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  1. How about a thread to relate notable exits from otherwise sticky situations?
    Here's your starter for ten.

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    I was on exercise in about 1973-4 in Belgium with the RSigs element of AMF(L). We were billeted in the camp at Malmedy. I set out one evening in search of ale and if possible, fanny, but being facially challenged from birth held out little hope for the latter.

    Off into the heavily forested locale I did bimble, with my nose (finely attuned to the scent of beer) and my c0ck arguing over the navigation, but eventually they led me to a cowsh1t coloured dwelling with a beery looking sign affixed, that stood square in the middle of nowhere.

    Opening the door revealed a darkened corridor with several doors off it, one of which had a glass panel that showed that nose had won the day, and it was indeed a bar. Trouble is, it was empty and in darkness. After the statutory 'open door, call hello' caused no response, I moved on to the next door.

    No glass in this one, so squaring my hunched and misshapen shoulders, I opened it, to reveal an average sized Belgian family engaged in devouring their favourite national dish of chocolate covered former racehorse and pomme frites with mayo.

    The male (and presumed head) of the family sprang to his feet showering gobbets of 17% cocoa coated Shergar on his nearest and dearest, and headed towards me gibbering on in the heathen native lingo. Not to be outdone, Yorkshire pride at stake etc, I calmly advised him of the whereabouts of Aunt Dorothy's Parker (a lie, as I had stolen the said quill on enlistment, so that my begging letter writing would not suffer).

    This obviously caught him on the wrong foot, as his demeanour changed and suitably subdued, he bade me to follow. We entered the bar and whilst interjecting at random (broad minded I am, I took no heed) he proudly illuminated his pile and with all the usual continental faffing about, eventually produced a glass of beer. His discourse continued, and from what I could make out he was trying, in his feeble foreign manner, to communicate the following; "stay, drink, and fcuk my daughter". In the spirit on entente, who was I to say nay?

    Over the next hour or so his family did parade in to the bar at intervals, presumably as a form of pre-coital check, and I mentally selected the second daughter, the one without the moustache, and the family collie as dessert. The beer it came, the beer it went, and yet no sign of having been asked to pay for any of them. Obviously Yorkshire genes are in high demand hereabouts, and no price is too high.

    The beer it came, the beer it went. Then returned, as a feeling like a small porker started to twitch deep in my bladder area. As I stood and used my best Frog (now 100% fluent due to mental lubrication) to enquire whither p1sser?, our Belgique bar steward grunted something about cochon, presumably the frog for sh1thouse, and slid a small scrap of paper towards me!.

    My pulses raced, and the lentils won, a map to do-able daughters chamber! But what is this, figures, does this man not know I am crap at maths? The slip of paper had more eurogabble and a string of numbers like a serial number on it, and I realised with heavy heart the sons of Keighley's finest would probably not, in fact, later tread the sod of the Ardennes, at least not for the next few years. Worse still, I now faced financial ruin of biblical proportions.

    As I stood and I slashed I pondered on a diplomatic way out "how about I skip the dog, do the daughter and give you all the cash I have on me?" (about £3.62). Then, as I sighed long and luxuriously at losing seven steamy splashy kilograms in about seventeen seconds, a light went on!.
    It actually came through a yellow fly-spattered window set into the wall some feet above the trough that had served me so well so recently.

    Cue 'The Great Escape' theme. I scrabbled for purchase upon the splashed porcelain, and stretching (did I mention that I am, to boot, a shortarrse?) managed to grab the sill of the Walloon window, and after the loss of no more than a few pence and the odd fingernail, opened the creaky portal and hauled myself up, ready for defenestration.

    Imagining myself a steely eyed airborne type I launched myself into the gloom. After but a few milliseconds in free-fall I hit, with a bone crunching jar, an aged Belgian velocipede, which until my abrupt arrival had been whiling away the decades leaning against the wall.

    Staggering to my feet, I fumbled around in the crepuscular strangeness in search of the bike. Speedy escape for me, I thought, and soon managed to locate the conveyance. Propping one another up we made our joint way towards a gap in the darkness, which I was sure was a gate or other hole in the wall. Swinging my favourite leg over the machine, and kicking about for the pedals I wobbled on, around the corner.

    A ray of light from the windows of the hostelry fell across the trusty bike, the crossbar of which now resembled a boomerang, and caused me to either knee myself on the chin every revolution or bruise my already battered kneecaps on the sit-up-and-beg handlebars (though in accuracy they were now lay-down-and-plead).

    I made my unsteady but undaunted way towards the distant moon, looking like the witch from 'The Wizard of Oz', £3 in my pocket, pissed at someone else's expense, and with a better understanding of the foreign psyche, and why there will always be an England.

    Edited for having failed typing