Stinkers and other block antics

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by Fugly, Dec 8, 2009.

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  1. Fugly

    Fugly LE DirtyBAT

    Benny was a huge unit of a man, about 6 foot 4 and must have weighed about 22 stone. He had the physique of Giant Haystacks, and couldn’t close his coveralls over his belly when he was on the gun park. He’d not passed a BFT in years, and was clinging on to his career by the virtue that he knew the workings of the MT better than most of his full screws, and Tug-O-War was quite a big thing in the regiment at the time – with Benny dug in as the anchor, you were going nowhere.

    The trouble with Benny was, he fucking stank. Not content with simply being allergic to water like most grots, Benny compounded this with his lifestyle. He survived on a diet of full fat Coke, crisps and chocolate, and would stuff his craw with the contents of a large tuck shop daily whilst slobbed out in his room. He owned the largest private porn collection west of Berlin, and spent every waking moment wanking furiously – morning, NAAFI breaks, lunch, at least 6 in the evening – you could tell Benny was approaching by the overpowering aroma of sweat and stale sperm arriving 5 minutes before he did. His room was a cockroaches delight, with crisps and chocolate mashed into the floor, and odd coloured stains on the carpet where spilled Coke had mixed in with the spunk from discarded tissues and solidified. Benny was the only gunner in the entire regiment with a room to himself, as no other fucker could bare to live with him.

    Down the other end of the corridor dwelt a scouser who hated Benny with a passion. Scouse had OCD, and would religiously clean and polish his room immaculately every single day. Even his dirty washing was neatly folded locker-layout style before being carefully lined up in his linen basket. Scouse would have a pop at Benny at every opportunity, telling him to “go for run and have a wash, yer fat fuck lah”, but Benny would simply shuffle back into his pit for another thrap. Scouse also had an obsession for taking various mind-altering substances at weekends, and spent most Friday nights whizzing his tits off in clubs downtown. (Scouse signed off after a short and undistinguished career, CDT was starting to come in and he jumped before he was caught and thrown).

    One Saturday morning, Scouse was just getting in after a night tripping his face off in Soundgarden. Going for his usual obsessive shower before getting his head down for a few hours, he emerged from the bogs just as Benny was getting back from his early morning snack run. Shuffling down the corridor clutching 6 litres of Coke and a 24 pack of crisps, Benny was perfectly aware of Scouse falling into step Monty Python style behind him but as usual chose to ignore him. Scouse started the taunts as he went, “Eh lah, I’m a big fat fuck and I’m going to wank off to gay porn lah, you fucking fat fuck”. Benny slowed down. Us younger lads had heard that Benny actually snapping was a rare thing and a sight to behold, and watched with interest. “Whats your problem fatty lah, why can’t you sort your grotty life out?”. Benny span round with a speed unimaginable for a unit his size, his sausage fingers dropping their haul of calories and curling into a fist.

    The mocking, taunting expression on Scouses grid never got chance to change before a fist the size of a country ham impacted the dead centre of his face, making a sound like a cricket ball thrown full pelt into 5 pounds of butter. He flew backwards down the corridor, legs and body parallel to the ground, and crashed to the floor in an unceremonious naked motionless heap. He was snoring soundly before he even hit the floor. Benny shrugged, picked up his crisps, and went back into his room. The porn was on within 30 seconds, and the bed springs were going in under a minute. By the time Scouse woke up in the med centre, we were downtown and on our 9th wobbly, still laughing about it.

    Strangely however, Scouses taunting of Benny didn’t stop. The neat freak would continue to mock and tease our resident stinker, and Scouse twice more ended up in the med centre, both times when he had taken it a bit too far whilst high as a kite. One day over a few pints we asked him about it. “I hate that grotty fucker, you know that. But until I find out which cunt has been jumping me on the way back from Soundgarden, I’m going to keep taking it out on that fat fuck.”

    Scousers. :roll:
  2. The fat honker in question sounds rather like an infamous BAT I'm sure we both know. He lived on a diet of 40 Marlboro's, full-fat coke and more porn than all the other guy's collection in the entire block (and probably entire camp). In fact I remember it well - the new 'temp' accommodation in Ally Pally was fitted with pine-effect built-in furniture and included a substantial 4-drawer chest - 3 of which contained his 'rhythm-mags' and one of which contained his clothes in one half, and cartons of tabs in the other. And what he didn't spend on porn or tabs, he would change into nuggets and feed the fruity in the bar on payday.
    Last I heard, he married a foreign lady... I wonder if you know who I'm referring to Mr Fugly?
  3. Fugly

    Fugly LE DirtyBAT

    I know exactly who you mean mate, a man who blagged his way through on reputation alone despite being a complete fucking liability with a toolbox. I still chuckle away to memories of him getting stuck underneath a Gazelle once :D
  4. 'Stuff sac head', appropriately named really, he looked like a Softie 9 wrapped round a totem pole, just 2 beady eyes hanging over a couple of ledges that looked like cheeks with a bottom lip and jaw that rose up above his nose..Big time freefaller, always shooting about following the sunshine, creamed in though on his hol's and broke his right leg and hip and crushed a load of lower verterbrae..Now Andy wasnt the cleanest of blokes anyway, he had his own pad and it was only the opening bars of 'Ace of Spades' banging through the walls that used to get me out of my pit at 6 every morning, he'd then nip in, in his dubiously stained tighty whiteys, give a mumbled 'mornin' borrow some sugar then leave a trail of talcum powder footprints back out of our room.

    Out of action for 4 months sent his grottiness into spiral ! With an inability to carry out any phys, cash a plenty and with us getting ready for a deployment and the block being mostly empty he built his own personal fiefdom based on blackbags of gash everywhere, fagbutts tossed into the entrance on the matt and the f*cking hum from his room was closely akin to the fond greeting smell i remember of a mangle of chopped up farmers who'd slow baked for a fortnight in a ditch in Kosovo.

    He was warned off to get it sorted and he reigned it in a bit. After a month away we returned to an Ali Babas cave of boxes of dodgy goods, rotting food, the heads were sh*t streaked and honking and unfortunately stuff sac head had been told we wouldnt be back till the Saturday morning and had gone on the lash..First lads out of the armory Friday night had shot down to get squared away to get home, then shot back up at the speed of light to inform of the state of the block..

    Within the hour his pit had been stripped, lockers emptied, all his gear piled high on the grass, the room was then coated from floor to ceiling with 1 part water 3 part bleach, bucket after bucket, his stuff was left out in the breeze, the boxes of Armani shirts, knock off VHS videos and trainers were spirited away and in the early hours of that morning he returned to a room that looked like a prison cell, and was punched to f*ck by an amiable lad called Weaves for robbing his Playstation to use every time we shot off on pre deployment training..

    I liked stuff sac head though, he made a hoofing curry on exercise, but looked a right c*nt in a big bright yellow Renault Megane that effectively bankrupted him :D
  5. Most blocks had a character like him, although he does sound like a particularly 'rum un, especially as he was into beastiality :D

    We had a Lance Jack who loved to punch people.

    "Morning lads" Punch in the face.

    "Any of you cunts gonna lend us lend us DM10?" Punch in the face.

    "Buy me a beer" Punch.

    Nice bloke though, and a cracking Recy Mech. When he wasn't pretending to be George fucking Foreman.
  6. I used to work with a cracking bloke in Germany, a good lad and a good medic. He was black with a broad Glaswegian accent and was always up for a laugh. Several years later he was posted into Stanley and ended up on the same coastel as me. As soon as I saw Jock I smiled and told him my top bunk was empty. I was looking forward to a great three months left of my tour spent in the company of an old mate.
    The trouble was that Jock had been married when we were last together and had never lived in so I had no idea that he had the smelliest feet on the planet. As soon as he took his BCH off the cabin would be filled with the most obnoxious rancid cheese smell imaginable and this despite the fact he showered twice a day and put clean socks on twice a day. Even on his day off when he'd slop around in flip flops his feet would hum by the end of the day! Because the cabins in the coastels had no windows and there was a constant aircon blowing out the driest air on earth we used to hang a soaking wet and dripping towel up at night which would be bone dry by the morning and, amazingly, stinking of foot odour.
    I once got some cheap aftershave from the EFI and poured that on his feet and removed socks whilst he was asleep. Apart from it burning his feet and him waking up screaming all it did was mix the two odours to make the mother of all disgusting sickly sweet rancid cheese smell which still haunts my nightmares to this day.
  7. A wonderful descriptive piece of writing.
    never met the guy but feel i knew him.
    hells bells son hope you have the right job
  8. I know a guy who would insist on telling all the G-men that we were grots and lived in shit state (He's a Lsgt).

    However, he had the unenviable talent of being able to warn people down wind of his approach about 10 minutes before he got to them. After summer leave one year the stench was immense, and it wasn't until a few months later while the Plt were taking part in the QMs favorite game of musical rooms that he found a dead bird (the winged type) under his bed.

    He worked out that it must have flown in through the window he left open over leave and then snuffed it under his bed and he'd not noticed the stench.

    Another guy I knew lived in the room opposite me in Welly Barracks. Beside having a face that looked like he'd been on the wrong end of a baton round we didn't notice much of his lack of admin at first. It all started to come out when the Coy deployed on exercise in Thetford and he tried to waterproof his kit with Tescos shopping bags.

    On the same exercise, the Coy moved into a hasty harbour for a couple of hours. A stench of shit was filling the area which resulted in everyone checking their boots to make sure they hadn't stood in dog shit or weren't sat near an old shit pit.

    However, all was revealed when this guys Plt stepped off and the stench of shit followed him through the harbour. It turns out that he'd needed a shit the night before while he was on stag and instead of holding it and going when he finished he shat himself, but didn't changed his pants and so spent the next morning cutting around the area with shit filled pants.

    His grottiness got worse over the next few months till we were having a Coy Comds inspection and they found rotting food and pizza boxes under his bed and two full stinking bin bags in his locker. This resulted in the Coy getting bounced or not getting a grip of him and then the G-men in the Coy lining up outside his room to give him to corrective training afterwards.

    edited for mong fingers
  9. That's my lodger!

    You often cannot see the floor of his room for shite - the floor doing service as his wardrobe, general storage area and rubbish bin. As long as he keeps it to his room I'm not that bothered. I suppose I should say something in case it attracts vermin but I actually get on quite well with the fecker, don't want it to turn into a row, he's quiet and always pays his rent.

    He also unfortunately has the worst halitosis I've ever witnessed coming from a human being. You can smell it six feet away when he's talking to you and it lingers in the air for about five minutes after he leaves the room.

    Don't know about his porn/wanking habits and really really do not want to know.
  10. Porridge_gun

    Porridge_gun LE Good Egg (charities)

    There was a chap in Minden, he was the LAD clerk and had a rugby ball neatly sewn into the top of his back making his uniform fit badly. He truly was a minging cnut, his curtains never opened, he smoked 80 a day, had teeth that looked like he'd cammed them up and stunk like the inside of an arrse.

    His coup de grace of grot was him inviting his family (Mum, Dad, Sister and some other scruffy cnut who I forget) They turned up at the Squadron bar looking like the cast from one flew over the cuckoos nest.

    Then spent the rest of the week in his one man bunk without coming out. The only way we knew someone was in there was from the odd fart and the cloud of B&H coming under the door.

    The grubby cnut, never even took his hardcore Rodox pictures off the walls, his sister was about 7.

    It still makes me wonder today where they all slept and that they did for five or six days.
  11. We had a lad, who begun to stink, producing a light mist which followed him around, various beastings didnt do anything, even a block court martial did feck all. He used to proclaim it was his genes and he couldnt do anything about it.

    Even though when we Regi bathed him, the water had a crust like a week old scab he still stunk, till he was escorted for a better word to the MO to see about his genes, only for him to come back with the words to the effect of, your a gungy smelly twat, cue being bathed at the Tank cleaning pen.

    He left not long after, but the smell took weeks to go.
  12. Humph isn't a grot, many just consider him a bit of an oddball who likes the sauce too much, I however know that he's a fucking loony. Humph is a small, quiet, unassuming man with a shaven head Ghandi glasses and the cold calculating stare of a serial killer. I was the block senior of a couple of corridors when I first met Humph, the one I lived on and the one above where he lived. Above his floor was female accommodation.

    A terminal singly, a block orphan with a few unusual hobbies. He had a girlfriend for a while, one of the lads asked him what she was like, he thought about this for a while, then replied "Zelda from TerraHawks". Humph likes a drink, when I say this I don't mean a couple of Stellas, I've seen him get through 1 1/2 to 2 bottles of JD a night, mixed with coke in a large plastic beaker. He sits in his room on his own, tamping down glass after glass in anticipation. Fully prepared he emerges silently from his room like a creature of the night, naked save his geggs and the bow shackle attached to his button mushroom cock. The game has begun and the chicks upstairs are in for another night of Humph loving. The screams from above are the first indicator that the phantom has struck again. Before long the guard will again be chasing him along the corridors trying to drag him kicking and screaming back to his room.

    The next day sees Humph back in the OC's office having another little chat about the clinic. The girls upstairs generally get off lightly, strength in numbers protects them. The civvie didn't get off so lightly.

    One Saturday night Humph went on the piss in the Shot with the lads. At some point during the night he disappeared and was next seen walking into camp, bladdered hand in hand with a very camp fella. The guard just looked on bemused as they walked in together happy as larry. A few hours later said civvie comes tearing into the guardroom, tears streaming down his face, screaming "Ring the Police. He tried to rape me!" before breaking down. The guard commander was obviously chuffed to bits with this and fucked him off out of the gate sharpish, then sent a patrol to check on Humph. They found him unconscious on his pit after following the trail of liquid shit from the shower cubicle to his room. The next morning none the wiser he inquired if any of the lads knew who the civvie was that he had found wondering around the block the night before.

    The last I heard was that Humph is a full screw again for the third time! I hope he keeps hold of it this time. I'm sure he's still out there keeping JD and Golden Virginia afloat, I'm also sure he's still emailing the FBI to tell them he knows what they’re up to.

    Humph. I salute you.
  13. Porridge_gun

    Porridge_gun LE Good Egg (charities)

    Temporarily moving this to the top of the NAAFI to demonstrate benchmarks.
  14. There once was a man who, when sober was at best an irritating sh*t but, when p*ssed turned into 'The Hardest Man in The Universe'.

    A typical night would start in the bar, having a laugh, playing shock, the usual form.
    As the evening progressed, the hero of our story begins to change.
    It used to remind me of time-lapse photography, in particular, the one where a fruit bowl turns rotten.

    The first sign of tranformation was the 'slitty eyed' look, almost shut but menacing in the extreme.
    Then it would move onto the 'lip curl' which, when combined with the 'slitty eye's' gave him an Elvis like presence.
    In his King of Rock and Roll posture, he would then begin to mumble. Barely audible witterings punctuated with 'F*ck', 'W*nker' or the ever popular 'I'm gonna furkin batter you later......hic'
    Now comes the most terrirfying stage. It takes nano seconds to go from 'menacing Elvis impersonator' to 'Hunched over the bar'. A few gutteral expletives later and he's looking up again. He no longer looks like Elvis, the sight is truly horrific. It now looks as if some invisible force is squeezing his neck, his eyes are literally on stalks. Bulging and blood shot, his face is pale and the muttering has become full on threats of violence. This would then continue for the rest of the night, trying to have a laugh with some frog eyed pissed up hard case threatening to 'knock the f*ck' out of everyone.
    He would be guided, not always gently, whislt doing his Amazing Rubber man impression, back his room to sleep of the evening metamorphasis.

    Mornings were always a joy (and the reason I've put this tale here). He was, without fail, late up for parade, so someone would have to venture into his lair to wake him up. On the odd occassion I had the task he was invariably semi dressed, by which I mean, trouser round the ankles. Sat on his sofa, hand round c*ck, baby gravy pooling in his belly button and porn 'conveniently' paused showing standard beauty receiving an eyeful. Although he was clearly comatose, worringly, there was always one bulging eye staring aimlessly at the corner of the room.
  15. The phantom shitter, now this guy was class, in our old decrepit block now long converted into a decrepit 'well' block, one squadron shared the bogs and showers, never fail though come Monday Morning, a log curled like a walnut whip on steroids would lie supreme in the center of the floor.

    Slightly warm and moist, it would lie glistening like a snake, now this wasnt a small log, but one that only an Emperor could lay, sometimes it would appear before a shitter, but most times it sat and stared at us as we entered. Who was this phantom, never found out, but bowels of steel he had.

    Of course you had those who tried to emaluate this shit house hero, but the offerings would be just pickles to our lumberjacked shitter. One day though the strain must have been too much, and the floor looked like the afterbirth of a chocolate factory, though even in his defeat he had an impressive killing zone, with one solitary footprint embedded in the shite, barefoot warrior indeed.

    So hail to the Phantom, whoever he was.