The Arrse Novel

Just add your own paragraphs and Lordy knows where it will go.

I'll start.

"It was a cold night. Bloody cold. I always thought that there was glass in the Gateway House windows. I've been here for 7 hours sleeping in my Bergen.

I've eaten my Iranian Mars Bar and dissed the chaps in my section for listening to shitty 'tssst tssst tssst' on their iPods.

But I'm a young lad and I joined because they promised me canoeing weekends in Snowdonia and there was fuck all else to do anyway.

While we slept, the crabs carried on hitting the Tristars with their lump hammers, until one became available and then all Hell broke loose....."

Carry on from here....
We did get canoeing weekends in Snowdonia but not being a good swimmer I busied myself hillwalking.
As I sat waiting for the call to board, hugging my Playboy, I remembered that Jarrod, one of the men in my section had been to Snowdonia, carrying a canoe on his back, looking for a big enough stream to chuck it in. He looked marvellous as the sun trickled over the horizon, a bronzed war God, sashaying among us, keeping our spirits up with his mouth organ.

Jarrod's Lily Marlene reminded me of my grandfather's homeland.

I whipped out a quick fag before the movers started organising the ingress and joined the line....
Whilst I commenced the daunting task of the hillwalking I reflected back on how I came to be here. Was it my time as an Alter Boy, maybe being in the Cadets, or being the dashing Fly-Half at the all boys school XV.
And then in a golden moment, Beagleboy, a former Altar Boy, launched into his Schubert's Mass in G. Gateway House was a dusty place, I can tell you. A bootie kicked Jarrod's harmonica up his hoop and we sat. And Listened.

Then the Tristar broke down again.

But we were not down hearted, because Beagleboy's voice floated to the polystyrene ceiling like that of an angel, dipped in honey.

Meanwhile, Jarrod was attempting to remove the harmonica using a tub of Muller Lite from the vending machine.
Beagleboy, a novice at this sort of thing, thought he could cram 6 pints of Wifebeater down his neck before the Gateway House check in. That is why he sang the Benedictus so beautifully.

But, alas, he stood in the line like a child whose balloon had been burst. Because there were no drinks to be had, only fish paste sarnies.

The adventure was about to begin.
Or was it? It turned out that nothing was about to begin, as King of the Burpas had to return home as he had left a tap running, the gas on and hadn't fed his grandmother, who lived in the shed with a man who thought he was Joseph Stalin. With these things left to do, the whole show was put off until the next day.
As Beagleboy's dulcet tones filled the air, it dawned on me why so many of that chaps had invested in those new fangled music players, and I began to long for the "tsssst tsssst tssst" that they were enduring. But there were no electronic re-salers at this altitude and, anyway, I knew there were more important tasks afoot.

Somewhere out there KOTB and Jarrod were sharing a canoe. As romantic as it may have seemed when ,first Jarrod and then KOTB set forth, they were now in danger of becoming frozen together - like two spoons in a deep freeze.

I set my beret at a jaunty, yet acceptable, angle, bade the chaps (who weren't feckin' listening anyway) farewell, and set out to rescue them...
XRE's beret was of a sandy hue. Was he one of "Them?". Alas, no. Turns out he dropped it in the local builders yard and had yet to clean it.
jarrod248:4450575 said:
Was the noise I made at the top of Snowdon after all my exertions. The beer was lovely and the view was, well cloud.
No, looking through now from last night, this was the sound of me strangling missus pp due to her arsing about with the laptop whilst i was typing and me being a bit too tiddled on homebrew to stop her!
With a canoe in my pants, I stumbled out of the NAAFI, heading for the WRAC block lagered up, lurverd up I couldnt be arrsed to have a wnak, but a tap on the window of "her whom I knew well" would bring a blow job.....she could suck the furnature out of a tornado, I had brought her a pastie and two fags as a gift of my affections......(no! not Jarrod and his mate) tap tap on her window, as I waited for her reply I reminissed about the the other double taps I used to day dream was disturbed by the opening of the window, Grezellda said in hushed beautiful tones....Sebcoe! what do you want at this time of night you dirty bastard you!..her fag ash gravelly voice echoed across the parade square attracting the attention of the guard commander.
Meanwhile, I remained imprisoned in Gateway house after missing the flight because I refused to join the line, failling to believe that those pesky crabs had actually managed to get one of their tristars to finally work.
As I walked into my room, I felt that I had somehow gone back in time as I surveyed the quality of the furniture, and settled down on the floor for the night using my webbing for a pillow as yet again they had allocated an entire section to a two man room...


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Then you all got in to work today and found that you had been 'selected' for Tranche 2 redundancies and that you would all soon be gopping civvies - again!

The End:)
Gateway House was as quiet as the grave, apart from that annoying dripping double tap and so the sound of the zip on the gun case being opened reverberated like a fart in Buck House's Throne Room.
There lay the weapon they called 'The Death Dealer', an L1A1 SLR, the furniture of finest oak glistened in the light thrown from the mini maglite held between the lips of the shadowy figure, like a phallus in the gob of a Bangkok ladyboy.


Mavis the cleaning lady looked down at the wonder of steel and wood from blackened eyes. You see her husband, Barry had to tell her twice last night. As her gaze passed over the gleaming weapon laying on the bench, her pussy started to moisten.
Mavis fantasised about sticking the muzzle up her.....

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