Tales from the Airsoft Fields

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  1. Haven't taken the time to read through all of the other airsoft threads due to laziness.

    If I’m cluttering then I don’t object to this getting fecked off to a place where it belongs.

    But for fun here's a re-cap and analysis of my first airsoft experience just at the Summer there. Warning, this story contains elements of twattish behaviour both on the part of the author and the participants of the event.

    Anybody else has any funny stories...feel free to share.

    (Would like to point out that I've never fired a real gun, I'm not in the armed forces, I know jack shit about guns apart from what I've seen in films or read in books and even then I've hardly understood the fine details. I've been to airsoft once, I've vowed not to go back due to the shitty time I've had. Enjoy)

    I went up to a local airsoft site at the back end of Glasgow with two of the boys (David and Stuart) with whom I play five-aside football. Apparently Stuart works next to the guy who owns it, something I found weird. They're both good-natured guys and have been a couple of times before, David actually just bought an SA80 airsoft rifle that he has claimed is a pile of shite. When they asked me to come along I wasn't hesitant, I thought it might be a good laugh. I was incredibly wrong.

    We get into the site and get issued our kit. Newbies who don’t have their own weapons get brightly coloured AK-47 copies; mine was plastered in fluorescent orange. It was gorgeous, hardly conspicuous at all. I wasn't caring anyway. At this point we were the only three there and Dav and Stuart weren't really kitted up either. I was excited, I thought it was going to be fun.

    I'd stuck on DPM trousers that I'd had for years and my old (mint condition) hiking boots that I'd used twice and then tossed in the cupboard after realising that hill-walking wasn’t as fun as I thought it might be. I hadn’t brought a jumper or hoody or anything like that, just a black t-shirt with the batman logo on it. I figured that if paintballs only stung a bit (two stag do’s of experience) then BB pellets would hardly make me flinch.

    This is where I fess up to blatant twattery. I wore a desert-coloured PLCE over my t-shirt that my cousin had given me when he was on R&R from Afghanistan. We were drunk one night and I was walking about in it wearing just my boxers. After that he said he didn’t want to touch it again and I was to keep it, apparently he would be issued a new one when he went back out. It was just rotting on top of a wardrobe until then so I may as well have tried to ally myself up a bit. It’s got three magazine pouches with it (which I stuck in the wrong place no doubt) and two sorts of general pouches. I put those at the small of my back, thinking it’d be a really clever move if I kept two bottles of water and my fags and lighter in those. Common arsehole manoeuvre that I paid for later.

    First problem was that my magazines for my circus grade AK-47 copy hardly fitted into the ammo pouches, so they stuck jutting out the top looking unbelievably stupid.

    Second was that compared to Dav and Stuart, I looked like I might have known what I was doing, which I absolutely didn’t.

    Thirdly, the fucking thing was bulky and hard to get used to, I hadn’t strapped it up properly and every time I tried to crouch or lie down it bunched up around my shoulders.

    So a crowd starts forming and these people are unbelievable. Had I been a few IQ points dumber I would sincerely have assumed that I was dealing with a true band of serious mercenaries. The only problem was that they were the true definition of geek. I sincerely doubt that any one of them had willingly kicked a football in their lives. They were friendly enough but discussed their kit like excited kids, acting all serious, as if it were a matter of life and death. Most of them even took the time to zero the sights on their weapons. BB guns! BB guns with scopes and laser sights!

    You should see what the typical folks wear. The site issues you with protective glasses but these guys were preening around with those strap-around goggles that you see US troops wearing when they jump out of helicopters. Bandanas, webbing all over, bandoliers, firework-grenades, SIDEARMS too! That was all topped off with their choice of camo, probably nabbed from some surplus store. A vague mixture when it comes to that, most of it is DPM but there are plenty wearin yank and European clothes. Some wear realistic looking helmets, those black ones you see Delta Force wearing in the movie Black Hawk Down, some of them have helmets similar to British soldiers. A couple were wearing red berets. Oh and cam-cream…a lot of them wear cam-cream.

    It was pretty daunting to me at the time, they looked really fecking professional.

    Game number one is pretty simple. It’s capture-the-flag. There are two ‘compounds’ about 800 meters apart in the forest and each compound has a flag in it. This was where I began to notice some unusual things:

    1.) Our opposing team consisted of a big bunch of regular attendees who had all the enhancements and pointless bits strapped to their weapons - they all seemed to know each other very well.

    2.) OUR team consisted mostly of strays and newbies, not excluding the three of us who were probably the most under-dressed players there. Including my PLCE vest.

    3.) Their flag was a Scotland flag, ours was a fruity pink number with green lines drawn through it.

    Before the whistle goes I look at the flag then look at Dav then look back at the flag then back to Dav and find myself saying: “We’re the bad guys, aren’t we?”

    “Aye,” he replies.

    “So we’re fucked then?”

    “Aye, mate.”

    The whistle goes and the game starts, everybody dashes off to find some starting position. Some run into the compound to defend it and some of us move off towards the trees. Light prattling picks up, just this constant rat-a-tata-tata-tata noise as people start shooting. I follow Dav and Stuart who are blindly running into a pile of bushes and as I see a light stream of yellow balls flying in my direction, I panic and dive to the ground.

    This hurts like fuck, my magazines all fall out of the PLCE pouches and a couple of them eject some stray BB’s. Immediately I’m pissed off. I feel like standing up, putting my hand in the air and saying “Here, wait a minute, right!”

    But no – there are little plastic balls flying around everywhere and I'm not going to be the dickhead who dies first. Eventually I scoop up the magazines and shove them back into the pouches. I get hit about four or five times on my bare arms whilst doing this – which is considerably more painful than I thought it would be - but I don’t bother to put my hand up and say ‘Hit!’ like I’m supposed to, instead I just swear and keep at it. Finally I get them all stuffed back in and I’m ready to get in the game so I squat upright and I start shooting back. Firing this thing was pathetic. You get a tiny wee bit of recoil and this pathetic clacking sound in your ear but before you know it you’ve pissed away a big magazine full of ammo. I couldn’t even see what I was shooting at in all fairness.

    Shortly I have to reload and, to my surprise, discover that this is a much more complicated process than it was when I was getting my wee induction session before the game. I flop back down onto my arse and immediately scream in pain. The two bottles of Evian I stuck in those pouches at my back earlier dig right into my spine. This loud cry leads to a barrage of BBs smashing over the bushes and pinging me in face, all over my arms, my chest…. it was pretty fucking dire. And it was fucking painful. Again, I know I’m supposed to shout hit and walk out the game but instead I force another magazine into my bright orange AK-47 and stand up and just start shooting off all over the place.

    The whistle goes.

    “Stop! STTTOOOOPPP!” Yells the Marshal.

    “Cease fire, cease firing!” Shout out the geeks in response.

    The Marshal storms over to me and grabs me by the arm, yanking me to the side. He’s fucking livid, really pissed off at me. He leans in and hisses into my ear that I’m cheating and not playing the game properly, I’m ruining the game for others and that when I’m hit I’m to get out. He shoves me in the direction of the ‘sin-bin’, which is just a part of the forest where the game isn’t taking place. I stand there scratching my balls through my trousers until the match ends.

    The hardcore geeks with the Scotland flag win.

    The day pretty much continued this way. I was sin-binned two more times. Once for shooting at somebody from too close a range and another for, again, refusing to admit that I’d been shot. By the second game I’d ditched that pointless PLCE vest and just crammed my magazines and fags into the pockets on my trousers. I also found a specific bloke to pick on much later on and spent the last two to three games calling him a Jessie and telling him that I’d shagged his mum. It didn’t do me any good, I just looked like a massive prick - and this was in a sea full of pricks.

    My conclusion – airsoft is not a ‘game’ as I thought it would be. Sportsmanship (good or bad) is replaced by twattery, chiefly in the form of dressing like you’re about to take on an army single-handedly and 'playing real'. It’s very dramatic; I’ll give it that. Screams of “I’m hit! Oh shit, oh shit I’m hit!” haunted me for a good week or so. Not in a significant way, more in a: "These people actually do this?" kind of way.

    Most people take this 'game' very seriously...

    Suffice to say (probably due to how bad I was in all honesty) I won’t be going back.
     
  2. This has got to be a monstrous wah? If not... standby...
     
  3. I confess to laughing at your wah, but suspect the broad silence (as opposed to the perhaps expected storm of opprobrium) suggests shock. That, and the fact that it's saturday morning so those not in theatre are nursing headaches....
     
  4. I'll admit to having done it once, many year ago when it was BFO paintballs, and not little plastic BB's. Some mates of mine were going with their company and I was invited along.

    I was stitched up like a kipper - they'd told the rest of their company that I was "Col. Mad Dog" Joe Civvy, ex-Merc. For the first few games I would bimble along then hear a rustling in the bushes and 'fuck - it's Mad Dog' and they would leg it. Then the penny dropped, and I got shot to shit - and those paintballs didn't half leave an impressively circular bruise.

    It was all worth it though, because after lunch the site opened to the 'regulars', including one fat twat with little piggy eyes, a long-suffering girlfriend and more Gucci kit than Credenhill. He took his paint-balling VERY seriously - so 5 of us ambushed him and shot him from about 5 yards - he must have had over 50 perfectly circular bruises on him next day.

    The real highlight is that my route home took me almost past the married doris I was shagging at the time. When I got there, she was sunbathing topless in the back garden, the old man was away and...
     
  5. Much of my downfall came down to how shit I was and how much of a cheating cnut I am in general. I like to win but unfortunately this isn't like playing football or acting the foul in a game of rugby. You're supposed to take it seriously, this is combat for goodness sake! Raaarrrrgh etc.

    People have rank slips on their sleeves and lapels, anything from Corporal to the yank Sergeant First Class.

    It really is insane...