Squaddies trying to behave like proper people

Was out in Cambridge a few years ago and bumped into one of my really good mates in 1 Royal Anglian. Due to tours etc we hadn't been out on the lash together for a while so proceded to get on it .. starting at 11 am when the pubs opened up. We carry on drinking through till kicking out time. We both wanted to carry on drinking but we weren't dressed correctly to get into a club so we stumbled into a posh resteraunt . We were seated down amongst the posh students and were trying to behave ourselves, quite difficult as we were both leathered. The waitress said "what would you like to drink?" we replied "a pint of fosters". "And what would you like to eat?", "what do mean by that?", "well you have to have food if you want to drink here". My mate then says very loudly "well we'll have two packets of salt and vinegar chrisps then please"
Suprisingly enough we were asked to leave.
A fine example of this happened to me last week , went round a good mate of mines for a lads night , the bloke is also imminently going to be my new boss ... so , how do you impress him i thought .... well heres a few tips.

climb over his garage , using his car as a ladder and let off a 15 shot air bomb repeater outside his back door (good entrance through smoke)
get annihalated , and when his wife comes in with her mates proceed to pick on them, culminating in a row with one ending in the waving of a sh1tty digit and threats of imminent skiffing ,finishing by calling her .. and i quote
"a self opinionated stuck up c-unt"
proceed to kitchen , and lag in sink whilst casually chatting to prospective employer , and open mouthed wife ...
leave at 6 with parting words
"meant to be working in the morning ... but f-uck it eh"

rang the next day to apologise ..... i've got the job :D
Having decided as an undergraduate that Durham was too temperate, and yearning for the arctic tundra strewn wastes which lie even further North, my baby sister decided to do her Doctorate at Edinburgh. Inevitably she ends up the indoctrinated slave of some weird cult where the men all wear skirts.

And so, some years later, we found ourselves at her wedding. In a castle. In a place so far away that the compass needle just spins lazily around and the haggis has yet to be hunted to near extinction. For her husband to be, a bloke who is only 5' 11" but is just as tall lying on one side, she bought a six foot highland broadswordy thingy as a wedding present. Presumably so he can hide it in the thatch and get it out if his in-laws ever threaten to fly North for the summer. Anyway, for a chap who has married into civilisation he has a perverse hang up with that film with Mel Gibson in (so it must be true!) and the woaded faces only 1000 years out of place. Whenever he's had more than a couple - and bearing in mind where he's from, that's whenever he's not been asleep for the last 14 hours - and there are Angleesh to listen to him, he recites the dying words of Mel like it was Olivier doing Hal.

On this occasion, as midnight approaches, the dancing round in circles band is hushed with what sounds to the other side of his nuptial gathering like the muttered curses of the three witches. The wide wee -man stands up, plants the point of the massive weapon his new wife has acquired for him in the dance floor and proceeds to give us a rendition. What seems like twenty minutes later;

'...but yee'll never take our FREEDOM!!'

Fantastic, stirring stuff. Then, in that moment of silence at the end of any bravura performance as hands are drawn apart and lungs are filled with imminent huzzars, a small but perfectly audible and very English voice from the back says,

'...and then we tortured him to death.'
fas_et_gloria said:
Fantastic, stirring stuff. Then, in that moment of silence at the end of any bravura performance as hands are drawn apart and lungs are filled with imminent huzzars, a small but perfectly audible and very English voice from the back says,

“… and then we tortured him to death.”

Oh ma goad, help ma boab..et cetera. I would have pi55ed myself hads I but been there. I love this sort of thing...

At a highland wedding given by "professional Scots" all of we groomsmen were dressed by Geoffrey's of Glasgow in a particularly psychedelic tartan - including a certain Englishman of the Gazelle driving variety. Annoyed at having to dress up as a porridge wog, RH cut a hole at cock height in his rented kilt, with a matching hole in the back of the sporran - an expensive badger hair one!! He then spent the remainder of an otherwise very posh wedding guzzling malt and asking various female guests to guess what was in his sporran - with a variety of good-humoured albeit slightly shocked responses. Until that is he asked the bride's mother - a very douce and very bitter/twisted lady from darkest Inverness...

Dicky got ejected from the wedding. I believe the groom was asked to investigate the cost of professionally removing him from the wedding pics. I know he had to pay about £300 for the damage to his rented Rob Roy costume...


Anybody know a friendly, possibly ex-military publisher? Stuff like this should be put into a book to be sold through the NAAFI, Messes etc., with 50% going to ABF and BLESMA.
As an American girl that's getting married to a member of the British Army...I have to say that this thread has been highly, um, educational. 8O

Many thanks to you all!


TankiesYank said:
As an American girl that's getting married to a member of the British Army...I have to say that this thread has been highly, um, educational. 8O

Many thanks to you all!

Congratulations on your upcoming nuptuals; let me know by PM if you want my Californian-born wife's email address; she's just clocked up 13 years of coping with undecipherable military patois and strange smelling camouflage stuff all over the house :lol:

Seriously; we may be crass, vulgar and sometimes utterly revolting at times, but at heart we are princes of tact, style and diplomacy...honest! :wink:


To continue the american connection, Me and a few muckers, Kev and Steve(so that they know who they are) didnt quite fancy cold old blighty on xmas leave from Batus winter repair. instead headed off to warm sunny California and an American Marine base that was cheap to stay in. Me and the other two are in this surfer dud bar 8) in LA on new years eve, drinking like its our last nite on earth (It was the last night of the holiday as we flew back to Canada next day but the flight exploit is another story) as we were circling the bar like a pack of lions looking for a lame gazzell, two rather nice victims gave off a come and get it scent. so Kev and I strutted over( leaving steve to do some solo hunting) :lol: laying on the charm thicker than a rookie plasterer with a trowell we were in. Much supping and patter later we were joined by the girls' friend who had been in thier hotel room nearby. Quite a pretty soul, but a bit plain jane and not to keen to play catch up to the rest of us who were well on the way to the Sssean connery shtage. i comments to my mish monney penny whats wrong with your friend? ''Oh dont mind her'' she whispers '' shes a lesbian''. :!: :!: Now for the life of me i dont know what evil overcame me :twisted: but in the space of a minute i had introduced Steve to K.D Lang, forgeting of course to tell Steve( totally P@ssed as a newt by now) that the only munching she did was on carpet. Try as Steve might with charm, drink, jokes, the shoes were comfertable and not comming off. Eventually we get the lucky invite back to thier hotel room :D :D (Steve by this time knows that the object of his desires fields for the other team) . Normal room two double beds, table in corner, wash sink and door to toilet. Me and lass on one bed, Kev and lass on other bed and Steve and Jo Brand at the table. lights low commence fumblings. ''Yeew thats disgusting'' screeches Lez, :evil: stop fumbling, lights on!!, look accross room Steve while holding onto the toilet door is proceeding to have a piss in the sink :oops: . quick adjust of clothing grab Steve avoiding by now race-horse stream off p@ss shove him into toilet. back to the bed, lights low recommence fumbling. aware off Steve returning to table , then all hell, ''come on you f@@cking dike you know you need a good portion and im just the man to convert you back'' 8O 8O whilst grabbing her by the t@ts from behind and trying to plant the lips on her. lights on!! Lez escapes and bolts for the door, Kevs lass bolts after her!!, session over!!!! :cry: well not quite, my lass knowing shes onto a good thing says ''She'll be allright in a while me and you will just stay here'' :eek: :lol: result!! lights low, more fumblings, now my lass is doing a brilliant job of convicing me that she is not a vegitarian if you get my drift, when all off a suddden, ''come on you dirty Sc@tter lets have a sp@t-roast'' 8O 8O from steve as he dives on the bed and tries to mount the afore mentioned meat eater from behind. lights on!!! taxi for three!!! :x :x
It is between Christmas and New Year in Cyprus. I am newly wed and newly arrived in theatre. Wife and I visit the Sgts Mess for a quiet drink before going out for a scoff. Lots of people in the bar. Bugger scoff, we'll just stop here and have something when we get home. 2359 and bar closes. Charlie: "Come on everyone, back to my place, Mildred won't mind". Not many take up the offer but in the spirit of getting to know new folks I encourage my beloved to take up the offer. Entering Charlie's MQ I see nice lady in chair with curlers in hair and very nice if somewhat unflattering dressing gown covering her jimjams.
Me: "Hello, are you Charlie's Mum?
Nice lady: "No, I'm his wife!!!" Now look what you’ve done you’ve woken the children. Ankle biters remain in living room watching and listening in amazement at the incoherent burbling of the assembled company.
I move away sheepishly and decide to prop myself up against the mantlepiece and have a deep and meaningful conversation with Fred about the merits of Keo Beer against Carlsberg Export. Room spins and to keep balance I take three steps backwards …….. sending Christmas Tree toppling to the floor. “Sorry, sorry, its OK I’ll pick it up”. Mummy, Mummy that man’s knocked over our Christmas Tree……… etc etc. Mummy tells me to leave it and restores somewhat dishevelled tree to its upright position. Fred convinces me to try a Carlsberg and leave the Keo alone as it it is too potent (OK Fred, one Carlsberg on top of the 14 Keo’s is going to keep me sober????). Halfway through the Carlsberg, which has failed to have the sobering effect Fred promised, I am again forced to take three steps backwards ………. This time I join the tree in the prone position. I’ll leave this story here for now before I tell you about New year’s Eve, Pipe Major McGonigle and the Dentist's wife!
I’m new on the site and have done the square root of f.uck all since I’ve found it – good job my boss has been away this week as I have spent most of each day wetting myself while reading the tales on here. RTFQ – some great storytelling fella, keep them coming.

Well here’s my first contribution – I hope you all enjoy.

This tale is about a wedding and the antics of an ex full screw and subsequently commissioned mate of mine who try as he may will never really change.

It was the wedding of a couple who drink in my local pub, neither my mate nor i were invited to the reception so rather than go to the service we just went to a nearby pub and proceeded to get slowly bolloxed - as you do.

7pm comes and we rock up to the evening do to the delights of stella on tap at a free bar (good news for us, bad news for the brides family). Bearing in mind that eating is cheating we forego the buffet and after an hour or so decide to try and get amongst the single women present.

I resume my efforts to trap a friend of the bride that I had previously been blown out by because (you guessed it) I couldn't string two words together when I arrived late for the date were meeting on. My mate joins in the conga behind a chick with an ass like a peach and I don’t see him again for an hour or so.

Two things to note at this point. 1 - My mucker is a jock and is suitably attired in his native garb. 2 - There is a buffet at the wedding as previously mentioned.

I am not getting anywhere with the Doris I am chatting to so decide to look for my mate to do a spot of bezzering, I have trouble locating him until I cast my eyes to the buffet table, whereupon I double over in fits of laughter. For in a seat next to the buffet, my mate has the peachy birds fun bags out (which are also pretty fine it has to be said) and is sucking them like there is no tomorrow. Not only that but she has quite blatantly started choking his chicken underneath his 'easy access' kilt with some noteworthy enthusiasm.

To add insult to injury the children that were playing by the buffet have now stopped and are all staring. The kids are soon joined by the rest of the guests as being the mate I am I decide to tell everybody I can about the ‘show' being played out by the vol au vents!

Now I wish I could say incident this ended in a mass brawl or that the buffet was sprinkled with my mates 'special sauce' but the fact is that the bride and groom and the rest of the guests are top folks and followed mine and the children’s example by pointing and laughing! (he'll never live it down though) I would have quite liked to hear some of the questions the kids asked their parents though (‘mummy who is that man in a dress and why is auntie X trying to steal his sausage’ etc etc)

But I mean really, by the buffet - what a slapper! Top bloke though! :lol:
TankiesYank said:
As an American girl that's getting married to a member of the British Army...I have to say that this thread has been highly, um, educational. 8O

Many thanks to you all!

As a rule of thumb you can always tell whether British Army squaddies have been in your house by looking for the following telltale signs

- Your fridge is empty

- Your lavatory is full and overflowing

- Your cat is pregnant

Hope this helps - keep us posted :lol:


Mrs Stoat is worried this thread may prompt a relapse.

She may well be right.

First event that springs to mind was a joint ex - elms of 5 AB Bde & 1st US Ranger Bn (I think) at SPTA.

We were staying at Westdown Camp.

After watching a rather vigorous game of death ball between some Rangers and recce chaps from 2 PARA, we retired to the bar.

After lots of McEwens Export, we stumbled back to the accommodation, which as anyone who has been there will attest is confuding enough when sober - a lot of identical nissen huts all in lines and rows. In short, really quite difficult to navigate.

Anyhoo, the 2:00am hour was upon me, and I had to empty my space-hopper like bladder lest we all drown.

Feeling particularly well mannered, I decided to actually stagger to the ablutions, as opposed to just going outside.

It was when I re-emerged into the June moonlight that the problem became evident - I had no idea which hut I was in.

I tried three beds in the same position as mine in three different blocks, but was rebuffed by a not-too chuffed voice each time.

Attempt four produced an empty pit; must be mine I thought, never ever considering the alternative.

Which became reality at 0630hrs the next morning when I was asked in no uncertain terms wheo the fcuk I was by a large, tanned, muscualr American who was ably backed up by six equally large comrades.

I managed to explain away the situation, but then had to get back to my hut.

Did I forget to mention I don't wear boxers, etc. in bed?

Did the same thing in a hotel in Coldstream once - I was a hero a breakfast - the whole hotel was up looking for me. I didn't buy a beer that night though, so some good came of it.
Come on, be honest....which one of you hasn't used the sink as a urinal at some point.....Well there is a Sapper chum of mine who once failed to do so......... Following a rather raucous and ill-behaved dinner (something to do with alcohol I am given to believe) my chum totters back to his room in the Mess and, almost as soon as he's through the door feels an overwhelming urge to ease springs. Calamity! There is no sink in the room. Nothing daunted and too damned idle to trot down the corridor to the head, chum throws open the sash window and promptly goes into Op FRESCO mode. Some several litres later, chum looks south to check how things are going and realises he is pee-ing into his briefcase. Through the brain fog that a gallon of fine ale, several large scoops of wine and as many grabs of the circulating port bottle as he could manage generates, chum recalls that he doesn't actually own a briefcase....... looks in bed, OC sleeping the sleep of the only-slightly-less-inebriated.... Chum quietly secures pipes and exits rather quietly.....
Come the morning. Chum is feeling, lets face it, like something scraped off a dung collector's boot. Comes the call from his OC, "X, come and see me" Chum knows hat life as he knows it is at an end and cuts into the bosses office where he is confronted with a very, very poorly looking squadron commander who says - "I was going to give you your CR today. Now I find that I can't." Chum hears the four horsemen of the apocalypse trotting up behind him. OC continues. "It was in my briefcase. I must have been so p*ssed that when I got uplast night to wee out of the window I managed to pee in my briefcase - and all over your report". Chum (who I hope isn't reading this) now owns his very own set of red tabs.......and always, one assumes, demands a room with en suite.


War Hero
I was on a battlefield tour a few years ago in America. We started in Richmond and moved up to Washigton, stopping in every one horse town on the way up and getting right royally legless each night. In true tour style, we coined a different cover story in each town, before we finally excelled ourselves on arrival at Washington with one of the the best drunken blags ever.
The group of drunkards that night consisted of me (about 26), 4 Guards Platoon Commanders (similar age to me) and my grossly fat, obnoxios and bullying boss (about 400). He was a nightmare to work for, but something of a unique event on the p1ss.
We started off in a restaraunt with all high intentions of having some food like civilised people. Of course this idea was soon forgotten as the bar-girls were all stunning so we just propped up the bar chatting to them. The place then started to fill up with spotty American Teenagers in Black Tie and posh frocks. PROM NIGHT! This was too good an opportunity to miss, and as the champagne started to flow, our blatant p1ss taking started to get up the noses of all the septics trying to have a grown up time. We had clearly outstayed our welcome so stumbled outside to find some taxis to take us to a nightclub that had been recommended to us.
As we were ignored by every taxi that cruised by, we were starting to feel unpleasantly sober and the momentum of the evening was drifting away. Luckily, right at that moment, a postitively ENORMOUS white Limo rolled up next to us and disgorged 2 giggling couples into the restaraunt. The same idea aoocurred to all of us simultaneously. 30 seconds of high quality blagging later, we are in the Limo, tucking into the minibar and heading off to the club while hanging out of the sunroof and whooping like idiots.
The time had come to work out our cover-story for that night. Hmmm, we thought. 5 young lads, an old git, all clearly British, in a Limo, heading to a Night Club. 'I have it,' Says one of the lads, 'We're a Boy Band!' And the plan was sold right there. We would be a British Boy Band called 'Zest', my boss would be our manager, and we would be out to unwind before our round of media interviews tomorrow as we tried to 'break into America'.
Bart the driver agreed to help us out with this and phoned ahead to the nightclub. As we pulled up next to the Queue, drawing a number of curious looks, my boss jumped out of the Limo and went to have a chat with the manager of the Nightclub who had come down to meet his Celeb visitors. He agreed to open up the VIP bar upstairs and told us that although they already had a band on that night he wondered if we might like to do a set!?! My Boss soon squashed that horrendous idea and we were in. Swanning past the now very curious queue and straight past the ticket desk, up the stairs to the VIP bar, clearly filled up with all the 'Beautiful' people from the nightclub.
A perfectly executed blag now started to go wrong for one very simple reason. Everything from the bar was free.
My boss was last seen huddled in the corner with a huge brandy, a pair of stunning blonde haired and surgically enhanced twins promising them stardom in the UK. We had all drunk FAR too much and had begun to believe our own story, leading to attempts to dance and sing best left in the outtakes of Pop Idol. Bouncers were abused, the real band who came up to say hello were sent packing with cries of 'You're just manufactured pop!' and we generally got lost in Showbiz for the night. Of course, we all got thrown out in the end.

The worst moment was in the morning when one of the lads found a disposable camera in his pocket. We developed the photos and had a good chuckle at our drunken antics, until we came to a series of pictures of the happy prom couples. Posing on the stairs at their house, in the Garden, in the Limo... We felt guily for a little bit.



:twisted: Best are company do's - You always find out the next day what you did! I was at one xmas do one year and got razzed and went home - next day heard from ex-arty mate "good one mate". Found out that I mine-sweeped the German management (funny because it was free drinks) - old habits die hard. Now a manager myself in a different coy I don't go to many do's - only official ones!


War Hero
ugly said:
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!

Just goes to show what a small world this is, Ugly. If you were flying down to Belize in a herc, I was on the same flight (the very first time I had ever been in a plane as well). It was fcucking freezing in that place, minus 15 if I remember correctly.


War Hero
I just caught back up with this thread, and it seems to have descended to a very low level of 'who was the most offensive to a civilian when drunk'. Good.

Perhaps I can now put my own modest offering on without it getting deleted again by a prudish Mod.

When I worked shifts at a comms base in the Midlands, the hours were condusive to a lot of daytime drinking. My dear lady being a student at the local university, I met and socialised with a lot of her friends, and was (I think) reasonably well thought of. Not many of them knew i was a squaddy.

One day I was sat in a pub in town, having had a few early ones with the lads off the night shift. They had gone off to bed, and I was due to meet up with a mate, so I sat reading my broadsheet and having a quiet real ale. Mmmm, Everards Tiger, prior to the brewery move, I can taste it now. 4.6%ABV if I recall. Where was I? oh yes, in the pub.

Some of the lady's friends come in and spot me at my table. Hello Steamy, hello friends. There are several of them, but I only really notice two. One is a close chum of my lady, a very attractive girl, whose name escapes me. Her perky breasts, on the other hand, are still very vivid in my mind. The other was a stranger to me. A raven haired late teenaged angel with a figure straight out of Penthouse and a very skimpy top. If I ever knew her name, I have forgotten it, but again, she lives in my memory.

They all sit down and start chatting merrily, as girly first year students do. I get a round; their first, my eighth. It was about noonish, maybe quarter past; this particular pub opened at 10.30 for the market traders. That's why I chose it, and that's why I carried a copy of 'Market Trader Weekly'. In retrospect I guess the studenty girls wouldn't have suspected that I'd be breaking the gallon at that time, certainly not on a Tuesday, and may have been under the impression that I was just the quiet, well behaved hubby of a friend of theirs whom they knew and liked.

I gazed at Girl A, I gazed at Girl B. They spoke, I may or may not have responded. I don't really know. Did I mention the whisky?

A thought occurred to me. It grew in my mind and I liked it a lot. I remember giggling to myself about it. I wondered whether to share it with the group. Hell, why not? They are a nice crowd - the image may please them too! Let's try it! I tried to speak but they were all jabbering. I shushed them. 'Shush! Shusssshhhh! I gotta tell you something!', I said.

I got their attention. To make sure, I banged on the table with my empty pint pot. To make quite sure, I said 'Oi! Listen!' They were all looking at me now. Quite a lot of people were looking at me in fact. It was a busy pub. I spoke.

'Love.' (to Girl A)

'Hey, love. You know what? Hey? I would really love to watch YOU (my finger jabbed at her) lick my j1zz off of HER ( a jab at Girl B) t1ts'

Total silence. Total. Then they all left and I got back to my paper.


This will prob be quite tame, as am not a fully-fledged squaddie, but on a recent trip to visit my little brother in Cornwall we had a bit of a mad one. Me n the fella arrive a bit late after our 7-hr drive, which included having to recover from a monster hang-over from the previous day's all day session, and having to change a punctured tyre.

So we play catch up with the beers before heading out to the first pub. already 'tipsy' by this stage, we experiment with various beers, strong sounding cocktails and shorts, then head off to the club. once there we dance like mad fools, laugh at the tourists who think they're real surf bums, and drink lots lots more. Apparently me and little bruv had a slapping competition, and nearly knocked each other's blocks off, and there was much getting-out-of-arses-and-rubbing-them-against-unsuspecting-people done by bruv and the fella.

so after a sambuca and tequila shooters marathon (during which bruv puked on the dance floor and his girlie went home) and lots more vodka, we leave the club for a pub where one of bruv's mates works and has promised us a lock-in. we take it in turns to carry each other up the road, turn ending when you fall over, so we arrive at the pub covered in cuts and bruises, and proceed to get on with a few more pints. After another play fight with bruv, ending with me pushing him off his bar stool, which landed on my foot breaking my toe, we decide to head back, via a skinny dipping session at the beach.

the three of us tear off into the water and start bundling each other around, when some joker legs it with our clothes. Ever chivalrous, my blokey takes off after the offenders while me and bruv stalk round the beach collecting up our belongings. At this point blokey is running naked round the town centre and gets lost, while we are on the beach still missing my fella's trainers and phone, and my bruv's shoes, and i am being stalked by loads of blokes taking photos while i fumble madly to get my knickers back on - which are now full of sand.

After another 1/2 hour or so, in varying states of dress, we track down blokey looking bewildered in nothing but a borrowed towel, and all head off to crash for what's left of the morning. the story could only be told in it's full glory by piecing together what each of us could remember and with the accounts of various spectators from our aquatic endeavours, and as the whole of the small town was talking about the fools who got naked on the beach the night before, this was not too difficult!
(random bloke: hey! did you see the bird on the beach with her tits out!!
my bloke: (groan) yeah, that's me bird)

Not quite as good as some on here, but ifeel not bad for a bird and soon-to-be squaddie :)


I'm from Canada, and if there is one place here you'd want to visit, it's Montreal. I strongly recommend it. I went to visit a few people for a friend's birthday, and was on best behaviour, as I was staying at his girlfriend's apartment. We decided that the only real way to celebrate the birthday was to have a bottle and go out. We finally settled on a bottle of Jack Daniels, figuring that whatever was left the next day we could use to carry on the party. The last thing I can actually remember is the pair of us finishing the bottle, in a horrendously small amount of time, and heading out to the bar with a bunch of others.

The next day, i awoke without my shirt, but wearing everything else. I thought to myself, that was a good time, too bad it's over. That's when i got the reality check about what had happened the previous night. Heading to the bar, i proceeded to buy far too many shots for people around me, broke into the ladies washroom to finish a conversation, and then dissappeared. Let me tell you, french girls are mighty friendly, but the breach of the ladies room is not something that I will attempt again for quite some time. My friends found me on the steps of the bar, covered in my own vomit, unconscious. The worst part was, whenever a girl would pass by, i would magically reawaken, and shout 'Bonsoir Madmoiselle!' in my best parade ground voice, before falling back into the puddle of puke. I was hauled home in a cab, where i managed to wreck his carpets without the driver noticing. My shirt was removed, and i was thrown onto the livingroom floor with instructions to use the pot beside my head in case of emergency. It's a small miracle that I hadn't seen or heard of half the things discussed on this site, or i'd probably be banned from half the bars in Quebec. To this day, I can't even look at the good old JD without getting sick, and my buddies will never let go of my newest catch phrase. Thanks to those who made me a squaddie, wouldn't trade it for the world.


I saw the hardest squaddie ever down in Paderborn on Saturday. Minus 2, Germans and everybody else all dressed up for an arctic expedition and there he is..........stood at the main pedestrian lights, the light blue man dressed in trainers, jeans and a f*cking tee shirt, heading in the direction of Alanbrooke Bks.

Didn't even have his hands in his pockets.

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