Is it possible to be nostalgic about swamping the bed?

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It's a serious question.

The last time I represented my country by splashing down for Britain was the 31st December 1995. After a long night spent in the Hacienda, I ended up back at my flat, with a lady who, for reasons known only to herself, had taken a shine to my 'rough diamond' charm.

After, or possibly during a hamfisted attempt at sex, I fell asleep in the bollocky bufters in the double bed. A couple of hours later I was woken by my companion. I'd been having a lovely dream about standing on top of a yellow waterfall.

She was screaming "YOUR WEEING," and sure enough, she was right. I was lying on my back, sending a huge horsepiss towards the ceiling. My bladder was like Cool Hand Lukes after the hard-boiled-eggs and I couldn't stop. The fact that I had a semi-on was aiding the trajectory of the wazz and it was going up a good five feet before arcing back down and splashing on to the mattress with a sound like someone vomming on a tiled floor. My slash was that long, that she had time to get dressed and leave, muttering the whole time about us all being "the fcuking same." As soon as I was finished I got my noggin back down and slept it off.

I had to use 15 chapsticks on my legs the next day.

That was the last time. It's a disgrace really. From 1985 to 1995 I could be guaranteed to turn my mattress into the Turin Shroud at the drop of a hat, but then it all stopped. Gone are those lovely mornings when i'd wake up in a pool of my own rusty watter and wonder that if I lay there for long enough my body heat might dry it out.

It's nearly ten years now. I may celebrate by drinking a Jerrycan of Breaker and lying in my scratcher with taps running in the bathroom and all four of my limbs in buckets of water.
We've all been there CC - i think it might be a back to the womb type experience. Theres something strangely comforting about lying in your own waste.

In the mid nineties, shortly after i discovered the red wine, i would often lay down hammered and send a squirt of wazz up the wifes back during the night, and your right, a semi-on certainly makes the whole specticle more impressive.

Unfortunately, as time wore on i had a tendency to go wandering and have a lag whereever my addled brain decided the bog was. On one occasion it was on the front lawn in front of the whole estate going to work. Civilians dont seem to understand, the hate mail was completely unwarranted.
You blokes are fcuking gopping. Maybe you should catheterise yourselves, or go to bed wearing nappies. Freaks!!!!
Swamp thing, you make the bed ming :D

I still lagg the bed on a regular basis, the other half struggles to let me in the door never mind the bed if Iv'e had a skinful.

Three days before Chrimbo we bought a rather sexy leather settee for the lounge, first night we had it I went and got thoroughly lashed and came home to find a 'No entry' sign on the bedroom foor, i wasn't capable of throwing one up her so I made for the new couch and dossed down.

I awoke sticky and smelly and cold a couple of hours later, but managed to keep it a secret fromt he domestic sunray :D

Anyone who never swamped the bed is a poncey puff!
Dont knock it till you've tried it Gado. I've not known many unhappy babies and they lie in their own filth all the time, theres alot to be said for it. Dont get us wrong, i (and i'm assuming CC) wouldnt do it out of choice, its not a watersports fettish. Its just not too alarming when it happens, and if you cant get over it in a nano second, you should be in a different job. Lets face it, its a talking point with your mates.

And while your calling me a freak, why does the first 2 letters of your name spell gay? Freak
When I came home on leave as a young Tom my mum got sick to death of me carrying the mattress into the back garden to dry so fitted a plastic sheet, all well and good but get a good splash on and you could windsurf on the puddle it made, a definate hazard to a drunken man who could easily drown.

In the end I had learned in a drunken mess to sleep on top of the duvet, thus absorbing the swamp and allowing me get a full nights sleep as opposed to wriggling round in a freezing cold puddle of pi*s.

I've got loads of lagg yer pants / bed stories, but liek the 'Follow through' thread, people may assume I had a body control issue :oops:
Missus had bogged off so I moved back into camp and had a great time, pissed up nearly every night. The matteress too a pounding, so did the floor underneath but the problem was I was on the 1st floor and it all seeped through onto the bed below. Whilst I was amused the receipant of my bladder was not. Oh those day were bliss, now...I get pissed and the bed is dry, I just fall overboard!!
gado said:
You blokes are fcuking gopping. Maybe you should catheterise yourselves, or go to bed wearing nappies. Freaks!!!!

Like you've never done it :lol:

Mrs tigger has a remedy for me , on the occaisional time it happens now 8O ................ she is so nice to me about it , it makes me feel so guilty I end up falling alseep on the can, how she laughs when she sneaks in and ties my shoe laces together and hides the bog roll :lol:


Just reading these memories has me crying tears of nostalgia.

My Dad still talks about the times I used to lag in his favourite chair.

Home on leave from the Apprentice College, i'd go out and get absolutely paggered. A pinball walk all the way home would see me get in the door at about 2am. I'd always stick a vid on and nod off in my dads comfy chair.

The next thing i knew, he'd be standing in front of me at 7am with a brew, shaking his head, whilst he got ready for work.

"Fcuking hell son, I thought i we'd finished changing your nappies when you were two."

He still likes to remind me about it, the most recent time being at his 70th birthday party in front of all my mates. :lol:
My folks remind me now and again, usually at functions with an audience, they are on the loser though as I'm not ashamed :D

many moons ago before Mrs MDN came on the scene I used to see a bird on and off and when I could be arsed, she was known to me as 'Blonde thing' Never really knew her real name just called her that, I got away with murder with her. I wouldn't phone her for weeks on end, then turn up on her front door at three in the morning, stinking of beer, farts and stale kebabs and manage to talk her into giving me one :D

I pushed my PULHEEMS once too often though, or so I thought, I turned up at her abode in my usual state at 3.30am one Sunday morning demanding some loving and waking up the neighbours. There was no way I could have got up stairs so she left me in the front room on the couch and cleared off to bed.

I awoke in the morning to the sounds of creekey floorboards and someone starting to come downstairs. Of course I was soaked with piss and semi naked and the couch was dripping and smelling musty.

In an instant a plan hatched and needed acting on before a distraught blondething or her mother found my 'liquid gift'

I ran at lightning speed into the kitchen and back again with a glass off water, I then pretended to be asleep with the upturned glass on my lap.

'AAHH Bless him' said her mother 'He's spilt his drink, he must have been tired'.

I laid there in disbelief, her mother went up to bed and Blondething treated me to a good piping :D

As I sat up so she could climb on, I bore full witness to my part time fireman’s activities. The couch was like a bag of wet tentage, and to top it off, through hazey eyes I noticed the tele and video and fireplace must have caught fire in the night as they had also been well and truly squirted.

To this day I don't know how I got away with it. I guess civvy birds don’t expect involuntary urination and defecation as part of a relationship.
Also in my distant past, I recall pulling for an absolute horror in 'american tan shiney tights' in Brannigans.

I worked all my charm on this pig who asked me back to her hotel for a coffe and handjob as she said she was on the blob... fine I thought, I'll have some of that.

We made our way back to her hotel she complained about being cold so reluctantly I loaned her my jacket. I was walking quickly as I was gibbering, she was walking like a wilderbeast in stilettoes but as I turned round I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

She was squatted up an alleyway with her minging tights around her ankles pissing like a racehourse. In my drunken curiosity I walked towards her to get a better view.

'Crap beer' she complained still pouring it out like a garden centre water feature. I did the decent thing and shoved my champ in her gob :D

To her credit, for a utter horror she was no stranger to the old pork trombone and soon I had the tingling and the dilemma of whether I tell her or not.

At this moment three of my pals passed the bottom of the alley way and looked up cheering, they they realised it was me and cheered louder.

Too late for me, I bolted and she went scatty, the rest shot all over her face, she started kicking off, still with her trolleys around her ankles.

As I looked down on her it dawned on me how fcuking rancid she was, so in front of my pals, pushed her forehead backwards, causing her to lose balance and fall into a puddle of her own piss, with my harry monk all over her kisser :D :D

Needless to say my pals were well impressed and I laughed for hours at the thought of that hideous fat fcuk rolling round in her own piss...... until it dawned on me that she had my £350 Deisel jacket on
Nocturnal indiscretions are a right of passage for all good men.

You progress, from the spotty, face like a Pizza Hutt menu teenage years of involuntarily concreting your sheets rigid dreaming of your Geography teacher, whose stockings and suspenders you glimpsed two years earlier, on to involuntarily turning you pit into a mini tropical steam bath.

I had such a problem with this – well it was not so much of a problem for me as my pay packet (I think an Army scratcher went for about 16 quid at the time) that I invested in the biggest, fcuk off beanbag I could find in Karstadts and slept on that every time I thought that I was in danger of paying the QM another days wages.

So all in all I spent about six nights out of seven curled up on the bloody thing, counterpane wrapped round me if I could fathom out how to get it off the bed in my not so sober state. I can thoroughly recommend it for every one – easily hosed down at the wash down and hung out to dry and an extra couple of quid in your pocket to pay for more p!ss.
There's something very funny about a forum like this with one thread about "Disgusting foreigners" and another about pissing all over your wife in a drunken stupor. I mean, we're pushing the envelope of minging here...
Being one of three brothers who have served at various times my poor parents became quite used to gently guiding their p*issed up sons towards the karzi instead of the wardrobe, stairs, corner of room, own bed, brothers bed, side board etc etc. My favourite was watching my brother slash down the stairs causing a mini waterfall :lol: :lol: .

In the block was even more fun, a good night out was gauged by the number of matresses which had to be stacked against the wall to dry out. Looking back now it was just part and parcel of the army life. Dossing round on lads house one weekend his parents had rigged a bed up in the front room which I duly splashed on.....feeling a tad sheepish the next morning I explained what had happend to be told "no worries kid, ***** does it every weekend anyway, we're used to it".

Mind the time I sh*t all over a birds kitchen was a different matter :lol:
Oh sh*te Eggbanjo, brings back vivid memories of a night of uncontrolled drinking and Granny grabbing down Vespa's local (The Grafton Rooms), so pissed I won and ended up with the ugliest oldest granny there (thursday nights,) anyway didnt know it at the time but now realise it was vespa's gran (because there was one parked in the backyard!) anyway, cut a long story short was on the couch in the living room taking her temperature with the old love thermometer, and all of a sudden I had to go , badly, so I told her I need the toilet ,she said well you cant go upstairs as you will wake the kids , not having that, use the sink, I said not a good idea 8O , she insisted and told me to go , so after about 15 minutes of pure pleasure, you know that glowing feeling you get when you unload just in time before you do it in your skivs, she shouts through"what the F8ck is taking you so long" to which I respond, " I cant find the kitchen roll"..........well she freaked on me threw all my clothes into the street and me to follow...........another 2 minutes and I would have had the hard bits down (using the potato masher, works well)..but no just like Vespa his gran had no sense of humour 8O
Lets not spoil a quality thread with this chaps, Its got me swamping at the thought of those line dup mattresses etc
tigger_c/s_30 said:
gado said:
You blokes are fcuking gopping. Maybe you should catheterise yourselves, or go to bed wearing nappies. Freaks!!!!

Like you've never done it :lol
uuumm? no!!! must be a boy thing!!! sorry :oops:
In the days, many moons ago when Levi 501s were the order of the day for squaddies we would stand in a circle in the German bars and piss our pants. It was massivley amusing for us as there would be a great big, darkened map of Africa appear in the front of your jeans.

The locals were horrified, but the poor sods that bore the brunt of the smell and dampness were the slags on 10mark alley :D
As a rule, it is not a girl thing to swamp.

As a brand new baby zob I was responsible for clothing/barrack stores on my 1st posting. Some of the guys I played rugby with were bitching about getting thin green plastic mattresses, whereas the WRAFs had the real thing. It was then that my Barrack Warden informed me that 'women don't swamp the bed' and that was why guys had waterproof sweaty green thin things to lie on.

One of the Sgts I used to work with had a thing for swamping his mates and not himself. Years ago, in a shared room, he awoke for a nocturnal micturation and lagged all over his mate's feet and knees. Upon awaking the next morning, his mate accused him of pi$$ing all over him. This silver tongued chap persuaded him that he had swamped himself. He believed him. Despite having dry thighs and crotch area.

A civvy mate got up & swamped his own record collection - not good.

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