Pardon My Erection


She was in bed when the housekeeping came in, then she got up and kindly made me a brew. What's more to know? She probably moved to california to start breeding airedales for Jerry Bruckheimer movies or something.


I’ve always considered little RTFQ to be a personal phenomenon, I try not to think of other men’s genitals too much and I just always thought I was lucky to have such a special and gifted friend. I certainly have never asked if my mukkas have ‘little’ friends who are capable of independent sentient thought.

On occasion, however, I see the signs of these little devils at work in other men. It’s rare, and I’m not talking about the mundane, ill-conceived actions of the cnut-struck or the horny, oh no – I’m talking about the recklessly suicidal endeavours of men with a certain wild glint in their eye and an awkward gait that you just know are the product of having a screaming, katana wielding, samurai-penis calling the shots.

I remember vividly the first time I saw this in a grown man. Sure, I’d seen Tommy Gittens set fire to his garden with petrol when we were 12, simply to try to get his next door neighbour (Tania, 17) to notice him. I’d been holding the ladder when Lee Wilson had fallen 20 ft from the window of a French Gite whilst on a 5th form language trip because we’d been trying to break into the girls’ accommodation. He broke his ankle and three metatarsals in his foot that night, but as I hauled him back to our building all he could talk about was how Michelle Archer and Tamsin Clarke had the best underwear he had ever seen. I will never forget, however, the time I saw a respected, hard drinking old ‘n bold mentor of mine succumb to his mini self. I have good reason to, as it nearly killed me.

This man taught me to drink. Okay, my mum taught me that (and, subliminally, about the wonderment and providence of breasts in general) and my homies from the Zouch Estate Gang in Tidworth taught me how to drink White Lightning like a proper little Menace II Society; but this guy taught me how to drink wife beater like it were water and still be able to fight/love/do the illusion jump after 15 pints. The trouble is that he was seeing a girl about 20 years his junior. As such he walked the bipolar world of emotions known to sugar daddies everywhere. He prowled amongst the younger pretenders like a pristine, vintage DB5 gliding through Monaco, watching them amateurishly eye up his nubile trophy – but in the deepest recesses of the night you just knew he lay awake in sweat wondering when his exhaust would pack up and he’d get traded in. He took all opportunities to show her his mettle.

Her birthday came around and he organised a surprise party in the mess. He had a disco booked and the previous day we had both gone out and bought a small arsenal of fireworks. She was due in at 7pm; it was a beautiful Saturday in August so me, him and a few of the more single singlies decided to have a few pre-lunch beers when the bar opened at 1200. The disco man arrived at 1830, walked into the mess garden and asked our puddle of humanity where we wanted the disco. This confused us for a while, until birthday-girl’s boyfriend shouted “F.uck!” jumped out of the paddling pool and ran inside shouting something about a party, presents and decorations.
Being on spearhead at the time, we were used to short notice explosions of activity. While Si ran down to tescos to get his girlfriend a Happy 21st Birthday present, I ran about the bar and function room with a can of Silly String in either hand, jumping over furniture and spraying blue and red wads about me like The Matrix meets Timmy Mallet. Two of the lads helped the disco set up while another mate set about making the essential balloon clusters – two round ones with one long one in the middle. Every time he finished a balloon c.ock-and-balls he would hold it aloft and go “lads, look…hee hee” and I mean EVERY time.
Si made it back just in time with two bottles of Champagne and what looked like a retail-sized box of pickled onion Monster Munch. Jim stopped blowing up the left testicle of his latest creation and asked: “What’s in the box? Janey’s present?”
“Yup” says Simon triumphantly
“What is it?”
“Monster Munch”
With that, Simon strides to his room for what he describes as “a quick” It’s two minutes to seven.

She arrives, feigns surprise and does a good job of hiding her shock at getting four dozen pickled onion crisps and two litres of Bollinger for her 21st. There are a lot of people and even my silly string moustache-and-glassed adorned portrait of the Duke of Edinburgh looks good (I obviously didn’t deface Her Majesty’s picture). Around 9, I stroll wonkily up to Si who’s holding a distressed looking bottle of Laphroaig, he offers a tiger-grin toast: “to 21 year old women.”
Just then birthday-girl comes bouncing over. I ask her if she’s looking forward to the fireworks. She hops up and down in excitement, at least her breasts do, I have no idea what the rest of her was doing. For a brief moment, the composed, sensible and responsible LE Capt in Simon takes over and he says, “we’re all far too drunk to be playing with fireworks honey.”
Jane pouts “You’re such an old fuddy duddy Simon, I bet RT will do it for me won’t you”
I shut right-the-f.uck up.
She’s cut straight to his core, you can see it – the internal turmoil – it’s like watching Dr Banner turn green. Within seconds a look of unbridled glee and anticipation of the carnage to come is burning from his eyes. Big Simon has left the building.

Hereeees Johnny

He strides out to the garden like Douglas Bader striding towards his aeroplane before he attempted barrel rolls at 20 ft. Brig Gen McAuliffe of the 101st would have had the same glint in the eye as he gave his fateful answer to the German offer of surrender at Bastogne. He angrily set his fireworks up, refusing help from anyone, then called the audience together for the show.
His eyes flashed as the first few launched. They work fine, but as the salvo continues the “Ooohs” and “Aaahs” become a little unsure of themselves. The blokes start looking around, firstly at each other – trying to confirm that the trajectory of the rockets is indeed changing and coming toward us – then they look around them, trying to identify a nice spot to duck into if needed. A piece of burnt cardboard bounces off my head and I decide that the creeping barrage of whizzes and explosions is DEFINITELY getting too close. I turn to the crowd to tell them to get inside, but all I see is one of my mates, agape and eyes leaping from his head. He screams “COVER!” just as the first rockets start to brush our heads.
Everywhere is a chaos of halter tops, dessie wellies and strappy shoes. Congreve would have been so proud. One of the rockets bounces off the dining room window, causing a massive slap but not breaking the glass. One of the waitresses opens the window to see “who threw that” just as a second comes winging toward her. She quickly closes the window and hides under the dining table. I glance back at the firing point and see the eternally comical figure of Simon, doing knees to chest as fireworks, now in direct fire mode, shoot along the floor and about his feet.

To show he was hard in front a girlfriend 20 years his junior, he had run along the gun line lighting every single rocket in a one-er. The mess garden had become the receiving end of an MLRS fire mission. His demon worked amongst him that night.

No one was hurt, amazingly. I swear, the vision of my mate dancing in fear amongst exploding fireworks will make me chuckle till the day I die.
I haven't laughed so much since a friend anally impaled himself on a traffic cone during a charity parachute jump - ironically in aid of AIDS Awareness. How we chuckled on the way to the Sphincter Trauma Unit. Masterful storytelling RT, I eagerly await your Magnum Opus. :lol:


NO MORE !!!! man I am aching abdominally from trying not to laugh too loud. I hear you on so many levels. As our new found Emotional Guru are we worthy to ask your advice..? We could start an ASK RTFQ thread....

For example.

Little Gibber has roamed the world dragging me behind him and while his approach is more your sort of Undercover Over the water dodgy mullet Walts cant say too much love but Ive got a pistol down me pants me car is armoured, angle. It has achieved results of varying degrees emotionally and pure "what the heck is she doing with me !"

I fell for this party in the Foc'sale Locker of one of JSATC's Vic 34 yachts ! Tall and loverly... I should of known. To cut a long story the fact that I simply coulnt match the pure quality of this thread.

a few months in she left her Diary on my pillow. (by now I had an itchy feeling that she was a few rounds short of a fire mission but hey she liked her saucy underwear and dee'in it all neet !)

So for OPSEC purposes I read her tome and my eyes nearly launched. Gibber Minor needed councilling.

For some time it appeared that she had been logging time and place of Me and the boys dry training sessions. She had been listening outside the throne room door ! To assess if I was involved in any wrist exercises. Digging through the bin to find 4 X 2 covered in collected "Brass". copied all my e-mails and printed them from which she had deduced that I was a transvestite and into other bloke chutney wrangling !!!! All this because I wouldnt rattle her world having been out on "manouvers" with the lads round the local public houses doing destructive testing on my liver and associated organs.

At this point RTFQ should I have binned her there and then ? Councilled her ? or gone off and issued Gibber PT to other parties in the vane hope she would suss it and A. Murder us in our beds or B. Feck off ???

apologies for seeking your council unanounced.


Gibber, at the end of the day all women are fecking crazy. Without exception. Before people start painting me as a woman hater, I'm really not - I love them, every one, even the ugly ones, exactly because they are so mental. I love my mum dearly - there's no strange oedipal thing going on - she's a crazy fricking psycho though. 36 is the the key age, that's when most of them start going proper strait-jacket wibble in my experience, but they show signs from puberty onwards. I don't know who is to blame, but being told from the age of 4 onwards that they've got to be Barbie to be liked can't help.

So bottom line is mate, if you start dumping them just because they are psychotic, you'll die a sad and lonely man. Enjoy the ride but remember the wise words my dad gave when I was four. I was sat on the swing and he'd stormed out of the house followed by most of his clothes and my mum screaming "Get out and stay out!"

He walked up to me, put both hands on my shoulders and said
"Son, never trust anything that bleeds for a f.ucking week and doesn't die"

Didn't have a clue what he meant at the time, but I do now.


RTFQ said:
So, has anyone’s extreme arousal ever got them in trouble before? I’d be interested to know if any of the ladies have ever slipped off a bus seat because the bus driver was fit?

Sadly i can say yes to this question, it was one of the most embarrasin experiences of my life especially as the bus driver in question is my next door neighbour. :oops:


Much Airborne respect, I will review all encounters and apply lessons learned to Missus G who is 6 years from your defined threshold.

As a footnote. I actually opted for the extra curicular tomfoolery with other callsigns. The rush with the kitchen Knife was an echo from the days of red tunics and "come on johnny Afgahn lets see what your made of !". The actions of the author where more like the French army in any given conflict of the 20th century. Followed curioulsy by a claim of pregnancy. I was for a while convinced that I was to play Joseph to her Mary as Lil' G had been on a standdown for some weeks........

Ah well you live and learn. More wisdom please...........

Just as a foot note I think our demise issues from that feeling you get when you get the "clear live drop, Switches to Hot" when some little darlin has given you that look , she wants YOU, you are a prince amongst men and your bid for a CQB course has been accepted. Its you pal and of the 2 billion males on the planet you have won the raffle the race, the competition, Im a hot chick and I am all yours. You simply cant swim out of that whirlpool of ego stroking goodness. The Little RT's and Lil' Gibs of the world cannot escape that tractor beam of intent. After all I supposse thats what the little Huns head warriors are there fore. that and writing your name on a wall as a mark of your territory and post prostate prowess.

We truly are Gods of this good earth, how can they resist. !


Knook Camp nearly ruined my sex life. I was LoCon or HiCon or some such nonsense on a CP Ex at CAST and we were staying in that godawful place. For those of you who think that Britain is a developed country, Knook is just outside of the spiritual home of the pointy headed, Warminster. The camp itself was made in 1597 out of the rotting hulls of sunken Spanish ships and is home to an exotic array of vermin that feast on the many encrusted wnakstains to be found on the PVC green mattresses. I spent most of the day eating naafi burgers, reading magazines and pretending that I was a 4 tonner laden with 2000 Milan missiles en-route from Marchwood. It was on this exercise that I realised that most military commanders are generally far too busy to be clever, or even sensible. This was born out by the literally dozens of Recces I convinced the BG Comd that I had to do over the course of the week. Not once did he ask me what the frig I needed to recce as this was a tabletop command post exercise. Anyway, I had applied the 1/3 – 2/3 rule that states if I, as the officer, am bored out of my dpm pants, then my Driver/Rad Op must be at least twice as bored. To stop the poor guy weeping from despair I let him drive me around town for a bit of a letch. I stopped this when we got to day 4 and he leaned across the map table, tapped his watch, winked meaningfully and stated: “Schools are knocking off Boss, can we go for a ‘Recce’ – I love those schoolies.”

Anyway, as usual the army had ruined lil’ RT’s plans for the week. We were seeing a Welsh girl who taught the pad brats back at camp – well, the little guy was seeing her, I wasn’t so keen because welsh people always remind me of cheese and onion crisps (I honestly have no idea why) and every time I ‘visited Padstow’ I couldn’t get the vision of those minging Naafi cheese pasties out of my head. So, the week I had planned wrapped up in her duvet had gone t1ts up, which was doubly annoying because there was a massive mess party on Thursday that I was missing. In compensation, the little guy had fixated on a lass in the local newsagent and I had devised a plan of courtship based around buying as many magazines, orange soleros and hubba bubba that my meagre wages could support. By Wednesday I had read every mag except Heat, White Dwarf and Combat and Survival. Oh, and all of the porn – I’m a coward when it comes to buying porn from lady shopkeepers, I simply can’t do it. Little RTFQ was particularly distracted while I was choosing because the little pointy-headed beauty was wearing a tight t shirt and he was daring me to slap them so he could surf her opulent waves. There was no way on god’s lush green earth that I was going to purchase Combat and Survival, and I shy away from anything Orc or Dwarf related (I don’t mean real dwarves obviously – they rock) because I had an embarrassing experience as a child, when I started a new school and believed the only friend I made on day one when he said that I really wanted to sign for “this really cool club” for the duration of the term. Imagine my horror when I entered the room and saw the human venn diagram of glasses, unkempt ginger hair and orthodontic equipment spread before me. Luckily I was spared a summer spent pretending I was Dagona the Elvish Ranger because I caught a bout of Non Specific Urethritis and was no longer welcome in any clubs, even the geeky ones, on account of Ben Tonati telling everyone that I had the Clap.

Where the hell was I? Oh yeah, I choose Heat as the lesser of 3 evils and make a lame joke about whether she was going to make me buy every mag in the shop, up to and including “Big ‘n Busty” before giving me her number. It worked (I was in uniform) and I swaggered out of the shop riding my ego like a rodeo bull – that was until my driver pointed out that we worked 6am to 11pm, I had no civvies and I lived 2 hours away. I never let reality get in the way of a pull however and marvelled at my own sexual prowess for the rest of the day and pointing out at every opportunity how blatantly homosexual my driver was (he was gunning for her too).

Sorry, I’m very hungover and this story is flying all over the platz like a mad woman’s sh1t. Thursday comes and I manage a sneaky phone call to my lass just before an O group. She’s at the party (which sounded much more interesting than the imminent Warmanian invasion of Southlandia) and a little plastered, so she regales me with some filthy welsh phone sex. I’m, as a result, tantric for the rest of the evening. We retire to Knook but I simply can’t sleep because little RT has his war face on and pacing up and down, looking very much like Patton in his shiny helmet and jodhpurs. One of the other Ruperts (6 man room) is unsuccessfully attempting a tactical tug. This is off-putting for many reasons, but mostly because he’s been doing it for what must be like 20 minutes. Who’s he trying to impress?
All I can think of is what welshbint promised she’d do to me next time she sees me. It’s no use.
“Get your coat little guy, we’re busting out”
“Woohoo! Road Trip!”

I’m fairly sure I’m the first man to break the sound barrier in a 1.4 litre Japanese car on the M3. Unfortunately the joy of this auspicious occasion is lost on the two bobbies who stop me. I explain the situation (well, I may have fabricated a short notice deployment or two) and they surprisingly let me on my way with slapped hands. I get in to camp at 0130, the party is in it’s death throes and I practically trip over a young, rather aesthetically challenged nurse who looked like she was trying to resuscitate an unconscious engineer officer on the stairs. Rather than ordering me to get an ambulance however, she moans “Give it to me John” I don’t point out that I’m sure his name is Don and that what ever it is of hers that he has, it’s unlikely she’ll get it out of him while he’s unconscious, but little RT is pulling me up the stairs frantically.

I get to her room with that great iced-stomach feeling you get when you know you’re going to get it on movie-style. Little RT kicks the door in like he’s the FBI. Bed empty, no chick. She wasn’t in the bar and I’m beginning to think that someone is about to have their evening with my girlfriend ruined by getting their bedroom door put in by a uniformed, winged nemesis with a hard on, shouting “187 Muthafukka.” Rage is a lot like manfat however: it’s best to keep it repressed way down inside until you really need it, that way you get a more impressive explosion. I walk down to the bar, past the now alone, and still unconscious, subaltern and into the bar. The happy few don’t know the whereabouts of my lass, some of the more vindictive women’s eyes light up evilly when the realise that Murder is indeed what She’s about to Write. A mate forlornly offers that he may have seen her go out for some air. “Alone?” I unnecessarily ask – she could have beeen getting triple-teamed by the Lions’ Front Row, they were still getting a thumping – then walk outside into the garden.

There, cuddled up to a giant flowerpot and very much asleep is my lass. She’s girl-snoring and wearing my unit T shirt. There’s something incredibly romantic about a girl wearing your unit T Shirt (well alright, it normally means the girl’s been run through by the entire battalion, but in this case it was romantic, okay?) and I bend down to pick her up and take her to bed. She turns bleary eyed to me and I smile ‘cos I’m feeling a bit soppy after the 187-thing. Her promise-filled, beautiful brown eyes open, half-focussed. I bend to kiss her forehead protectively, to let her know that everything’s all right, RTFQ is here.

Then she punches me straight in the conkers. Why do my girlfriends always punch me in the spuds?

She comes to and gives it “Oooh I’m so sorry RT” blah blah blah. Unsurprisingly I’m rolling around on the patio while little RT is trying to make it to the tree line, shouting: “Man Down” and screaming for a dust-off heli. She’s still pining and apologising, the stupid who-er, then she says: “Sit Up, it’ll help”
“What helps is me rolling around holding me plums and crying so fcuk off you soft cow” I reply, thus ensuring (as if it were medically viable) that I will be getting none tonight and causing her to go off in a huff. She clocks me in the stones then ends up in a mood with ME?!

I make it back to Knook the next day with fighting tackle that looks like a multicoloured Italian ice cream sundae. They stay a funny colour for a month, which is about how long it takes for doris to speak to me again for calling her a soft cow. :roll:


I thought I’d celebrate my 800th post, along with PME reaching 20,000 views, with a Little RT story. If anyone IDs me from this story (it’s one of my favourites), please respect Opsec and remember: little RTFQ needs to remain confined to my lucky Calvins and the pages of ARRSE - he does not need to become the subject of a screaming match between me and my girlfriend. Birds misunderstand him.

I once very nearly killed a nurse. In fact, if you count the time I accidentally sent a trip flare pot winging towards the little blonde medic during dems, I’ve very nearly killed two nurses. In my defence, it wasn’t my pit, but I was OIC Dems and I’ll take the sh1t; what is more, I’ve met literally dozens of nurses and only nearly killed two of them – that’s a 100% survival rate and I reckon that only, say, 4% were put at risk. I reckon that’s ALARP. Anyway, pretend the trip flare thing never happened, I did, and we’ll concentrate on the other time.

It happened on ops. I’m not saying where, because it’s within living memory and I’ve only got another year to push before I leave without getting busted or banged-out once. Let’s just say the locals had serious dental hygiene issues and the national past time of women over 40 was to wear black and carry bundles of sticks on their heads for miles and for no reason along roads named Hawk, Cat and Dog. We’d been in theatre for a while and that peculiar chemistry that starts working on tours had started to kick in. WRACs at least twice the size and with 50% more body hair than normal civvy women were becoming objects of mass lust and desire, normally because some bored Egg-Op had started a rumour that they’d let ‘two blokes from HQ coy’ go twos-up on them behind the EFI. Now, I have a theory that the Army would solve all it’s undermanning/overstretch problems if we just spent some time identifying all these blokes who manage twos-ups on what seems like a weekly basis. Every bloke I know has a twos-up story, so either some guys are a hell of a lot busier than I am, or the army has at least another 100,000 blokes who are too busy spit-roasting unsuspecting naafi girls to rock up to work in the morning. Someone should put Glasgow on the case.

So anyway, my small team of elite heart breakers and brew makers were beginning to attract the eyes of a few of the more gullible (and largely TA) females in some of the camps. We had cool vehicles with, like, stickers on the windscreen and because we were out non-stop, we had awesome squaddie tans and, crucially, I made the guys wear bush hats to stop them getting heat affected. This was the kind of tour where people (ie RLC/AGC camp Sgt Majs) get REALLY upset about such things – you know full-well that their wife is leaving them because this has proven to be one tour too many, so they fill the black void of their life with outrage over what my blokes are wearing on their heads and what arm the TRF or Union Flag goes on, instead of thinking about how the Mrs is banging the downgraded RP Sgt back in Blighty while the kids ask him if he’s their new daddy. The upshot of it is that we didn’t look as if we lived in an air-conditioned office, and that made us different. When in a theatre with 1 girl to 100 boys, ‘different’ means you get a sh@g. One of my Cpl’s camp followers was a lovely little nurse from north of the border. Lovely, you understand, is a relative term taking into account the interpreter that looked like she’d been smacked in the mouth with a sh1t-covered lump hammer or the procession of comedy heffalump nurses from remote (and very interbred) parts of Canada with whom we shared a camp. On a run to a certain large Multi-National HQ with said Cpl, we’d discovered that the Parachute Regt Band were in town, to play chamber music for the commander while he entertained war criminals, or something. Now I’ve worked with P regt and I have nothing but respect for, and not a little fear of, what is a tough and capable regiment. The band, however, are a bunch of big-timing tw’ts who just get my goat, especially when I hear about the stories they tell down the bop from my blokes. I never realised quite so many flautists and glockenspiel players accompanied Sgt McKay up Longdon in 82 – the truly astounding thing was that the claimants must have been about 4 at the time, brave lads one and all I’m sure. Anyway, never one to miss an opportunity to annoy people I don’t like, we waited in our landie for them to come out of lunch. As they did so, we played, very loud, the CD version (don’t ask) of the seminal Republican Drinking Song: “Go On Home British Soldiers.” If you don’t know it the charming little ditty goes something like:

“Go on home British soldiers, go on home!
Have ye got no feckin homes of yer own?
Go feck yer Union Jack!
We want our country back!
So feck of home British Bastads let us be!”

Don’t get me wrong, I hate those murdering cowards as much as the next man, but the vision of a gang of Ally-bereted gringo tached wingless children looking around them angrily, wandering where the hell the music was coming from, clutching their trombones and Big Bass Drums defensively while huddling in a circle for protection, made me chuckle like a baby getting a raspberry on his belly. What topped it all off was the Irish Army officer staring at us, bemused and not a little amused, from across the street. Indeed, we chuckled and guffawed most of the way back to camp. Buoyed by our ‘bonding’ my Cpl asked if he could bring his little follower to a party in camp the following week (national day of one of our cohabiting national forces). As our team wasn’t on duty I said yes, what’s the worst that can happen. If it had come to it, I’m not sure that would have stood up in court as a risk assessment.

The party comes and we start consuming our two cans Your Honour. The Loneliness of Command manifests itself in many ways on different occasions. On this occasion I felt it as I heard my team’s bellowing laughter (interspersed with a few mixed female chirps of mirth) drift across to me, as I stood pincered between two Canadian Majors talking about the versatility of the soil in Saskatchewan (there are 3 types of Canadian Officer – Dull, Fun or French). The only other female officer is very married, and very unbalanced, and I firmly believe that sometimes blokes need some time without their boss, even if they are good at pretending he fits in (especially when they are telling war stories to gullible TA females). I resign myself to a night of death by Canuck humour and bury myself in my 2 cans Your Honour.
I’m saved from gouging my own ear drums out with my beer can as two of my guys come over and declare that they had been saving a bottle of, er…coke, yes – definitely coke, for a special occasion. We retire to our recreational/sunbathing area and drink ‘coke’ and talk sh1t under a setting sun whilst we have a competition of Who’s Blown the Biggest Thing Up – Deliberately or Otherwise. Being the niggy rupert, I’m shot down in flames by my seniors. The females with us (one of which being my Cpl’s puppy dawg) have forgotten that by and large they are very ugly, and there is an apparent lift in their egos due to the attention of my rather desperate team of blokes who, lets face it, definitely fall in the ‘Lover Not Fighter’ part of the British Army. The ‘coke’ has also got to their heads and one (you know which) starts flicking peanuts at me in a sort of “You know I’m beautiful, flirt with me” sort of way. I’m reminded of Odysseus’s Sirens, but instead of using her sweet voice and legendary beauty to draw our warrior hero into danger, this one is using peanuts that have had the salt sucked of them by my doting Cpl because, as she put it: “I dinney like salty nuts.”

It was all very funny at the time. But little did I know that Michael Buerk was waiting in the bushes, ready to cut to the Video Reconstruction of the rescue helicopter hovering above our corrimecs…

Being somewhat boisterous from the, er… caffeine in the coke, she continues for a while then, giggling, pours some of the saliva coated peanuts on my head. I do no more than to playfully restrain her on the floor and pour the rest down her throat.

You can see where this is going, right?

She starts to cough. We all joke – yeah yeah, you’re choking, Okay. She reaches for her throat, we still fail to believe her.

She starts turning purple.

Oooh bugger.

At the sight of a nurse turning purple, my blokes all look at me with a schoolboy look of: “You’ve broken it – you’ve really done it this time.” The youngest bloke there tries to pour neat, er…coke down her neck, only adding to her distress. RT sees his career spin past and starts to wonder whether jail will be that bad. I conclude that it will, step up, spin her round and position myself behind her. I’m still rather hurt professionally that my blokes, as one, turn to me with a shocked look that says “Oh No Boss, not now. Surely not – shouldn’t we be helping her or something?”

I roll my eyes and do the Heimlich manoeuvre. I’m here to tell you that that fecker works a treat – mashed peanut shoots out and asphyxiation is narrowly avoided. Believe it or not, the lass turns round, hugs me and thanks me for saving her life. Before she changes her mind, RT fecks off to his scratcher and comfort rocks himself to sleep on a tide of adrenal come-down. Even the little guy shuts up.


galgenberg said:
RTFQ said:
(there are 6 types of Canadian Officer – Dull, Very Dull&Twitching,Dull&Nasty,Not Fun at All, French&Dull and of course Don Duplessis ).
Apart from that, Great story!!!!! :lol:
Yeah, I could have explained that better - the reason i put the Fun category in was because I once met one who was a top bloke. Unfortunately he went back to canada and left to become a missionary. He probably looks on this country as a nation of devils. Jeez, we didn't even take him to stockwell... :roll:


Fantastic work!!! Easily the best way to start work in the morning!!!! If there are other stories like this from other squaddies i think i shall enjoy being an Army wife and hearing them! Bravo and Encore!


'I’ve only got another year to push before I leave without getting busted or banged-out once.'

The best Generals leave as Captains. QED


Vegetius said:
I've only got another year to push before I leave without getting busted or banged-out once.
What are you going to do when you leave? The mind boggles.

Gigolo to the Stars and part-time author.

Turn your avatar back to the delectable future Mrs RT (angelina), your new one looks like an ex of mine and gives me the heeby-jeebies.
So, you have a dinosaur-shaped phallus and yet you still find time to worry about me? You really are a gent and top bloke.

The pissed up horn/brain bypass factor.

Picture a sunny Sunday afternoon BB & bezzers sitting outside a pub, quaffing curative Guiness while reading the Sunday heavies.

Young lady comes over to table and asks if it's okay to sit down. Fit thing but with a bit of the hippy/punky/smelly protest type thing going on.

One of BBs companions (it really wasn't me) looks her up and down, smiles and just at the point when you would normally say "Go ahead love" says "If you looked after yourself properly I'd **** your brains out".

Funny enough, she clipped him one called him a cnut and stormed off.

Now he's sitting there, obviously in a state of shock, holding onto his face, which has a red hand mark on it that would warm the cockles of the heart of any of the local flute bandsmen. And he obviously hasn't got a clue what he's done to deserve a clipping.

"WTF did that daft mare hit me for?"
"Well, you did say that you'd snake if she washed or something like that"
"Nah.. I thought that, but I wouldn't say it out loud like"
"No mate, you said it"
"Ballix.... What really happened?"
"Look mate, if you only thought it how would we know...?"
"Aww ****"


Ahh, this is a well-documented phenomenon in the RTFQ household. Well, I say household to make me sound well rounded and debonair – in fact it’s little more than a manky bed-sit whose only decoration is a few pewter soldiers, a large painting of Arnhem and framed bed side photo of Patsy Kensit in her role as Rika van den Haas in Lethal Weapon 2. The fact that the most regular female visitor to my room is a small Polish cleaner employed by Sodhexo is a testament to the fact that my love life has been dogged by timely outburts from my smallest and closest friend.

It started at school when I inadvertently informed my form tutor that she “looked like she’d love a large portion right up her tonight.” In my defence, I was ostensibly unaware that she was in the room and was just informing my fellow homework companion that this was indeed the case. He simply pointed to the store cupboard behind me with a look I’ll take to my grave. He looked like he’d just that moment been diddled by Ellie Crisell from the Newsround team with a strap-on (See Here): the mix of utter, painful yet gleefully enjoyable shock and almost pant vaporising hilarity that played across his face will stay with me always, as will the voice that chased me as I sprinted blindly down the corridor and as Mrs Jack crashed out of the store cupboard: “Who was that Jones? Was it FQ? Was it that mucky little boy? I’ll see him swing for this so help me!”

The little fecker loves to play mind games with me, he makes me get confused over girlfriends names, sometimes substituting that of a current lass with one from YEARS previously. I’ve called them mates’ wives’ names (in front of said mates), work colleagues’ names and once, memorably, the girlfriend’s sister’s name during a shared bath. I got a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo in the grinner for that. No More Tears? Fecking tell HER that.

Even at work, when Big RTFQ runs the show almost 95% of the time, he’s dropped me in it. During a heady bar session as a Lt, a female OC had gathered the young subbies and was asking us if, in light of a recent (and rather petty) exercise Command-Tantrum that made her look a right tool, we still had respect for her. In fairness I did, until she asked us that question. Anyway, I was listing slightly to starboard and absentmindedly thinking whether I’d make a good lesbian, when she asked me. I focussed on the two blurry ladies that had posed the question and before I knew it, little RTFQ had possessed me and said “I’d still do you” before I could stop him.
Well, not only could you have heard a pin drop, you could have heard him shout “One thousand two thousand three thousand, CHECK CANOPY!” on the way down. Somehow, the great Lord Vishnu knows how, I saw a flicker of promise in the saucer-eyed and increasingly furious visage of the Major. Figuring that I may as well go for broke, I looked innocent and said frankly “Well I would.” You can imagine the answering tirade, and I’m not going to make any poor jokes about posh birds and swearing because that would simply be crass and disrespectful.

Arguably little RTFQ’s most public outburst was on a parade square. Once again, I ask any readers who were there to respect Opsec and my prospects for a final year without disciplinary action. It was during a dress rehearsal for some freedom parade/amalgamation/disbandmant/Cliff Richards’ Birthday or some such nonsense. It had been progressing, as these things do, like a colonoscopy carried out by a blind epileptic opiate-fuelled NHS doctor. The Sgt Maj running the show had, in the space of a week, reinvented himself as one of the Bde of Guards’ poster boys, despite being a 4ft 11in Glaswegian. I was fairly new to the unit and placed, as all Rodneys should be during parades, at the back and out of the way. Most of my previous troop remained in the squadron and, as such, were interspersed in the ranks immediately to my front. I’d spent the entire day banging my feet in EXACTLY half a second after the rest of the parade, much to the chagrin of the Sgt Maj as he couldn’t see me, but suspected an officer. As such things are prone to do at times of utter boredom, it took on the aura of sheer comic genius. Tears were being shed in an effort to stop laughing. Mostly by me. It all came out in a rush of released tension when, after a very well executed parade, parade ‘shun, I dropped my sword and apologised profusely in my best Oxbrigde Rupert voice. It was a timing thing and the ranks in front of me released 30 minutes worth of suppressed laughter. The Sgt Maj thought they were laughing at me and, riding the morale donkey, he made a standard joke about officers and a rather personal one about my dental landscape.

So the little fecker wanted war eh?

More bending and driving, getting on the
“shagging” heel (?) and attempting to be as smart as the proverbial carrot (such phrases are proof positive that drill was invented by people who thought warfare was best fought after morning tea and by smart looking, closely-knitted formations of men in bright red jackets sporting big sideburns). Ollie Reid is my patron saint and he shined on me that day (well, technically he wasn’t dead yet, but fortune favours the outrageous). From the other side of the square walked a vision, lithe, tight as tiger and very much unmistakably the Sgt Maj’s 19-year-old daughter on her way to meet daddy for lunch at SHQ. Both father and daughter admirably ignored each other while daddy was working, but I and the rest of the sqn had clocked her (and if you believe the rumours…)

“Look at the phlange on that!”

I swear I had uttered this at a decibel level only audible to the SNCOs in the rank immediately in front of me. Whether it was a fluke of acoustics or because my abdominal muscles had tightened in the excitement of it all, I’m not sure – but apparently I said it so loud that it echoed off the buildings at the far side of the square.

Even the pins were too scared to attempt a live drop. The entire regt studiously attended to their position of attention and faced their front. The three sqn half-guards (3 half guards?) looked like mass replicas of those three monkeys, see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil. RTFQ tried forlornly to reassure himself that he was holding a feck off gert sword.

To this day I don’t know if her heard me or ignored me, but he turned to a positively trembling parade square, thanked them for their efforts and fell them out for lunch.

I’m not about to start large-ing it and speculating who got one over on who. I myself every time I was in his presence for the rest of the year. I watched my back constantly. With that simple act of dismissal he taught me what intimidation was. When I’m 80 and walking along Honolulu beach with a gang of tanned beauties, I will still glance round, just once, to see if a tiny Scot brandishing a pace-stick is bearing down on me across the virgin sands, screaming for my blood.
i used to do the "half second late" every day .... it used to drive people f*cking mad .... really really mad, but i was unrepentant and used to just say perhaps everyone else wasn't bending quite as much as they should be before they drove... :D

Why wasn't my troopy like you... he had a charisma bypass as a public schoolboy and a huge "i'm thick but important" chip on his non existent shoulders...

what is it about big important parades that has everyone just one squeak away from hysterical laughter? i had a mate at chatham who on guard mount would, on reciept of the command "front rank one pace forward march" fearlessly do a Fred Astaire tap dance skip then freeze at attention as the rest of us had trouble keeping our lungs in..... the orderly officer thought we all had carbon monoxide poisoning. :D
shortfuse said:
What is it about big important parades that has everyone just one squeak away from hysterical laughter?

A former BC of mine had us in stitches describing how a very pompous BC was brought low on a BIG parade. As he waited at ease with sword over shoulder, former BC skirmished forwards and under pre-text of sorting out boss' crossbelt or some such, stuck champagne cork on tip of sword, officer, RA, one.

All fine until at end of parade, BC orders swords and bayonets put away until another playtime. After several attempts to sheath weapon, with x battery now convulsed behind him, BC finds offending drills.


For maybe two weekends a year, summer comes to the UK. During those glorious 96 hours, this isle becomes a land of hope and glory as we forget - briefly - Jodie Marsh, the crazy frog, the government and “Celebrity Big Love House Sex Swap” and the fact that this country bought its one way ticket to hell the moment we started importing Audi TTs and getting BabeCast piped into Officers’ Messes. My God, those women are ugly - and no matter how much they rub the gussets of their ‘Peacocks’ Tanga pants with their telephone handsets, that ain’t going to change. But, like I said, sometimes the sun comes out and even Southend can become St Tropez.

This weekend was such an occasion. I awoke with the lark (well, the Police Tactical Support Group Transit van screaming past on lights and 2-tones) and felt the muggy warmth of the sun on my face, brown-ly diffused by our capital’s smoggy skyline. I was naked and glazed in a layer of beer sweat, so I ‘dried myself’ on my girlfriend’s duvet, slipped on my lucky Jonny Hilfiggers (multipack from the market) and skipped downstairs like that incredibly suspect ginger kid off The Snowman. Sliding open the bay doors, I was met with the aroma of last night’s barbecue and the cacophony of traffic, screaming non-indigenous families and incessant car alarms that is suburban London on a Saturday morning. I grabbed a tinny from the water bucket and turned on the TV in the vain hope that they’d decided to reinstate Cat Deeley into Saturday Morning Kids’ TV and, while we’re at it, hoping frankly that they’d made her wear a translucent negligee, a ball-gag and strapped her, with binder-twine, across the bonnet of a Triumph Stag in an effort to win ratings. Disappointed on all fronts, I sat on a garden chair and let the sun rise inexorably up my inner thighs.

Presently, Little RTFQ popped his head out, blinking in the sunlight. We both sat there in silence, watching the Sulphur Dioxide clouds scud by and the asthmatic pigeons winging their way to bother the Japanese tourists, we were glad to be alive. Then, with the sound of an Armenian illegal cabby leaning on his cad’s horn and screaming “Aye youz Cnut! Vy donnyouz use youz eyeball?” Mini RT turned to me and said, with an evil glint, “Little. French. Dresses.”

The Little French Dress (LFD) is not, I admit, a purely French fabrication. It is, however, one of little RTFQ’s earliest ‘grown-up’ memories. Sure there had been the way Abigail Bowden had looked at me during the rope lessons in PE, not to forget the time Mrs McMannan had spilt coke down her blouse in double biology and for a long time, the only thing both mini RT and myself could think about was what Lizi Warns had told us she had done with the handle of her hair brush during a particularly humbling game of Truth or Dare. But the real source of Lil’ RTFQ’s adoration of WOMEN and all their ancillary personality disorders, especially in summer, came from a school trip to Brittany. For those of you bothered enough to keep up, it was the same trip upon which Lee Wilson bust his ankle whilst breaking and entering… well trying to (tip to parents – teach your sons to PLF long before you teach them about the birds and the bees, our curiosity will lead us into mortal danger much more imminently than our desire to reproduce, trust me).
Anyway, about 15 year old, my young apprentice and me took the slow boat out of Pompey with all our hormonal classmates. It was an uneventful voyage; Vicky Hutton gave Adam Chamberlain a ‘rainbow kiss’ during the crossing by all accounts. I’m not sure any of us knew what one was, least of all Vicky Hutton and Adam Chamberlain. Why is it that the alleged activities of wide-eyed and nervous school kids are the stuff of Caligulan legend? I can hardly get my present 30-year-old lass to give my nipples a little chew, so I’m damn sure advanced Taiwanese porn techniques were not high on the sexual menu of St Martin’s Secondary School. As an aside, the most extreme example of this came when Mike Swabson (aka ‘Swabbo’ which was a strangely accurate description of the guy) sent a note around maths stating that Melanie Wynne had performed ‘ to Mouth’ for Rich Johnson during the preceding lunch break. The only GCSE that Swabbo eventually passed was Art, so I don’t know whether it was his crudely spelt description or beautifully colour rendered accompanying pictures of the imagined act that made M**** Everett vomit all over her exercise book. Regardless, and entirely unfairly considering the fact she wasn’t even implicated in the act, someone, somewhere, tries very hard to ensure that her present friends and colleagues don’t discover that she spent 3 years of her life being called “ To Mouth Everett.”

Aaaaaanyway (!) there’s me and the little guy, both of us in my pants sitting in another person’s garden this Saturday. What were we doing? Oh yeah, France. So, yeah we go over to France with Vicky denying the whole rainbow kiss thing and Adam secretly trying to imply that it had occurred, all the while being rather noncommittal because he wasn’t sure if it made him gay or not. We go to a little gite type thing in Saint Cast (now, according to autoroute, called St Cast De Guildo) on the rocky Brittany coast. We discover 3 things quickly:

1. You must check, when you go en masse to buy a job lot of the 2 litre bottles of cider from the Tabacs, that it is not alcohol free cider.
2. Getting told, by the brainy girls, while you are acting extremely drunk in the park, that the six of you have just drunk 12 litres of apple juice does NOT make you look cool.
3. French girls dress differently. And by god do they look good doing it.

It was summer and they were all wearing those one piece summer dresses that have straps at the shoulders and hemlines mid way between the knees and heaven. The kind that Nicole wore when she was flirting with her ‘Papa’ in the pyoojo adverts. Yeah right your ‘papa’, you filthy harlot. Now I still hold a flame for all the girls who showed an interest in me during my adolescent years because I was one fecking ugly child and they must have really dug deep to find something attractive in me. None more so than Catherine. She was one of the French schoolies we met up with there, and you pronounced her name Kat-er-Reen, which sounds very much like ‘love’ when you’re 14/15 years old. I’m taking way too long describing this trip so suffice it to say she wore a LFD on the day she kissed me. It was the dark, deep blue of a thunderstorm. Sadly for her I didn’t turn into a prince and sadly for me we went back to blighty the next day. Ever since, obsession with LFD’s, get it?

So, back to me in my Jonny H’s. The lass comes downstairs, and seeing that I’m on my second tin and I’m still in my pants, she assumes (correctly) that I’m no longer willing to drive her to Chessington World of Adventures to
“See the Penguins.”

“No nip nip chew chew, no fecking penguins!” Is something I completely bottle-out of saying to her.

Instead we decide to go and get lunch in town, then meet up with some friends in the park. In short, I manoeuvre her into agreeing to a mobile letch-fest. Little RT gives himself a high five. Unfortunately, this needs preparation. I whack my shorts and sandals on (lass reckons my sandals are out of fashion – how can friggin sandals be out of fashion?) and not for the first time, I wish I had the Millwall FC crest tatoo’d over my heart and “Who ar Ya?” tatoo’ed across my back, just so I can walk around topless and greet people with a simple “Geezer!” More importantly, the sunglasses. The only ones I have are autumn/spring/general purpose ones, and you can see my eyes through them. Men everywhere know that when letching at the ladies you follow the rules:

1. Don’t let the girlfriend catch you doing it
1. Make sure the target KNOWS you are doing it
1. Don’t let the girlfriend catch you doing it
1. Don’t inadvertently let out a whistle or drool when a really hot woman walks by.
1. Don’t let the girlfriend catch you doing it
6. If you get caught (oh god), have a come back available IMMEDIATELY: “I just thought that dress would look good on you” or “Did you see her shoes/dress/hair/tan/teeth – absolutely minging!” or, best of all, “Oh god, was it that obvious? We saw each other for about 3 months a few years ago, didn’t realise she lived around here. You don’t think she noticed do you? How embarrassing, quick run, she’s a bunny boiler!”

She’ll be quiet for at least an hour, especially if the woman was a babe. Not least because, worst case, she may be wondering if you orchestrated the whole thing and you’re stalking your ex. Regardless, it’s better than having an argument in the street over whether you are a perv or not.
Integral to the whole plan though, are the sunglasses, and mine were too see-through to do the job. Ideally they should be really black/mirrored and wrap around, to give you all around vision from a defilade position. I accidentally-on-purpose left them on the bedside table and we walked out of the house (I was intending to buy new ones when we got to town). Unfortunately, the lass forgot somethingorother and ran back upstairs to get it, helpfully retrieving the shades that I “must have forgot.” Buugger.

The tube was hell, not least because it was hotter than an Eddie Stobart truck filled with Uzbek asylum seekers. Even worse was the splattering of sleekly perspiring posh birds in LFDs. I executed a few of my patented glances at the tube map. To the casual observer (ie. girlfriend) it looks like I’m checking at what station I disembark; but surreptitiously, my eyes manage to take in every glowing chest and every moist cleavage in the cabin, all through the use of a few eyebrow scratches, hair touches and eye rubs. My lack of match fitness is exposed however, as just before we get off at Charing Cross, I get a monumental thump in the back from my good lady, just as I’m sending a Love-Ray to the Spanish looking senorita underneath Tottenham Court Road. Hey Ho.

The surface is awash with pheromones. Little RT is at periscope depth and calling out contacts with the big shipping cruising past. My lass is talking to me and clearly checking for eye contact. I need to ditch these shades, I’m dying here. I consider walking into a door, but I figure I may break my nose AND my shades and that would just be silly. There are LFDs aplenty and little RT is singing “Music To Watch Girls By” I accidentally make eye contact with a Sloaney type and realise that unless I release the letch, like the mighty Kraken he is, I’m going to pass out like an epileptic at a strobe laser festival. The very final straw comes as we’re walking down the strand towards Traf Square. Sent by the devil himself, a trio of clingy, giggly, bronzettes with yank accents and thongs swaying beneath dresses made some Space material made for its light weight and transparency, sashay along in front of us. Little RT is silent, agape and shaking – looking just like an audience member on “The Price Is Right” who just that very second has heard their name called out by Leslie Crowther.

In sheer desperation I flick my glasses into the path of a fat man walking the other way. He can’t help but kick them, but they don’t break. I say something camp like “ooh my sunglasses” then make a big show of trying-to-pick-them-up-yet-somehow-standing-on-them, Norman Wisdom style. Hey, I’m funnier than most of the other fricking street performers round there. When I stand back up, my lass looks at me in a way I know well – it says “I really am going out with a grade A simpleton aren’t I?” I offer, feebly, that they “just fell off.” Job jobbed, I say.

Pop into a generic High Street ‘Men’s’ Fashion Shop. 1 x Pair Shades, Black Wrap Around, Letching For The Use Of purchased from the vacant looking Fungal Culture standing behind the counter, and I’m on my way.

Happiness is a street side table on Trafalgar Square, on a hot summer’s day, breaking in a new pair of letching specs. It’s not Zagreb (frankly the eye candy capital of Europe), but old Landan Taan has its fair share of eternally shapely legs, swaying locks of luscious hair and not to mention all the bits betwixt and between.
Here I sit, sipping my coffee and marvelling at the feats of clothing engineering made in the name of fashion. The LFD, simple, fresh, beautiful; the denim miniskirt, always a classic; the flowing dress that says I’m posh but I’m filthy; the mu mu (fat girls can be beautiful too); the halterneck – genius way to show breasts off and at their most complicated, impossible to remove without a leatherman; white T shirt sans bra – nuff said; thongs that peek over the back of jeans, just crying out for a wedgie. Heaven, simply.
Even the lass is merrily letching away at the blokes walking around. It’s a touching vignette of the modern relationship. Most of the blokes look like Big Brother contestants, however, so I don’t feel threatened – I don’t offer her any sympathy though, I keep telling her that girls are the way forward.

Summer’s here, get letching.

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