Squaddies trying to behave like proper people

i look back on my life since leaving the army , and i seem to have just stumbled from one embarrasing incident to another , i try , i really do but after a few beers something just seems to go wrong and before i know it i'm waking up with another case of the "oh - nooooooo's"

take last week , i skived off work , and with a couple of mates we went to the boat show (f*ck knows why , not my suggestion) anyway , by the time we get there we're all well steaming , and go straight to the bar for a few more drinks , this place is full of boat people , no not vietnamese , full on blazer wearing deck shoe-d c-unts who immediately take offence to our bawdy behaviour ,
now ..... if one thing is more likely to make me misbehave than ANYTHING it's being told to behave myself by a stranger , so i started an innocent game of "fight club" in the bar , which started tamely but by the time we were asked to leave had descended into a scrum of bodies all laughing like hyenas but kicking holy f*ck out of each other.

next up was asking for a look around some boat , what a beast , we had the salesman creaming himself as my mate brian spun him a cracking story about having it to sail down to spain , and getting all technical with him (we eavesdropped on a conversation at the previous boat , so we knew all the lingo to give him a major hard on)
matey lets us go aboard for a shufti while him and Brian do some paperwork , so i sent brian a picture to his mobile of me lagging into the kettle , and my mate Mitch running round below decks "in the nip" and roughriding all the pillows with his bare hoop, he said he was nearly asphyxiating with laughter , but managed to keep the fella occupied
so we leave this boat looking like it's been boarded by pirates , and move on , the rest of the day is a bit of a blur , but i vaguely remember trying to steal a quad bike , and agreeing to chip in with the lads for one of those full on liferafts for about 20 people with a roof and everything, because we thought it would be funny to pull the toggle on the tube.
how i returned home un-arrested and in one piece is still a mystery.


RTFQ's story reminds me vaguely of the time when, having pulled the stunning, 5'11", huge norked daughter of a Brigadier, and been invited to go and stay with them, I managed to get caught in flagrante with the daughter when I fell off the bed during a particularly athletic manouevre, alerting the family by smashing a large china table lamp in the process; and then, the morning I left, curling out a huge, fetid turd in the crapper which I couldn't flush, despite beating the thing half to death with the bog brush and various other implements. The relationship didn't last.
boats an poop reminds me of the time...

Back in the day when I was Ops O on an Ex, we'd had a particularly rancid weekend with a couple of No-Duff incidents that left me behind a desk dotting i's and crossing t's..I hadn't realized how late it was until the RSM came in and told me that the transport boys had, as he put it, couldn't find their nuts in their pants, and the last troop transport had left leaving us without a way back, especially since the Adj. and DCO had ' booked of early' with the command car.

The RSM was a former Sgt. with the Duke of Edinburgh's Royal Regt. in the UK who had taken ' early retirement ' and moved to the Colonies..but after three weeks in civvie street, decided to ' re-up '. Many of the smallbrass hated him because he'd always comment on their plans and assignments by startying up with.. ' Well, in the Real Army , we did this...' but, I loved the git.. He'd been in Cyprus just before me and we often traded stories over where the best beaches and b1tches were on the island.

After a bit of phoning around we found out that the C.O. was still on base waiting his Missus who was coming to get him in his brand new Minivan. long story short, he offered us a ride back as there was ' plenty of room '...

the missus arrives in this shiny new car, still has some of the showroom plastic on knobs and such..We precede to chuck rain soaked, mud covered kit into the back and climb in... CO takes the command chair and I get to ride shotgun.. Mrs. C.O. rides in the second tier with little CO Junior, one year old, strapped into a baby seat behind ' daddy '..The RSM has the back seat to himself.

Well we're motoring along quite nicely when I detect a strong aroma of decaying flesh mixed with flayed skunk in a Chinese food shop dumpster..
The C.O.'s nose is twitching and he begins to make throat clearing noises.

The Missus smiles weakly and says.. " Oh, dear.. I think junior has made a doo doo ".. I look back and the kid is grinning ear to ear and the RSM is digging frantically in his ruck for his NBC mask... there being no layby or rest stop in sight and, anyway, the CO doesn't want to ' delay ' further...the matter falls to Mrs. C.O. to do something..

All women are expert at handling ' bodily fluids ' which make grown men blanch..and, unhooking the gasmaster, she balanced him on her knees, whipped off the clothes, pulled off the offal-filled disposable diaper and wiped, powdered and rekitted the tyke in record time.. Even the RSM was intrigued.. I think he was timing her and comparing the exercise to field stripping a C-7..

Well the wee un was back to normal, but the offending effluent, though now tightly wrapped up, was still stinking up the van and rolling down the windows just moved the stench around..
trying not to gag the RSM said.. "Allow me to dispose of that for you, ma'am" and with one hand he grabbed the little bundle while, with the other, he opened the sun roof and with the precision that only comes from years of grenade practise he lobbed the stenchball in a perfect arc out of the van.. Mrs. C.O. and I watched in fascination and even the C.O. kept a keen eye on the trajectory in the rear view mirror as it soared up and then came down to land on the front seat of a boat being towed in the opposite direction. exploding on impact and splattering the windshield of the fast receding sportscraft...

the rest of the ride was spent in silence...


What really doesnt help is when all of the in laws are ex jimmies or ruperts and major experts at lashing it up even as said before if they happen to be over 80. I married into a well to do family me an early retired buckshee from that super fashionable regt 1LI and her father ex RE officer, Step father retd Naval Cdr lots of ribbons WW2 Bomb disposal, Grandfather, Uncles ex andrew jimmies and cousins Twats in the crab.
What they knew and didnt let on is that it is ok to misbehave, get pissed fart in company etc but only when a fully fledged mess member. This took several years and was only completed after holding my own in a boat race of blue riband proportions with the senior civvy technical side of the family. I had joined BR and it turned out (the cow my wife kept it quiet the little darling) that they were all Board members etc going back to 1920s when Gt. Gt grandad was Chief sig eng on the GWR own train and all. So there am I a technician (acting) in signal moinor works (the lowest form of life) and a Southern man to boot. The challenge was to avoid a certain 3rd cousin who not only was on the south eastern but a station manager. So pissed I even managed to avoid his mum who kept buttonholing me with you must talk to my son! I survived and can now fart in polite company major royals excluded.
I was a best man at an Army wedding in Shropshire where 140 guests were directly related to the Bride and the other 5 were with him. I broke the ice, needless to say his wife wont speak to me ever again. I must be part farmer cause we all got on really well.
Some blokes are proper people who have to try hard to behave like a squaddie. Some blokes are squaddies who have to try hard at being proper people. Some blokes are just plain squaddies who wouldn’t know how to be ‘proper people’ if you wrapped it round a sledgehammer and smacked them round the chops with it.

I was posted with one such bloke who had ‘Fcuking’ as his middle name due to the fact that no matter who was talking to him that’s all that came out of his mouth. He had all the tact an diplomacy of a rabid Doberman and would be shunted out of the way if any sort of brass doing the rounds for fear of a repeat of the embarrassing time a Brigadier asked one of those knob ‘So - What are you doing there’ questions - when you have a tin of paint, a paint brush in hand and a half painted Land Rover – the answer our man gave was ‘I’m fcuking painting a fcuking Land Rover!!!’ – The ‘What does it fcuking look like you cnut?’ being clearly implied in his voice.

Our man 'Fcuking' hooked up with a nice lass – who was a proper person, had had no previous experience of squaddie behaviour and was not given to foul language - but she learned real quick at the hands of our maestro.

She told us one day that they had been in a posh restaurant in London – the type of place where you need a degree in French to read the menu and a private income to pay for it.

'Fcuking' was doing his utter most to be normal, using the correct knife and fork, smiling at the other patrons and all that sort of carp. But he couldn’t keep it up when the main course was served. – One of those ‘nouvelle cuisine’ all plate no scoff jobs. ‘Fcuking’ reverted to squaddie mode quick sharp and called the snotty maitre d’ over and enquired as to when the rest of his meal would be arriving.

The snotty maitre d’ snottily said 'That, Sir, is the meal Sir ordered'.

‘Fcuk that you cnut’ says Fcuking ‘ I fcucking aint paying good fcuking money for that fcuking shite’

The Maitre d’ didn’t bat an eyelid but looked at ‘Mrs Fcuking’ and asked ‘Does madam’s husband always use such language?’ To which she replied in her rather posh accent - ‘Of course he fcuking well does’...

God bless her


Ah a perfect example of wifey being fully integrated and not batting an eyelid. I get funny looks when I read this thread at home and work to to raucous laughter.


Another girlfriend’s-family story, this one’s fairly recent.
A good mate of mine decided to marry the skinny, vacuous and (check this) GINGER women that had been glued to his side for the last 2 years and whose gaping abyss of a personality vacuum had sucked the joy and excitement out of a once legendary beer-and-ladies man and turned him into an estate agent. As the only thing the poor, deluded fool had in lieu of excitement nowadays was the tentative anxiety over whether his soon to be wife would leave him and take his money before he died of boredom, me and a bezzer decided to throw him a monster stag do in Bournemouth. To be honest, it was because we wanted the tw@t to see sense at the 11th hour.
The girl I was seeing at the time knew that I enjoyed a beer or two every now and again. Furthermore her definition of “An interesting, humorous, gregarious fellow with a few beers inside him and displaying a master’s grasp of modern underground Hip-Hop dance moves” differed vastly from my own definition. As a result she refused to go out with me on the pop and secretly tried to plot the downfall of any major sessions I planned.
The day approached, while I was ironing my lucky Skull-and-Crossbones pants and the pulling shirt I like to call “The Minge-inator,” she gave me a large cheque.
“What’s this Doris? I told you there’s no need to pay me for it and really, I don’t mind doing it – the smell’s not too bad so long as you shower.”
“It’s for my brother, can you give it too him when you’re at Bournemouth pleeease?”
A long discourse over the speed and reliability of the postal system ensued, and how the inconvenience to my alcohol dependence didn’t justify the savings on a stamp, I was winning but somehow we ended up having sex and I forgot the whole issue. On the day of departure she reminded me and said her brother, let’s call him Diggory (because it’s a good comedy name), would give me a call around 1600 (well she said four, but you have to just let some things go in a loving relationship), we meet up make the drop, job done.
So the gang meets up at 1000 after a few on the train and we meander slowly in a bar over looking the gardens in B’mouth, drinking special drinks and taking bets on who is most likely to end up sleeping in the park with something in their bottom. We’ve been drinking long enough that someone (an Artillery guy) actually volunteers for the job thinking we’re going to play a cool game. My phone goes, interrupting a deep conversation between me and the fool-to-be that was proceeding thus:
“I fcuking love you mate”
“Leave her, she’s ginger”
“No no no, I LOVE YOU”
“I’ve never seen you laugh with her and she’s a FCUKING GINGER!”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t mate this is serious: I love you”
“when was the last time you two had sex?”
He looks confused
“Together” I clarify
“We ‘Saving Ourselves’” he says ‘Saving Ourselves’ in the voice that blokes use when they’re saying something their spouses have programmed into them. When aliens start taking over peoples bodies we’ll know because all blokes will talk in that voice.
I’m about to slap him like a Mexican (I reckon that only Mexicans can slap other men round the face effectively) when the phone goes. It’s Diggory, we arrange to meet.
Diggory was/is a doctor and was about 35-40 (the Righteous Era). I handed him the cheque and he asks if I fancy a beer as ‘he’d like a chat.’ He uses that body-snatcher voice, doris has put him up to this. Nonetheless I sense this is important and do that manoeuvre that pissed blokes do when they want to look like they’re not pissed: I straighten my back and push my chest out but fail to send any signals to my neck so my head lolls to either side.
Pub, Beer, talking: I vaguely remember something about a really important clock, children, a wedding somewhere (sounded nice, wondered if I was invited) and someone who wasn’t going to wait around for something forever (“Why would you?” I commented helpfully at the time). Then he asked “what do you think?” in what may or may not have been a body-snatcher voice.
Through the haze I realise that this is an important question and that I have no idea what we are talking about. I try to do the ‘It’s okay I’m not drunk’ manoeuvre again but over balance and take 3 adjusting steps back from the bar. Diggory may have started to ponder on whether I was entirely sober at this point.
I fall back on a tried and tested technique for such occasions – answer the question with a vague, meaningful story. While you talk, they drink – the more you talk, the more they drink. No man can stand up to this technique and they soon forget whatever the question was (NB – utterly useless on women though, you just end up more pissed when you finally answer the angrily repeated question).
I start: “I tell you something Dig – can I call you Dig? – I remember seeing these two orphan kids playing by a rancid dead cow once. Pristina it was. Parents had been working in the local power plant that had been bombed by NATO a couple of weeks before. We’d gone out there to….”

I didn’t need to continue because two of my mates had just run into the bar. They were naked and shouting “MAN SANDWICH!” As civilians dove for cover or reached for things with which to defend themselves, they hugged me and (using the vernacular of Abu Graib trials and GCMs in Osnabruck) ‘simulated a sex act.’ In fact they simulated a sex act with Diggory too on account of the fact that he was talking to me. It’s 1645 on a Saturday afternoon.
In the end ‘Diggory’ got in more trouble than me as he failed to adequately explain to his wife and his sister how he ended up getting in around 0400 after being hijacked by an army stag do.


More proof that you can take the man out of the army but you can't take the army out of the man.

(Could be a long one - hope I don't bore you all)

Several years after leaving the army I was involved in some extra-marital with a particularly scrummy sex goddess - her tour de force was to squirt my recently released juices back down the outside of my fun pole where it would gather in my pubes and dribble down the gonad case.. Unfortunately, she wasn't keen on drunks, which was a pity as unbeknown to her, I have a PhD in drunkenness.

All was going well until this rich bloke in the pub invites us to a party at his country retreat - swimming pool, more bedrooms than the Hilton, and a really swish drawing room complete with thick cream pile carpet. I wouldn't normally have gone but as is often the case with rich people. He was mean. He'd dodge his round and if you asked for a rum and coke he'd say "I'm not buying doubles" and you'd end up with a coke. So I thought sod it! Can't miss the chance of a freebie from the old git.

Apart from a few of us from the pub,, the party was full of boring self made nouveaux rich who could talk about themselves forever. In those days I was more of a beer drinker and we quickly finished off the couple of cases of John Smiths and Carling Black Label (bloody cans! I told you he was a mean b*st*rd) so it's on to the vin rouge. The first couple of bottles of this poofy stuff go down well, my lady friend is nowhere to be seen and the light is beginning to fade.

I wake up, in the dark, at home, on a couch, in the living room under a blanket, clad in just my trousers and socks with a plastic bucket nearby to keep me company.

WTF am I doing here? Where the fcuk have I been? I don't remember going down the pub. What day is it?
Sit up. No headache - bonus, stomach's a bit tight. What's that smell? Oh sh1t! I've lost the vol au vents and carrot lumps somewhere.

I remember now - I went to X's party with Y. Great foreboding comes over me. What did I do? How did I get home? Is my willy roaming cat out of the bag?

Compose yourself man! You're alive - just. Your discarded clothes are folded neatly so it can't be all bad - can it?????.

Although I tried to quietly make a cup of sweet tea I failed. My long suffering wife hears the movement and can't wait to get downstairs to rip my ears off - or so I thought. Actually, she was a bit conciliatory. Is this a ploy? A trick to suck me in before beating me over the head with a solicitor?

"You should know better than to go drinking with John and Vic"
I dunno, they're good mates - says I.
"Huh! Good mates spike their friend's drinks doi they"
Puzzle puzzle. FFS brain, start working. What's she on about?
Probably not - says I, trying to gain time.
"Anyway, I thought you didn't like football"
WTF has football got to do with anything thinks I
I don't much.
"Well what were you doing staying in the pub to watch football after time?"
I dunno

This goes on for a while and I gather that my mates have brought me back
comotosed from the party and fed her a story about a lock-in at the pub to watch football where my drink had been spiked, hence my worse than normal condition..

Thanks Lads!!!

But WTF did happen? I have no idea. The suspense of not knowing is killing me. Eventually I get the opportunity to 'pop down the Co-op'

Public phone box - rang Y. "Hiya, it's me"
"oh sh1t" try again.
Ring ring ring - no reply.

OK - call John.
"Fcuking hell, was you bad or what?

Long story - short.

Red wine on top of beer apparently affects my judgement. It becomes pin sharp.
I can tell a w*nker, even though we've never met before.
Mean people shouldn't be part of the human race - but they are.
All women should have a squirtcum capability like Y
Women in white trouser suits standing on cream pile carpets really need washing in red wine - twice.
Red wine makes women's nipples stand out like chapel hat pegs. (Next time you're at a party, just fall against some old biddy who's got a glass of red in her hand - then poke the wet pimply things on her chest)
Recollection of the words to the Tampax Factory song becomes photographic, if not melodic.
Wine cellars are easily detected and stripped.

I tried to apologise but humourless b*st*rds that they were - I never got that squigly feeling around my funpole again and the only parties I've been to since are my grandchildren's birthdays.

The mean b*st*rd is now stripping gold rings off people newly arrived in hell and Y is back in her native Leicestershire, no doubt blowing back the sperm of some lucky sobersided *rseh0le for all she's worth.

John, Vic, and I, occasionally bemoan the fact that 'there aren't so many characters in the pub anymore' and remind ourselves that 'we've had some laughs''

My ex-wife vehemently confirms that 'She'd never get married again' - often.
My new wife is an angel - and leaves me to clear up the vol au vents and carrot sticks.


Don't fret Hup Two, sounds like you were, in the words of Zac Dela Rocca, the "fist in the air in the land of hypocrisy" top skills all round.


War Hero
Great stories Chaps.

However, I detect one ever-present theme...yes, the evils of drink.

Glad to see some people have priorities right. Mates and boozy living first and a woman if she fits in around that demanding lifestyle.

I think we can all remember being dumped because we can't "have a quiet drink like normal people". Remember, we're not normal people. We're members of HM Forces.

To one and all, enjoy your relationships while we have them, only a few months to the annual Army vs Navy booze-fest and the traditional sleeping in the spare room/ garden.

See you all there.

PS. Theme for this year must be gorrilla suits for all; when is it not funny.


On the evils of drink, there was a pad's wife who worked in the NAAFI on camp and she said her sister was coming from UK to visit. She asked (as I appeared to be well mannered) if I could "show her a time". I agreed of course, free lady, single squaddie!
We met, we enjoyed each other's company BUT - she didn't drink much and preferred to sup tiny white wine and sodas. She also wanted to see a typical evening in the pig's bar - I tried to talk her out of it but we arranged to meet up that evening. There was also an ENSA show on for the lads.
Anyway it was a Saturday and me and some of the lads went to the troop bar and found that after a couple of rounds each, we'd run out of beer (piss poor planning) and all that was left was a crate of cheap port, left by the Sgt's mess after a doo of theirs. We robbed the crate and drank a couple of bottles each.
By 2000 or so my head was spinning and my guts distended with beer and port. My mate reminded me that I had to meet "X" in the bar. I tidied up, had a burst of squaddie shower and wobbled down to meet the girl. Her sister and brother in law (a prick from our troop) were already there, she drinking white wine and soda, the others on beer. I ordered a Grolsch and after making polite conversation met up with the lads. AS usual there was noise, mess and smoke everywhere. The ENSA mob were shiite and I was beginning to feel the worse for wear. "X" found me in a nest of blokes doing some drinking game and asks me to dance - in the Pigs Bar no less. There was going to be an instant loss of cred very shortly so I said we'd dance a little bit later and howsabout anuffer dwink...
We sat, we looked into each others' eyes, something clicked. Our heads moved together and tongues touched. I don't know what it was but the taste of white wine on her initiated the belly revolution.
I just managed to pull my face off hers before depositing 2 bottles of port and ten grolsches down the front of her dress, inside the front of her dress and the rest on her shoes.
I fled before she realised what had happened and until the day I left my regiment, sister and her in-law refused to speak to me - ever. It was a shame though, she was a nice looking lass.


War Hero
Jesus where do I start... being a kingo I had many a drunken binge and ended up with any old slappa that was worth sa fumble and more often than not resulted in a trip to the med centre every couple of weeks for some random rash that had come from nowhere round the nether regions.. I tried to calm my ways and went home to Liverpool on Christmas leave and met the woman of my dreams. This angel was perfect in every way and I did not want to fook it up as time waits for no man (allegedly). So my plan of action was to leave squaddie me behind at the lines when I returned home to see my bride to be, this worked fine for about 3 months and it was killing me going back home every other weekend and staying on the straight and narrow... pacing myself whilst out with the lads was the worsed thing because I was known as a bit of an animal who loved the beer and to fook about. I could controll myself no longer and I went for it... out with the lads back at the lines from about 1600, boarded the train and drank till 2030, got off the train and went straight on the lash with my civy mates...

I called my fiance' and told her I would be home at around 23.30 this I believe did not happen.. I woke up in the morning in strange surroundings.. composed myself and realised I was at my fiance's parents house on the couch. after about two minutes lying thier thinking wtf happened my fiance wallks in and slips right on her arse on the "new" wooden floor and lands with a splash and says "what the hell is this?" smells her hands and starts balking and runs straight out.. (now I thought this was lies and never realy happened to people but it does).. apparrentley in my drunken state I had got up and gone the toilet in the middle of the night ... thinking I must have been else where I had got the old lad out and pi55ed up thier living room wall as they had just had a new wooden floor put in the urine didnt soak into it... it just floated there like a man made pond.. I tried my best and cleaned everywhere before her parents got up and it was sound... she accepted my appologies and we carried on with the morning ritual of breakfast with the family.. all was well and good untill her mother looked out the window and scowled at me "good night was it?" I looked on bemused and said "why yes Mrs X it was" I walked over to the half barn door they have in the kitchen and looked straight into the eyes of thier beloved dog "bekki" which looked as if it had had a shower with oriental soup... bits of sweaty re-gurgitated kebab matted in the poor animals fur and the smell was like red aftershock versus garlic butter..

The pi55ing up the wall incident wasnt the only time I didnt make it to the bog the night before... apparently at 0430 I was heard running to the back door doing the technicolour yodel all over thier beloved mut as it had jumped up at the barn door to greet me...

I composed myself and made my excuses and left... it took me 2 years to gain the families trust again but hey ho they let me marry thier daughter... they had to I knocked her up!!! but we have been married for 9 years now... they just keep me away from any parties where any of the family will be offended and I am limited to my selection of guests.

Did throw a party of my own to spite them... but her family left at 1030 (an hour after getting thier) but thats another story.
shortfuse said:
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)

This should be a t-shirt. :D

A veneer of normality can be faked if you stay below critical mass i.e. 1.2 squaddies. Similar with rugby players. One of my colleagues was attending a formal at another university when a girl from his course came into the room spotted him and ran over exclaiming "Oh God. You're not all here are you?"
A friend of mine was telling us of this tale one night on Telic 4,
Many years ago, on the lash at a mates home, absolutely leathered, woke up the next morning which was the day they were heading back to camp, he checked the drawers in the bedroom to see if theyd been used as a nighttime urinal (he was known for sleep wazzing), sigh of relief, they hadnt. Started getting dressed only to find that his jumper, on the floor in the corner of the room, was soaking with pish. He put it on, his kagool on top of that and wanted to get out of the house sharpish. But no, his mates mum had made breakfast, so he sat there, sweating his chods off in a pish soaked jumper and kagool at the table eating away. After breakfast, they made their way to the train station, on the train they got talking to 2 girls, the train was redders, the windows of the carriage started to steam up as well as the steam coming out of the arms and neck of his kagool, one of the girls kept commenting on how much the toilets stank cos all she could smell was pish.
I dont how the story ended cos I was laughing so much that I missed it, he has a geordie accent as well, which really added to the tale.
About a year ago I met this girl (finally nabbed one) so its our first date she gets a call saying do we want to go to her mates for a party, me sensing free booze happily go along. the first night at this party goes great I charm her friends offer to go on beer run, next morning I'm up early help washing up and all that, then the second night starts and as we are all bloody students we only have white lightning to drink and I drink more than socially exceptable and then start to embarrass the poor girl, it starts with me betting people that I can snort more tabasco sauce and pepper then any of them which I could, then I go for a swim with this girl but so drunk I have forgotten how and end up on bottom of pool, that crisis dealt with Im off in sauna to dry off but once in I cant work out how to open door so sat in there pooring vodka on coals untill I start thinking I'm about to die and no one can hear me banging on door found naked on sauna floor with vodka firmly in hand. For some reason she has stayed with me I think it maybe out of curiosty of what will happen when we get pissed.


War Hero
Flew back home last xmas, and as the flight got in well late to canada got two of my best mates to pick me up and drive me home (in the canadian forces they are). Arrived at my parents house at about 3 in the morning, the day of my mums big 'pre-xmas party', loads of family and friends, all pretty respectable and suburban. anyways, upon arriving, parents and sister get up to greet me, and we have a nice wee catch-up and chat, mum brings out a few beers for the boys and i. chatting away, a few beers turns into half a crate, parents sack it and go to bed by 5:30, and the boys and i decide to carry on through the day till the big party. Not drinking too hugely mind, maybe about 2-4beers an hour until about 6pm, by which time we are sideways, eat loads of scoff, try to keep relatively sensible with the dear sensitive civvies, but the frequency of profanity rises higher and higher, as do our voices, concerned looks from some of the parents with small children at said party. Anyways, decide to go downtown, accompanied by my neighbours daughter and her mate, who although the same age as I, I've not seen in donkeys, and who, being a cello player/student in some prestigious university music program has all the alcohol tolerance of a gerbil. she also proceeded to admit a huge crush on me when we were children.

Anyways, proceed to get completely rat-arsed downtown, along the way running into an old ex-girlfriend for whom the delight of seeing me again was tempered slightly by my response to her 'Who the fcuk are ya again?', cue slap to the face and staccato of high heels stalking off in a huff. Rest of evening is a blur, until I wake up at the un-godly hour of 4 o-clock to find myself naked in the fold out bed in our basement, as said neighbours daughter gets dressed and thanks me for 'a wonderful first time, call me and we'll do it again'. yes, you inferred right from that, she was indeed a virgin (I'm going to hell, but I do hazily remember strenously asking her over and over 'are you SURE this is what you want to do' as she stripped off with all the abandon of a nympho in a rugby locker room). go back to sleep, only to be woken up by step-father chuckling at me and mum strangely silent. rest of the day spent in recovery.

turns out that asides from all the above, I threatened the somalian cab-drivers family with violence if he told anyone where I lived, fell up a flight of stairs, threw in front of the bar (somehow escaping the notice of the bar staff) then got the next round, nearly started a brawl by throwing a hot-dog at someone, oh and nicked a 'Danger: Demolitions' sign from the catholic church around the corner from my folks place which was undergoing renovations at the time. Mum wasn't too happy at finding said sign on her front porch.

End result? the neighbours don't talk to my family anymore, and give me the nastiest glares in nato everytime I'm home, and my mum limits the number of my army mates I can invite to parties she throws whilst preaching to me 'stay off the whisky, you know how crazy you get when you drink that stuff'


Ah Canada, my first trip in 86 and crab air break down at Gander, now that place makes Kirkwall look lively. Anyway the advert said "Drink Canada Dry!" I tried honestly. I reckon they kept smuggling it across the border!


Aaah, I’d forgotten this thread.

I like weddings, there’s lots of alcohol and the single women have been beaten into a pit of low self-esteem by their inadequacies as another of their friends has bagged herself a husband/4 bed semi in surrey/dog/kids and seven years of Prozac-fuelled contentment. The bridesmaids have had to put up this mental torture for weeks and are particularly open to being consoled by drunk, vaguely urine-soaked men in uniform. I also like the air of ceremony and expectation that hangs around a wedding - it’s how I imagine the Coliseum felt when the gladiators walked on side by side and proclaimed “We who are about to die salute you!” They look smart, it’s a touching tradition and the protagonists are, in their own way, showing respect to each other. You know, however, that before long they will be hacking the sh1t out of each other until one stands triumphant with the head of the defeated in their hands. I don’t tell my mates how I feel, and I look good in No1s, so I keep getting invited to their weddings. They used to put “plus one” on the invite, but they’ve realised that’s like asking me to bring a crate of Buckfast to a free bar, and it only ever ends in tears, so they don’t bother anymore.

The wedding in this story happened in the spring of last year. One of my mates was marrying a woman way smarter than him and the sense of foreboding was too much for me to pass up – it was like having a look around the Titanic an hour before it sets sail and stealing one of the novelty ashtrays. He’d assumed that because I was seeing someone at the time that he should invite a “Plus Guest.” Stupid man, he won’t make the same mistake at his second wedding…
As the guy was someone I used to work with, I knew a lot of the people there – this was confirmed at the reception when I looked at the seating plan and saw, with horror, who I was sat next to.

Let’s call her Andrea, because, if you squinted, she looked a bit like Andrea Corr (she also looked a bit like that scary girl that climbs out of your TV in The Ring, but I can’t remember her name). We’d had a fling a year or so previously (whilst both unattached.) that had been very fun and quite mucky, it had ended because I got posted and she’d made it clear that she didn’t do long distance relationships (UK to BFG ffs!!). Between you, me and the naafi bargirl, I was quite gutted and still held a flame the size of Dresden for her. So you can imagine that I was well chuffed (!) to introduce my unwitting girlfriend to Andrea, who was positively itching with excitement at having the chance to make me squirm all night.

Now I try to have fun relationships with the women in my life. I’m more of a brass rubbing than oil painting, so I have to rely on humour and personality a bit more. Consequently I always have some boyfriend/girlfriend in-jokes and stories and inevitably these get used with different women. A close friend once told me that she can always tell if I’m sh’gging a girl by the jokes we make with each other or even the general vocab. So you better believe that my girlfriend is going to twig that Andrea and I ‘did Battle PT in 3Romeo’ and even worse that I still lusted after the girl. Not an insurmountable problem I know, but the current squeeze was a straight-laced girl who thought I was a nice guy (fky), so she didn’t need to start comparing notes with “I’m a bitch, do me like a dog!” Andrea (Hello if you’re reading this L).
We sit down for the meal. The first thing, the first fcuking thing, that anyone at the table says, before introductions even, is by Andrea: “So RTFQ, still trying to get impressionable girls to do **** for you?”
Oh fcuk..
“Excuuuse Me?!” This is from my girlfriend, we shall now refer to her as Speechless in Stevenage.
Think RTFQ, for the love of God think. Andrea is smiling like a lioness who knows her mates are behind you.
“His name isn’t ****, Andrea – as well you know – it’s Amal and he’s a bloody nice bloke. Stop being racist. He’s a fully fledged doctor now as well, so he probably doesn’t need any help.” Thank fcuk for the little Pakistani kid we used to pick on at school. I’m sorry Amal.
I know I’ve got to stay on my toes. I resort to measures I RARELY take. I sound general quarters AND STOP DRINKING. It feels like the whole room is looking at me. Mates keep coming up and asking if I’m ok. I mention something about a dodgy stomach and feeling a bit rough. Worse still is that Speechless in Stevenage thinks I’m being serious and starts fussing over me. All the time Andrea is grinning like the snake she is. I’m going to hell.
The night creeps on. She keeps making sly references that make Speechless’s ears prick up, but I fend them off well, all the time trying desperately to ply Speechless with alcohol. If I can get her in the analgesic corridor so to speak, I may survive.
Thankfully, the lass goes off to the ladies. I take the opportunity to give the foxy-yet-psychotic Andrea a one way brief. She explains that it was only a bit of a laugh and she really didn’t mean anything by it. She then asks: “So how are you, really?” in a way that says, “shall we fcuk now or fcuk later?”
I relax slightly nonetheless, I may yet survive tonight. Then 17 stones of my mate Tom plonks himself down in Speechless’s vacant stair. I’ve not seen him in about 2 years, he says no more than: “Drink this you terrible cnut” and hands me a bottle of absinthe. He assures me it’s not the gay western version, but the proper Czech kind.
“Aren’t you supposed to burn it and drink it with water?”
“Sod that, get it down your grid.” I’ve missed you too mate.

I survived the Andrea situation well, but I learnt a valuable lesson that night. The Devil is Rommel and damnation is an armoured pincer movement. ‘Speechless in Stevenage’ became ‘Storming out back to London’ around midnight while I was dancing naked to “D’you wanna be in my gang” by Gary Glitter, with my newly rediscovered bezzer Tom. I’ve no idea what happened to Andrea. (PM me you psycho bitch)


A quick one: After carpet-nagging from the mater, and in exchange for commanding it, I had persuaded the CO to allow a brief diversion of the KAPE tour that was leaving from our base in S. England to tour the rougher areas north of the Watford Gap (i.e. all of it) to put in an appearance at her local fete in the Chiltern Hills.

Shiny Fox, Bedford and LR duly appear; oohs and aahs from Scouts and various anoraks, Lady Thingy comes over in her role as chairwoman to thank us and ask silly questions (her husband had been in the Yeomanry and spent the war in Iceland on a donkey or something) and the little expedition begins to relax a tad and think about how to enjoy themselves; we are talking 7 assorted scousers, geordies and weegies let loose at a gymkhana/giant marrow-judging competition in the sort of verdant valley that they had only ever seen on BBC2 costume dramas.

My S/NCO was newly-promoted and still mistakenly believed that if you trusted the boys they would repay that trust; to be fair, just two were completely paralytic on cider, and I heard subsequently of only one underage molestation charge which was taken care off in the usual manner - green beer vouchers.

I was feeling duly relieved and ready to push on to parts North (COD Bicester) by that stage, but then mater dropped the bombshell; as the chaps had been so helpful and smart, would they like to come to tea at the Old Rectory? Sweet Mary M of G!

We quickly bundled the insensate soldiery into the back of the Beddie (thoughtfully converted into a shagwagon by the SQMS prior to departure), set "Mad Carew" over them with his pick-helve and simple instructions, then trooped in.

Everyone was trying very hard to be polite, not to snatch the kuwkie sandwiches, and to stick the little pinkie out when sipping char that tasted like cats wee strained through a bedsock. Mater was keeping the Tp Sgt's ear bent about what it was like in Berlin in the '40's (I just KNEW she'd been in the SS - no wonder she admired our black tank suits). I was just brushing the crumpet crumbs from my trousers and lips when I heard one of my younger troopers, standing next to our gracious hostess and casting about for a conversation starter, say words to the effect of "Jings, theys some feckin lovely wee roses in yon gardin, missus; mah dad sweers bah fresh horseshite - whit du you use on em, eh? They're fecking dandy areet". I swear milk spurted out of my nose, and I hadn't drunk any for over a week.

We made our excuses and left, as the loin of my fruits tried to explain to Lady Anstruther-Fanshaw-Porkington that she had obviously NOT heard what she thought she had, and that it was all down to the "Gaelic Patois" of the rough soldiery from north of the wall.

The Mater is 80 this year, and still dines out on the story, complete with 100% cussing, and with a far better weegie accent than mine own poor attempts - a few years later, I discovered George MacDonald Fraser, and realised that every subaltern had their own Private MacAusland.

Oh, and I was subsequently informed that the cucumber sandwiches were shite, but "Yer mither was a reet stoater", a sentiment with which I can do naught but agree

Fear Nowt!!!
Oh so true...but imagine the additional scope for mayhem if you attend functions dressed in your national costume, which in my case is the kilt. Oh yes,I come from a long line of Berkshire McHairies you know...

It isn't the bit where I get so drunk I flash my meat and two veg at the assembly that causes most trouble. Those days are gone, I am all too aware of the potential for ridicule my equipment may inspire. Frankly worse things are on John Craven's Newsround so as a shock tactic it's a non-starter...

It's when some lashed-up bint decides to see if anything is worn under the kilt - which unfortunately I'm afraid it's all pretty braw, thank you for asking. Uusually that can be laughed off -unless Jealous Husband/Boyfriend is in tow. While he would dearly love to slap her, convention and honour dictate he can't. So then it all ends in tears for poor wee Cuddles...as JH/JB has to find a scapegoat.

Personally I would think twice before attacking a 6'5" drunk Scotsman who is dressed proudly in national costume. However there is something about a wedding (usually where it happens), a formal ball (occasionally happens) or a funeral wake (happened once) that brings out the old dog in some men. Possibly the strain of behaving like proper people can get to anyone - even civilians who allegedly are "proper people"?

Usually I can defuse the situation by smiling, using my manly charm or muttering "piss off you little creep before I drop you". Occasionally a champagne fuelled turbo-gnome does go through an attack profile and I end up being removed by Mrs Cuddles and told off where I have been contributorily negligent or told to "cheer up, you can have the next one to play with". I'm still going to wear the old exciter though and be damned to the lot of them...so much more fun than a dinner suit.

New Posts

Latest Threads