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Squaddies trying to behave like proper people

#1
A mate of my wifes brought her new boyfriend over for dinner on Saturday night.

I'd spoken to her earlier in the week and she'd put my back up a bit. The conversation went:

"Oh you'll like him Convoy, he used to be in the Army."

"Nice one, what was he in?"

"The Gordon Highlanders for about 6 years"

"He'll have a few stories to tell then."

"Oh, no. He's not like that. He's really civilised."

"What, in comparsion to me?"

"Well, you know what I mean. Your always telling stories about horrible things. I don't think Richard was into any of that sort of stuff"

I let it go, but thought to myself, 'Yeah, course he fcuking wasn't'

When they got round at about 8, he was obviously dead eager to impress. My wifes her best mate and he'd already played a blinder at the parents and other family's houses. I weighed him up for a bit. He was a spot on bloke, does a load of work out in Iraq, cleaning up chemical spills and that.

I could sense that he was holding back though. After an hour or so, I started chucking in the skiffing anecdotes. As Fiona turned her nose up, he was getting all uncomfortable.

"I bet you fcukers were always at it, eh Richard?"

Fionas giving him the dead eye. He hesitated for a few seconds, but he couldn't cope with the idea of looking like a knob in front of an ex-signals bloke. Takes a big swig of wine and says

"Too fcuking right. When you've got a kilt on, your in skiff heaven."

That was it for the rest of the evening. He was telling some right toe curlers. Getting his teeth knocked out by a half-brick outside Fort Whiterock; Scrapping in Berlin nightclubs. Fiona just sat there for the rest of the evening wondering who she'd arrived with. The silver tongued cavalier who'd talked her out of her knickers two months before had turned into 8-ace.

By the end of the evening I even had him doing pi-ssed-up-pull-ups in the garage. We even managed to squeeze in a bit of bezzering while they were waiting for the cab.

Belting!!

Has anyone else ever tried to behave like a proper person, only to have it all come crashing down around your ears?
 
#2
Oh yes indeedy , at the time i thought it was to my shame , but looking back it was f*cking hilarious.

i got invited to a mate of mines wedding ,now he's an ex sapper , and a good egg but her family are uber posh , and whilst being a right looker his missus could best be described as a "wet f*cking lettuce"
now i turned up in my best bib and tucker , with warnings still ringing in my ears of "behave yourself , and keep your fingers out of your arrse" quite resigned to having a normal wedding type shee-it disco and a buffet type evening.
First bloke i bump into is an old mate of mine "ruby" murray , ex greenjacket and all round animal , and we get stuck into the premium strength lager like the free bar is going to run out imminently (which was a good jod because it f*cking did!!) now , some time after the speeches , but before the cake cutting it all started to go a bit wrong , me and Ruby ended up sitting either side of the groom , and the grotty stories were flowing when slowly but surely i got the feeling i was being watched , it was her mum , and apparently i was in her seat , no big deal so i moved over and we continued the crack about "fighting skiffing and whoring" this got me a swift kick under the table from pete the groom , as i was mid way through telling a story about me and him "twos upping" on some hooker in berlin , probably not the ideal location to recount such a tale , but we laughed it off and proceeded back to the bar to finish getting demolished.
it was at this stage , that his lovely wife of no more than 3 hours came looking for him as he had basically got on the lash with us , and somewhat reluctantrly he made his way to the dancefloor , for that first and most romantic of dances.
now , i dont know wether it was her perfume , perhaps a dodgy vol au vent , or the vodkas garry had been putting in his beer , but after about 2 minutes of dancing pete has bolted for the exit with his hand over his mouth and the first fine mist of a "five finger spray" leaking out from between his fingers , i've got to admit i was f*cking wetting my pants laughing , and within seconds the finger of suspiscion for petes performance has been blamed fairly and squarely on me and Garry , his mother in law stormed over and started giving us both f*ck all about "ruining her little girls big day" , and i dont think Garry snickering like a little girl was helping her temper at all , anyway , Pete turns back up looking a little shame faced ,but grinning at us as if to say "pair of cnuts" to be fair to Pete , he caned himself for being a lightweight , and put his arms round us both in "bezzer" fashion , which ended in the three of us rolling around in a heap near the bar , er.... just after this i was grabbed by my missus , and thrown in a taxi.
i recieved a royal , gold plated , A1 bolllocking , all i got for dinner for 2 weeks was cold shoulder and tongue pie , but every time i speak to (a still happily married) Pete , we always fall about laughing about the weeks of pain he endured off his in-laws before they finally started speaking to him again. :)
 
#5
Man, this is a timely thread.

Yesterday the Mrs and I went Christmas shopping, which puts me in a bad fecking mood right off. At the end of it, we stopped by the local watering hole for refreshments and ran into a friend of mine and his Mrs. that had been doing the same.

We started watching football (American football, not that soccer crap) and pounding beers, which led to us telling horror stories from our time in the service. My wife just ignores us, but his wife took exception to a tale of his from Germany involving cold beer and hot hookers. She starts giving him the good news, when calm as could be, he looks her in the eyes and says:

"If you could suck c*ck as well as you suck the fun out of life, you'd be the perfect woman."

Last I saw of him was her yelling at him all the way out the restaurant. I've been banned for life from ever seeing him again. :D
 
#6
Weddings are always great for mixing civvies with squaddies, with universally disastrous results.

One of my mates from Aldershot had somehow persuaded a girl that didn't look like Jocky Wilson in a wig, to marry him. She truly was a few steps up from the usual fare and when all her family turned up at the church, it was apparent that they had a few bob and were not overly impressed with their daughters choice of husband. Pity they didn't get to choose the best man either.

He picked a complete heed-the-ball from the line shack to do the honours. We were all on the standard squaddies table at the reception. The one nearest the exit door, between the bogs and the kitchen, at the furthest possible point from the bride. When our man got up to do his best mans speech, he sent off the first warning signal to her family, by shouting, at parade ground volume,

"You lot on the back table, keep the fcuking noise down."

As he started his speech they were already looking alarmed. He put his hand on his wifes shoulder and said,

"Before I launch into my speech, i've got a small announcement to make. Helen has told me to expect to started washing a few nappies."

"Aaaaaahhhh," they all said, perhaps he isn't horrible after all. He continued,

"Apparently all the muscles in her arrse have packed up."

I found it funny, as did my ten mates, but there were 140 people their, with 130 not laughing, the miserable c-unts.

He finished off, with what is, to this date, the most inappropriate wedding anecdote i've ever heard.

"I'm having a lovely day, so i'll finish with this little story (mass groan). Everyone in the block knows that Pete's got smelly feet, but last year it got ridiculous. The smell was killing us. After a week of threats, we couldn't get him to change his socks, so had to take drastic action. We moved all his bedspace in the drying room and made him live there. He lost 40lbs in three days. But blow me down, the smell didn't go away. It turned out that it wasn't Pete after all......... Someone had had a sh-it, in one of the empty lockers, and it had gone off." :lol:

I had to be given oxygen. The brides mum had a face like John Prescotts arrse.
 
#7
That's got to be one of the best threads I've seen on this site!

The idea I have extracted so far: never ever even think of marrying a squaddie (not that there are going to be many takers on that one in any case), or an ex-squaddie, or anyone who has ever had anything to do with the Forces. But: try to attend as many squaddie weddings as possible - it's guaranteed to prolong your life expectancy for at least another ten years!

Give us some more!
 
#10
It also appears in the shorter Oxford english dictionary as,

bezzering (v) to bezzer,

A shortlived feeling of well-being induced by over consumption of beer, which leads to acts of unwanted, same-sex physical affection causing huge embarassment to all but the bezzerer.

Standard bezzering lines are uttered whilst holding the bezzeree in an affectionate full-nelson and follow a familiar path,

"You're me fcuking bezzer, you."
"If I won the lottery, i'd give you half."
"I wish you were my brother."

When not employing the full nelson, the bezzerer delivers his lines whilst pointing a crooked index finger, somewhere to the right of his intended target.

Bezzering ends when the comments move from affectionate to abusive, which can sometimes occur within the space of a sentence, ie

"I fcuking love you, mate. Your a champ, but if you ever tell my wife that her hair's nice again, i'll stab you, I will."
 
#14
quotes proving the long heritage of "bezzering" can be foung in several volumes of British history.

"forsooth my liege , for i would gladly take a round for you"
(Henry v act 3)

"none of these b-itches are a patch on you mukka , your me best mate you are"
(henry the Viii ,to the archbishop of canterbury on his divorce)


"never , in the field of human conflict ..... have i ever had a mate like you mate."
(winston churchill)
 
#15
Was staying with my newly re-married and housed brother and wife. She didn’t like me-still doesn’t!Mum had told me to be on my best behaviour!! Well, after dinner my brother & I got laid into the claret in a big way - it never agrees with me.
3 o’clock in the morning, pitch black in my unfamiliar bedroom, desperately need a pee. Crawl round the room trying to find door. Give up! Small sash windows @ about the right height. Curtains open, open & hold open the window with left hand fingers, sort of squat down & in the middle of a serious wizz the bloody window slides down trapping said fingers. B*ll*ck naked and it needs two hands to open so call out for brother! “What the fecks going on?” as the light goes on to find me trapped, naked & pissing all over the new sister-in-law’s prized family photo collection, all neatly shelved on the window ledge.
Couldn’t even get my coat and the next day-WELL!!!
 
#16
Say it clear, say it loud, I was a squaddie and I am Proud.

One of the structural surveying firms we use took us all out for a meal on Friday night.

Best behaviour was observed all evening. Right from the first beer in the Sawyers Arms, and throughout a lovely dining experience at Cafe Istanbul which including expensive wines and swanky kebabs, I played a blinder. My mum would have been proud. The large lady that was sat next to me at the meal, was the wife of one of the surveyors and I spent the evening being utterly charming to her. I laughed at all of her rubbish jokes, smiled at pictures of her kids and didn't take the hump when she kept beating me to the banquet dishes.

Anyway, I took the time taxi at about 1230am when we'd moved on to a bar to get properly shibba-dee-thwayed, and woke up at 6am on my sofa. The rest of the weekend was spent pleasantly reminiscing about an evening well spent.

I got into work this morning and was met by another ex-squaddy, who simply said whilst chuckling and shaking his head.

"What are you fcuking like?"

As the colour drained from my face, he filled me in.

This larger than life lady had a sleeveless dress on. She was busting out of it all over and it was apparent that she'd needed a banding machine to get the bugger on. According to my mate, I walked up behind her whilst she was taking a drink, grabbed hold of the skin hanging beneath her upper arms and shouted to him.

"Check out the fcuking bingo wings on this one," and proceeded to waggle them about from left to right, so that she spilt her drink. For some reason, this upset her and she stormed off to tell her husband.

Me being the worlds worst fighter, it was fortunate for me that he looked like Arthur Askey's little brother. Apparently, he gave me a severe ticking off, whilst I stood there boss-eyed and grinning like Jack Nicholson. My only defence was to occasionally plead,

"Come on, they do dangle down a bit, don't they?"

And the moral of the story?

If your fat, wear a jumper.
 
E

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Guest
#17
AFKAC said:
Say it clear, say it loud, I was a squaddie and I am Proud.

One of the structural surveying firms we use took us all out for a meal on Friday night.

Best behaviour was observed all evening. Right from the first beer in the Sawyers Arms, and throughout a lovely dining experience at Cafe Istanbul which including expensive wines and swanky kebabs, I played a blinder. My mum would have been proud. The large lady that was sat next to me at the meal, was the wife of one of the surveyors and I spent the evening being utterly charming to her. I laughed at all of her rubbish jokes, smiled at pictures of her kids and didn't take the hump when she kept beating me to the banquet dishes.

Anyway, I took the time taxi at about 1230am when we'd moved on to a bar to get properly shibba-dee-thwayed, and woke up at 6am on my sofa. The rest of the weekend was spent pleasantly reminiscing about an evening well spent.

I got into work this morning and was met by another ex-squaddy, who simply said whilst chuckling and shaking his head.

"What are you fcuking like?"

As the colour drained from my face, he filled me in.

This larger than life lady had a sleeveless dress on. She was busting out of it all over and it was apparent that she'd needed a banding machine to get the bugger on. According to my mate, I walked up behind her whilst she was taking a drink, grabbed hold of the skin hanging beneath her upper arms and shouted to him.

"Check out the fcuking bingo wings on this one," and proceeded to waggle them about from left to right, so that she spilt her drink. For some reason, this upset her and she stormed off to tell her husband.

Me being the worlds worst fighter, it was fortunate for me that he looked like Arthur Askey's little brother. Apparently, he gave me a severe ticking off, whilst I stood there boss-eyed and grinning like Jack Nicholson. My only defence was to occasionally plead,

"Come on, they do dangle down a bit, don't they?"

And the moral of the story?

If your fat, wear a jumper.
Thanks for that. The combination of laughing out loud and the re-heated Rogan Josh I had for lunch have just caused me to launch an air biscuit of epic proportions.

However, it did remind me, for some unnaccountable reason, of a rare medical condition which afflicts me when I combine an excess of alcohol with a visit to a club or disco. For some reason, this switches off my internal volume control and I thus continue to speak at whatever volume setting I was using when standing next to the thumping sixty-thousand watt speakers. It isn't described in the medical literature, but I shall call it 'disco megaphone'.

A recent example of this was at a very posh fiftieth birthday party I got invited to in Gloucestershire. Much of the action was taking place in a big marquee with dance floor and disco, and the lovely Mrs chickenpunk insisted I spent some time dancing with her, as opposed to ripping into the free champagne with a blerk who'd been in my company at Sandhurst. But after twenty minutes or so of Mrs c dancing, and me making strange, jerky spastic movements, I reckoned enough was enough and back to the booze.

My Sandhurst friend is recently divorced, so in order to cheer him up, I pointed out a young-ish lady of ample proportions and observed, with words to the effect of: 'If you're really desperate, you could do worse than that fat bird over there; she doesn't look like she can afford to be too choosy'. At which point the marquee went strangely silent and I was dragged off to the car by a furious Mrs c who declined to speak to me until the next morning as apparently my voice had been loud enough to hear in Fort William. Oh dear.
 
#19
How did I miss this thread first time round? All the time I’ve been idling in the naafi with nowt to interest me and this gem was sitting there all along.
I’ve got a few such stories because, well basically I’m a cnut when in company I don’t like, and I’m a Rupert so I’m in such company quite a lot. The one that springs to mind first is my inaugural presentation my very first true-love’s family, many moons ago. I was 21 and was completely head over heels in Movie Love for the girl: intelligent, funny, very pretty and a blast to be with. She also gave me the kind of sex I’d dreamed about since my first fumble. Fcuk, how did I screw that chance up…
Anyway, I desperately wanted to impress her parents; I knew as only a 21-year-old could that I wanted to marry this girl and I was pulling out all the stops – nice shirt, casual jacket, my first (and only) set of brogues and tan moleskins. I looked like a well-heeled guards officer instead of the oik my childhood preordained me to remain. I brushed my teeth till the gums bled and practised shaking her old man’s hand in the mirror. I got my CO’s wife to tell me her favourite joke so that I could recite it to her mum over wine and unidentified foreign cheese products. My mum would have beamed with pride at the polite gentleman I had become.
I was being torn in two directions however. On one side I had my mum’s influence: a licked tissue across the cheek and a kindly order to sit up straight and not slurp the soup. On the other I had the voice of my peers and the growl of my first troop of lads – the awe in their eyes as I stepped up unasked to play Suicide Freckles against “Shitboy Mossy”, the power I derived from challenging my Tp Sgt to a first-to-100 press up race in puddles of our own urine. I suppressed this beguiling daemon however, for I Loved This Girl and would have pulled the moon from the sky for her.
We drove to her parents’ house outside Hertford. My entire extended family could have lived within its grey-bricked walls. The dad handshake went well, he commented on how he liked a man to have such a confident handshake – a sure compliment. I charmed her mother and even their (pedigree) Irish Wolfhounds took a shine to me (thanks to an invaluable tip from my adjt – put the really fine powder from a dog biscuit bag in one of your pockets. Not a lot, just enough to faintly dust a couple of fingers now and again. Dog lovers trust their dogs’ instincts on people). It was going well until her older sister showed up with David. David was 14 years older than the sister and was a WO2 in the Engrs when they met, their marriage had been and remained a bone of contention in the family. He saw through me on eye-contact. They’d also bought “Grampy” along – an old sweat from the family’s chosen service, the Royal Navy (the bird’s dad was conspicuous as the only male in the family not to have served). The meal progressed, the wine and port was of a much higher quality than of that I was used to, and to be honest, 21 year old me was suffering. David was asking me penetrating questions about what us ‘young ruperts’ got up to during mess nights and squadron bar sessions, Grampy thought I was him reincarnate and all the while my glass was never allowed to empty. Towards the end, both the father and my girlfriend told me in no uncertain terms not to encourage grampy and that it was mean to egg him on at his age. I was egging no man on, I was trying to keep up. After cheese and biscuits (my joke didn't work as I was so drunk by that stage that I got the punchline wrong) we got onto beer. The father had a hard-on for bottles of Miller GD for some reason. I was still being sycophantic to the git and kept fetching them from the kitchen. After a while grampy got a dusty bottle of rum out. He was immediately shouted down by the disrespectful b@stard who happened to be the father of my girl. Grampy stood as proud as his age, experience and dignity allowed him – “well, young RTFQs the guest and he’ll drink with me won’t you son?” His fiercely proud old matelot’s eyes said “don’t patronise me like these bast@rds, you know better” as everyone else glared at me (I’m sure that the use of the word son didn’t go unnoticed by the father either) David could see the train wreck coming and was smiling smugly the bast@rd. I stood up, offered my glass and said “It would be an honour Sir” I fcuking meant it too.
Grampy shat himself on the sofa 30 minutes later. 5 minutes after that he vomited over mother’s toilet roll cover and down the wall. Where I come from this is a sign of manhood at its most glorious, where my girl came from it was the work of the devil himself.
I really, really, urgently and immediately needed to p1ss by this stage and for all the money invested in that house, only the upstairs toilet worked, and grampy was exorcising his demons in there. I had a plan. I took my empty MGD bottle to the kitchen under the guise of getting some more (itself a gesture that produced more glares). When I was sure everyone was occupied by grampy’s new artwork, I started to power-lag into the bottle. MGD bottle necks are small, so I shoved my jap’s eye into it and pushed the flow. It wasn’t enough, the pressure forced my urine out in an aura of finely sprayed p1ss all over the cooker and the nearest work surface – just as mother walked in to get some badly needed tea towels. Her scream brought the rest of them running in time to see my now absolutely unstoppable flow continue while I resignedly held the superfluous bottle beneath me. Some of the p1ss went in the bottle, most went over my hand and on the floor.
We never married. Grampy survived the night but died 2 years ago. I don’t regret a thing Sir, it was an honour to share a drink with you.
 
#20
Why does the worst/best stuff always happen at Weddings?.. Can't be just because of the copious amounts of relatively free booze...

This goes back a few years, but the memories haven't dimmed.. One of the boys in the ' unit' was a big sonofab*tch.. all into ' keeping fit '.. 6'3" 280.. looked like Arnuld when in his prime... As macho a guy as you'd ever expect to find in combat gear.. could have been a poster boy for the forces..

Wasn't a big surprise. then. to find out he'd latched onto a fabulously georgeous filly right out of the Victoria Secrets Catalogue.. At the wedding reception, his Best Man, already well into the 'festive spirit ' , unbeknownst to anyone, had decided to forego the usual Buddy speech and instead wheeled in a laptop and projector and commenced a ' power point' lecture about his pal , the Groom...
, we were treated to various photos of said macho man, taken obviously over a number of years [ from teen times up ], dressed in various combinations of women's clothing...some were gag shots from deployments and various booze ups.. but, it quickly became apparent that at almost every ' event' ol " Harry " would, at some point don frillies..

The laughter, loud and crazy at first, started to get a little nervous as the pictures followed each other.. but there was stunned silence when the final shots showed " Harry " from just a couple of days before, romping at the in-laws house, trying on the Bride's travel outfit and ' honeymoon lingerie '...

Wife shrieked, mother-in-law fainted.. groom leapt over the headtable and began punching the best man into unconsciousness,[ seems the two boys had ' issues '] much screaming and pointing of fingers at groom's parents for raising a deviant.. total bun fight.. those of us who were his ' mates' hung out at the bar giving a play by play commentary on the various dust ups and taking bets on when the annulment would come through...

20 cops had to be called in to ' quiet matters '...

In retrospect, I always thought he spent way to much time getting his camo paint on ' just right '...

Just reinforced the lesson I told all me boys: when on deployment sleep with one eye open at all times...
 

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