with the badge being jailed on the lsl or were you with the crazy geordie staffy in amfl if so that twat made one night on guard at tidworth a mare, instead of 2 on the gate then as quick as you can round camp then sleep untill your next stag he decided it was 2 on 2 roving 2 digging a fucking full 2 man battle trench then 2 manning the spyglass round the back of the mess watching the tree line for any intruders ie him the twat!


Book Reviewer
Not in the same league as the above but...

2 RGBW (TA) colours parade, Windsor 1998. All week beforehand we had been practicing at Longmor, marching from the parade square to the football pitches at the top of the camp. During each rehearsal, the part of the important people (Phil the greek & Gen Mike Jackson) was played by two of the PSI's. Every day, their uniforms would become more and more elaborate, from hats and shoulders covered with braid to coat hangers hanging down with quality street wrappers attached as medals. They would also dawdle during the inspection and have some random and wandering conversations with those on parade.
It culminated on the last day at longmoor with a full rehearsal, with the exact timings as they would be the following day. the CO marched up to the dais and asked permission to march off the parade (or whatever the wording was). Without further ado, the band struck up and began playing the "the stripper" and these two PSI's began shoo wap shoo wapp-ing along. With the CO's shoulders quaking with laughter and the battalion behind in a similar state, these two executed a perfectly choreographed routine, complete with velcro'd trousers to be removed a la Full Monty. It was a struggle not to hum the tune the following day...
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