My Mate Dave........

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by Juan_Ramirez_III, Aug 22, 2010.

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  1. We have all got one, that kind of mate that makes you groan inwardly and then regret sending that text inviting him out when he finishes the evening by executing a one man charge at a police horse outside York Races or when he strides atop a parked car in only his shreddies declaring that he is now officially the king of that particular taxi rank...
    Mine isn’t actually called Dave but close :) The fucking meat was a mate by proxy really at first, my only brushes with him previously had been on opposing teams at rugby and when he tagged along on a night out on my birthday and bizarrely enough behaved himself impeccably. The resulting giggle that night and our shared experiences in the jacuzzi at Winston’s in Leeds during the early hours of the next day cemented a friendship that is at best like stone but at times as flaky as a Stab’s intent...

    I do like him, immensely. It’s good to have a mate you can bell at any time and say ‘I think we should play out’ and then be in a taxi to playgrounds new together within the hour. To explain, he is quite special, over the past couple of years he has further advanced his own legend with some epic exploits...

    Like most I am not that keen on spending more than a night in London, let alone being dragged into darkest Tottenham with a 16 stone ape from Wortley under the premise that ‘it’s my nephews 18th mate it will be full of blart and we get to have it in London for a night!’..Hardly a lot in that statement you could not be attracted to until you found out that a number of certain ‘at the time’ unknown events had gone on with Dave and his family that hardly made him flavour of the decade. They seemed a nice lot, he wasn’t lying though it was packed with scruffy birds and cheap beer so initially it went well. To be fair he did try and be nice, a few people were evidently hostile straight away but they were a lot older so I didn’t pay much attention, but skipping over minor points of detail, by midnight Dave had nutted the birthday boy and then pushed his sisters (Mother of said birthday boys) face into a crap M and S type cake that had been laid out for the nephew...The resulting uproar left me with a missing molar, permanently minus my coat and Dave with a tasty gouge out of his ear.

    Another time I bagged some free tickets for a few of us to go and see the Arctic Monkeys in Manchester, Dave turned up in his usual stone washed denims, sevens shirt and freshly shaved head. The 40 minute train journey was quite uneventful save for a few beers and a ticket drama at the barriers. To cut a long story short Dave missed the show, between going to ‘O Neill’s’ at the Printworks for a few whiskies, then using the cash points then queuing to get in, the daft twat had lost his way and ended up trying to get back to Leeds on a Newcastle train via West Yorkshire. The finer details weren’t relayed to us until he was arrested a fortnight later on his own doorstep for smashing a vending machine in response to a void purchase in Huddersfield train station and bunking out of a returning taxi a couple of miles short of Headingly and taking off into the night with the drivers keys later that night in his vain and idiotic attempt to get home without paying.

    Dave is ace, he makes most nights out eventful and aside from his ability to piss in his own mouth then spurt it out again straight at you at will he is a proper mate....and believe it or not he has never served a day in his life and is a chartered accountant :) !!

    Let’s have your ‘Dave’s’......
     
  2. brettarider

    brettarider On ROPs

    Not called Dave a mate a bit further along the alphabet normally a pre-session for him would be some elephant beer and nearly a ltr of vodka for a night out. By the time it was out at the bob he'd be well oiled and his chat up line was normally along the lines of asking if he could shag some bird up the stench trench more often than not her fella would be stood right next to her a bit of diplomacy on my or another lads part would stop him getting filled in. He tried it one night to two females who just happened to be off duty monkey and were going to nick him for being a sex pest. He still had hair then and as the night progressed it would rise into two horns.

    Some of his better nights out were wanking himself off in a packed Sqn bar in front of everyone. Regularly shitting himself ina bar and trying to jump out a taxi as they were trying to rip us off him half hanging out as it drove up the strasse was well funny sure some others from my old trade can tell you more about him!
     
  3. My mate "Dave" is a horrible little wretch. He's a half boxhead pad's brat who decided to join the army. As a young lad at his first unit in the Fatherland, he got minging before taking his Mother's car out for a bit of Colin McRae action. His pished rallying skills may not have been described as polished but they were certainly spectacular.

    He stoofed the car at some speed into an electrical substation, wiping out it, the car and himself. He managed to put himself into a coma for a few weeks, followed by a several month stint in the hospital. He wiped out the power in a large garrison town for quite some time and caused around €1,000,000 of damage. The fact that he's half kraut was his saving grace here, as he was dealt with as a German rather than as a Brit squaddie, he still got stung with a €80,000 fine though which he has been paying off for the last 10 years.

    Despite the fact that Dave hands over the lion's share of his wages each month to Angela Merkel, he still manages to spend most evenings in the pub. Wherever he goes he ends up with some dodgy second income to keep him in Tesco value vodka and budget energy drinks. 2 days after arriving in Cyprus he had a job as one of those annoying cunts that hang around outside bars trying to lure in the punters. They didn't pay him, they just fed him booze all night and he was more than happy to hang around in the street, making a cunt of himself whilst trying to fire into drunk slappers.

    I had the misfortune of sharing a one man bunk with Dave and another lad in the transit accommodation in Dhekelia for 3 months. This room was fucking tiny you could practically stand in the middle and touch the 4 walls, it had no ceiling fan and fixed shutters over the windows. We lived in that room from July until October and it was permanently redders, a horrible grotty little sweatbox. Dave wasn't a fan of the heat and whenever he was in the room he'd adopt the siesta position, bollocky buff on top of his bed and start snoring away. I got threaders with the amount of times I'd walked in to see him zonked out with an angry lobon twitching away in time to his dream and had told him to start wearing skiddies or something. Dave decided a compromise would do and would lay out in the buff with a flannel draped over his cock, I couldn't be arsed arguing and let it go. This was until a few days later when I woke from my oldman's half hour, opened my eyes and was greeted with the site of Dave sleeping in the foetal position, facing away from me and his sweaty brown eye staring me out, no more than 3 feet away. This was too much for me and I enforced a pants rule from that day on.

    If Dave was a wretch when sober he was even worse with a few vodkas inside him, he has his knob pierced and sports a hefty bow shackle through the end of it, which he isn't shy of showing to people. He bumped into the female 2i/c of our sqn in a bar one night and started attempting to fire into her, she was quite enjoying their conversation for a while and Dave's luck may have been in. This is until he decided that the best way to illustrate a point was to fish his cock out of his shorts and slap it against her bare leg. The conversation went downhill from there.

    The lad is a fucking pest but a night out with him is never dull.
     
  4. Fugly

    Fugly LE DirtyBAT

    I've had a few mates called Dave over the years.

    The prominent Dave that springs to mind was a scrawny, wiry little Jock type Lance Jack. A cracking bloke, he had the back of everyone who he worked with, but the very second that he crossed the threshold of a drinking establishment, his pin would fall out on the doormat.

    We were in the UK from the Fatherland for a week, and having a bit of a "cultural re-acquaintance visit" (i.e. catching with some of our favourite watering holes back home). One particular night found us in the Northern Paradise that is the city of Kingston-upon-Hull, and the high class establishment, famed throughout the world, known as The Tower.

    Now, some of the older and bolder on here who went through Leconfield all those years ago will have various alarm bells ringing, and I'm sure the phrase "The Tower for an hour" will not be lost on many. For the sprogs and the civilians on here I'll explain - if you wanted to trap off and weren't particularly fussy about your conquests looks/weight/personal hygiene, then all you needed to do was go to the "Tower for an hour" and you'd be in. If you hadn't pulled by then, you were queer. Fact.

    Anyway, Me, Dave and a few others duly waltzed in and surveyed the possible targets, a collection of obese council munters and skinny, drawn coke addicts. Nice pickings. Dave, true to type, heads straight to the bar and starts smashing back the double Jacks. He comes back and starts spouting off about the skanky bint who had just tried chatting him up at the bar, "Not my fucking type, knocking on a bit" he says. "Her younger mate was alright though, but I told her to fuck off as well. Weird, as they look similar".

    We point out that he has just turned down a guaranteed shag from a mother/daughter combo.

    Dave goes absolutely ballistic at this point, and mid-rant throws his JD glass which - as we watched its trajectory in slow motion - smacks a bouncer square on his primate-sized forehead. Seconds later, we're floundering in the gutter following an undignified exit - and we're also queer, having failed to pull in the Tower.

    Dave has been responsible for several drinking disasters, more to follow.

    (BTW, JRIII, a cracking start to what will hopefully be a good thread. As long as it doesn't get covered with dribble like displayed just above)
     
  5. My mates brother is my "Dave" I suppose. He is about 10 years older than me, bit of a jailbird, can look after himself.

    The first time I went out for a few beers with him ended in us getting into a bit of a scrap with about 20 lads outside a kebab van after a he leapt to the defence of the female kebab van employee when there was actually nothing going on, but in his mind, she was the victim of a terrible sexual assault.

    We were first surrounded by the gang managed to walk away receiving a few kicks up the arrse. being spat at etc, but 5 minutes up the road "Dave" snapped, saying why are we running, lets go and chin them all etc etc. He turned back towards the kebab van stopping to tool himself up breaking a couple of bits of wood from a nice little picket fence. As we neared the kebab van, the group of lads were still there, still celebrating thier "result" of seeing us off earlier. "Dave" wailed and charged at them, flailing the bits of wood like some mad berserker, he must of floored 4 of them before they knew what had hit them and the rest of them legged it. I didnt actually do anything to help out at all apart from run after him, but in his mind we were bezzers because I had "backed him up".

    Other adventures with "Dave" I got involved in included:
    Having a fight with some off duty policemen (I got kicked up the arrse again, coppers dont fight fair!)
    Trying to steal a coach, only stopped when the driver who was sleeping on the back seat asked what we were doing.
    Prentending we were health & hygiene inspectors in a chinese restaurant.
    Being chased by the police around some country lanes in rural Berkshire in the dead of night while 2 up on a stolen moped.
    Night fishing with no permits, rod licences etc, Dave ended up throwing in the baliff.
    Watching Dave ride his "borrowed" ZZR 1100 into the local pub and doughnut it around the dance floor.

    Dave did get banged up again for driving without a licence or something and ended up in a open prison for 3 months, I went to visit him and he was making money smuggling in tobbacco (quite easy ashe was on a work party at a local farm) and selling it cheaper than the prison canteen. When he got out, he smuggled out load of HMP stripey shirts which a load of the local in our pub brought off of him. they used to all wear them on a sunday lunchtime session, sort of a ex lags club I suppose.

    When sober Dave couldnt of been a nicer bloke, his downfall was the beer, to his credit if any of his actions involved a visit from the police he would always take the blame, never grass anyone. I havent seen him for a few years now, hes not on facebook so he must be still up to his antics.
     
  6. My mate Dave managed to rock back up at the ship at 0600 minus his shirt and socks, when asked why he was wearing shoes but no socks, and indeed why he wasn't wearing a shirt he was completely at a loss, he hadn't even pulled that night.
     
  7. My mate for a few years until he left the army and dropped off the radar was Geordie W, the real life Sid The Sexist and the only bloke I know who'd got a confirmed 'kill' on a bird with a perfectly lobbed bottle of mayonaisse. Sober, he was a model of sophisticated politeness although he ended every sentence with 'pet'. On a night out, we'd transit to the satellite towns of Aldershot looking for something slightly more upper crust than 5's or the Rat Pit. Geordie's speciality apart from his gopping ginger 'tache was his ability to thoroughly believe that he was the hardest man on the planet, even when faced with insurmountable odds and most of Hampshire's police force.

    One night in Camberley after his customary 3 pints and the descent into drunken madness, he dropped his Levi's, splayed his cheeks and declared to the bar that 'Any cunt that wants it can eat my hole out'. A rather well to do rugby type took offence on behalf of his horsey-faced wife who'd just had a facefull of Geordie's sweat and bum-butter encrusted sphincter.
    On approaching Geordie he was greeted with a mouthful of warm, saliva enriched, John Smith's artfully directed into his eyes and the immortal words 'Back doon ya southern bastard or ah'll knack every last cunt in this shite booza................ahm a fooking heed tha baaaal!"

    The bloke did back off but only to gather reinforcements. True to form, Geordie kept them at arms length with a powerful spray of urine, enhanced by cruelly ripping his foreskin back to his balls and a running commentary to the shocked female clientèle........."How, pet, when I've finished this any chance you can wank us off with ya mooth?"..........."Two's up on ya arrse pet"......................"Dae ya smerk rollies in the bath?"

    Dragging Geordie by the scruff of the neck we exited rapidly, making it to the taxi rank and back to Aldershot where the Ginger Ninja tried offering the cabbie 20 B&H as compensation for him shitting in the back seat and calling his mother a "tramp-smoking cunt".
     
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  8. My mate dave is a true pal, also known as "psycho" or "that cunt" by anyone who made the mistake of socialising with him. At first glance you would consider him a gypo or pikey for the simple fact he is one, His social skills with people are strange to say the least as he seems to think shouting at people at close proximity and jabbing at peoples abdomen is acceptable during conversation. He has still never grasped how to chat birds up without making himself look like an absolute cunt and ordering them to smile otherwise he would kick off. Dave although a fearless challenger to anyone silly enough to fight him is a good bloke to me, i dont know why he likes me but he does and is never shy of getting the rounds in, dave has always got my back and is always around to start a fight with blokes and birds no matter their size or weight or number of muckers they have with them.

    Dave always punches above his weight and would make any other daves look like mugs. I wouldnt change anything about him. He is a top gezza
     
  9. Bretta, that sounds like Jock P*d*n from 3 P&C Depot in Dusseldorf? I seem to recall he had a fairly open relationship with the toilets?
     
  10. Did he have his own 'Dave' slot?.
     
  11. brettarider

    brettarider On ROPs

    Yup that's him his antics on the night of the leaving do was good got pissed then decided to act as a 10 pin bowling ball across the dance floor got him parped on the early bus back to camp along with me as I'd fallen asleep on a shitter with my trousers round my ankles still managed to catch the Naafi on camp before it closed.
     
  12. Let me tell you of "Trigger" for that was his (nick)name.
    Proud of the moniker "hairiest man in NATO", he was banned from showering post-ex until everyone else had been through. The surplus hair would have blocked the drains on the panzer washdown.
    Not content with being being hairy he decided to weigh all of 8 stone. Soaking wet. Think of the stunt double for Chewbaccas' cock. Size not everything? Well it helps if you're a Liney and have 7 quad drums to hump and dump. Which he couldn't.
    Not content with being hairy and scrawny he was also myopic to the extent he could pass for a Japanese sniper wearing Tojo style specs. He couldn't follow let alone plan a route. He could (and did) get lost on almost every exercise.
    Not content with being hairy, scrawny and blind he had a case of (undiagnosed) narcolepsy it seems. Tasked with driving a Lannie out to lay the afore-mentioned quad he couldn't lift, many a time he was 'missing' only to be found half a mile into laying the cable, engine running but stationary. Sleeping.
    Not content with being hairy, scrawny, blind and sleepy he was, even by Liney standards, a bit 'dim'* Knowing he'd never pass the written on his German driving exam the answer sheets were left conveniently under his nose by the kindly MT Sergeant. He failed.
    Not content with being hairy, scrawny, blind, sleepy and thick, his taste in women was shall we say 'suspect'. His German girlfriend fulfilled his criteria of "if he hugged her around the waist and his fingertips could touch then she's too thin" by a mile. Almost literally.
    Invited to a barbeque she squeezed her lard into a patio chair which then collapsed. It is unknown whether it was a plastic chair or a wrought iron one but I suspect the latter.
    Oh how we laughed when he casually dropped into conversation how good it was the night before when they'd experimented with watersports and she'd lagged all over him. Then whinged that it then got cold and he stuck to the mattress.
    Oh how we laughed when back from deployment the squadron booked a buffet and partners were invited. We all joked that the fat biffer better not eat it all before we get some. True to life, ladies first, behemoth stampedes and manages to get most of the buffet on her plate and walks past the returning lads all open mouthed and hungry. We didn't hate her for eating all the food we paid for and were left hungry. Oh no.
    Despite all of the above I have to say I miss Trigger. He had a heart of gold and was a real morale booster.
    *thick as pig shit
     
  13. Nah he used to share one with a bloke from my Squadron - I believe they'd cornered the market in swamped G10 matresses. Both mangrenades who believed that social interaction involved shouting at boxheads, double legging your trousers and acts of gross sexual offensiveness all qualified them as the life and soul of the party.
     
  14. I've just done your avatar with whisky.:)
     
  15. Excellent - are your eyes watering now that it feels like someone has twisted your guts up and your nostrils burn like the devils own ringpiece as recently consumed alcohol exits via them?

    My avatar was a dark day on the driver training area just outside Aldershot in 1995. I had the mother of all stomach dramas but not wishing to blouse it, tried to soldier on. Cue much vomiting in front of two faintly unamused Blues and Royals (the sharper eyed arsser will note that my trousers are down). I was not as legend has it, royally rogered from behind until I overflowed from the mouth; the truth is far less romantic.

    My arsse was as unruly as my stomach, so my thinking was this; if I'm going to strain myself puking, I may suffer a ringpiece related ND. If this happened, it was easier to chuck my shat underwear in the hedge than suffer the indignity of cutting about the area looking like I'd fallen on my arsse (and having it drip out of my twisters). My compassionate and sympathetic mates did what oppos the world over do - laughed, pointed and took photos.

    PS: I did not shat myself - not so you'd notice anyhoo