In the pub last night, a mate of mine knocked out the most awesome grolly I have ever had the privilege of seeing. He did let on early in the evening that he had a bit of a chesty cough for a week or two, and was coughing quite a lot. As the night wore on, he regurgitated a couple of pints of respiratory-marzipan, but he was kind and considerate enough to rinse it back into his stomach with a swig of his pint. Just before midnight, he had a major coughing fit, which resulted in him depositing his masterpiece on to the floor of the pub. It was horrific. It looked like someone had nicked the digestive system of an otter, sprayed it brown and swung it round their head a few times. I could have sworn it was moving under itâs own power. Most of the crowd recoiled immediately, but a few more of the more scientifically minded, could only marvel at what heâd produced. His consumption for the evening had been exclusively Guinness and Baileys, and it had given his dockyard oyster the complexion of a Caramac in some parts and of Marmite in others, with the more uniform Olive drab forming the main body of the work. When the landlord looked over the bar to see what the commotion was, he could only say, âFcuk me, that thing can have itâs own pint pot!â Showing social concern, the grolly lobber quickly replied, âYou better get a shovel quick, Len. As soon as this fcuker dips below body temperature, weâll need a snowplough to move it.â Do any other ARRSE members know of men like this, who should be nominated for the next New Years Honours list.?