Hock - tsscch

The sound that signifies instant comedy. One of the great pleasures in a gentleman's life comes when he gets the opportunity to highlight out the henpecked status of a friend or colleague. With the simple mechanism of the sound above and a whip like gesture from the hand, instant paranoia descends on its subject.

Your not henpecked, you know your not fcuking henpecked. Your relationship with your missus is one of mutual understanding. You go out together, sometimes you do your own thing, on the whole, the situation is healthy. But all it takes is one Hock-tssccch from a mate and you start questioning the status quo at home. I love doing it to people. There's a bloke at work, who's not allowed out of his fcuking room, never mind down the pub. Now this would be fine, but he likes to pretend that things are otherwise and that he is truly the master of his own destiny. The fact that he's not been down the boozer for about three years suggests the opposite is true, but he's got a huge repository of excuses as to why he can't attend single sex lager sessions. All his excuses are massively hetero-tigerish like, 'i'm building a wall', or 'i've got to kill me dog' to deflect the complete fakery on show to all but the least perceptive.

Today, we were near the brew machine having a chat about the World Cup Quarters. A mad scouser who works with us, Neil, got leathered yesterday, booked a ferry ticket for him and his 12 year old son and made plans to fcuk off to Germany on Thursday after removing the lad from school. When he got home, he forgot to tell his wife, only putting her in the Rembrandt as he left for work this morning. He said he could hear her screams over his car engine. Cue lots of head shaking, "Fcuking hell, mate, you is in dee sh-it, when you get back tonight," "Jesus Neil, I wouldn't have tried that one on." "Might I suggest a £1.80 bunch of flowers on the way home". Underneath all the comments was a bit of admiration for the sheer 'kiss my arrse' nature of his actions. Despite considering myself an at least equal trouser wearer at my gaff, I don't think i'd have tried that one on. The astonishing thing is that the henpecked fcuker is stood with us and tries to brass it out, putting himself in the same bracket as Neil.

"Too right Neil. You've got to show 'em who's boss every now and again, eh?"

There was a stunned silence followed by a massive burst of laughter, whilst he stood there with a daft look on his face. Neil broke the reverie by shouting, in between coffee voms

"Fcuk off Alan. The last time you watched a world cup match with a beer in your hand, you had a Nobby Styles rosette on."

And with that, the scales fell from Alan's eyes, and he realised that we'd known all along. As he walked back to his desk, the combined 'Hock-tssccchss' were at a Ben-Hur chariot race level.

Have any other arrsers got stories of those poor unfortunate 'i'm not henpecked me mate honest' blokes'?
Aaah Yes.
The quintessential environment to witness this behaviour was in the squadron bar in Deutchland on a friday afternoon.
Everyone would be getting harry tankers in their coveralls and planning a big night in the colonel followed by a trip into Town and the rest of the evening getting turned away from Nazi dickshows.
Anyway, John Q Pad would be lashed up and gobbing off about how he is going to go down town with all the singlies and tell his missus to frig off. After the usual shouts of derision from the toms, the pad will attempt to proove his manhood by phoning up his old lady to dishout a gripping.
The conversation goes something like this-
Pad-"Right, I'll show you fcuking singlie bastrads, I'll get her telt."
Phone- Ring Ring
Pad's wife- "Hello."
Pad- "Er, er, hello love, it's me. Er I was wandering if, er, if I......"
Wife- "Get your fcuking arrse home, now!" Click.
Pad- "Er, ok, love you, bye."
Pad to singlies..."Sorry lads the kids are ill, I've got to go home."
The resulting hock tusssch from the lads sounded like a cross between the chorus of "The legend Xanadu" by Dave Dee, Dosey, Beak, Mick and Titch and a fight scene from Raiders Of The Lost Ark.
Can a girl join in? Good!

How many have you seen in the Sqn bar after work when everyone's making plan to go down town. They say

"I'm going home and getting changed in to my civvies and then be right back".

Only they don't pitch up until the next day, sporting a sheepish grin and all the excuses under the sun. :roll:

There was a lad in Aldershot who was uber henpecked. There was never much to him anyway. Considering that his nickname was 'Bare Essentials,' it's hardly surprising. He had been dubbed thus by his det commander, closely followed by the rest of the squadron, due to his ability to just about scrape through life. He just about breathed enough, and just about ate enough to sustain minimum life support systems.

Somehow he managed to tap off and get married. She was a right fcuking brute and she terrorised him from day one. She used to give him spends and everything. Having already been a squadron figure of fun, he was immediately demoted to become the subject of complete derision.

Her greatest moment came at the Bongo Battery Christmas do (nae birds). Picture the scene if you will. 'Bare Essentials' has escaped her clutches for one night only and it is getting merrily mangoed with the rest of us. It was a high class do. 9 crates of Helen Keller stacked up in the cam net store, which we were working our way through as quickly as we could. We started at 4 and by 6 were just beginning to make evening plans, when one of the lads asked Essentials,

"Are you coming down town or what"

On the back end of a few cans of bravado he shouted

"Too fcuking right" As soon as he'd said it the colour drained from his face. SHE'D FCUKING TURNED UP TO GET HIM. In front of an entire troop of 30 variously aged blokes, she swore her way over to him, gave him a massive, open-hand clatter and roared.

"FCUKING GET HOME, NOW", before giving the rest of us a mouthful and storming out. As soon as the dust settled, all eyes turned to Essentials. What should have happened was that we all got round him and gave him a bit of moral support,

'Fcuk me, mate. That was out of order,'
'Don't worry about it, there'll always be another night,'
'Didn't her Ron Hills look well starched?'

Unfortunately for Bare Essentials, we were all members of the British Army and singlies to boot. The tscchhh in the Hock-tsscccchss were loud enough to cause me to look over at the Stella stack, to see if the ring pulls had all been simultaneously opened. To add insult to injury, a few Norman Collier chicken impressions got thrown in for good measure, as he searched the stores for the beret that her clatter had knocked off his underdeveloped swede.

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