The Guilty Confessions Thread


I know most of you lot have little or no conscience, especially when it comes to bullying the weak and picking on the pond life of society – and rightly so. But despite this disposition, I have on occasion suffered a little ‘reflected guilt’.

…For example, back in my secondary school days, there was a young lady in Form 3S (AKA The dumping ground for the school’s under-achievers) who walked with a funny limp. Our merry crowd of mates would regularly ‘beat-box’ each time she strode past in time to her ‘bounce’, orchestrated beautifully by yours truly. It wasn’t until later in life I was watching some medical programme and saw a woman walking the exact same way – at which point I was overcome with guilt whilst working out how many lunch times and break times at school me and my mates had spent beat-boxing to the young girl with what turned out to be Cerebral Palsy…

…On a separate occasion, I was instructing at a previous post and as a result, was always ‘invited’ to attend the various passing out / scrolling type get togethers at the end of the respective courses.

This time I’d turned up fairly late, but it didn’t matter as we were still awaiting our final student. This guy (unlike the others) wasn’t getting promoted because he’d given his missus a bit of a kick-in a few weeks previous, which the chain of command had taken a little bit of a dim view to. As you can imagine – this dominated the conversation from the cheap seats reserved for guests and DS whilst we were waiting for the student in question along with the presiding officer to award the passes.

By this time, I’d noted that the seat to my immediate right was now occupied but hadn’t really clicked on to who it might have been. The conversation continued as I loudly announced that “the psycho bitch probably fucking deserved it by all accounts anyway”. By now, all those people that were tuned-in to my convo were now sporting that “wide-eyed” look and blushed faces that would otherwise suggest that one should shut up immediately. Unfortunately, I’d carried on and already spouted several examples of justification before I realised it was the final student’s missus that had perched herself next to me. The look on her face was priceless – albeit her face wasn’t as red as mine.

On reflection I do feel a little guilty about these past encounters when I look back on it. Maybe I’m getting soft as I mature and mellow – who knows?

Anyway, fuckers – what guilty skeletons do you have in your closets?

Over to you...
i knobbed a WRAC officers lipstick, she left her wash bag loafing on adventure training... i was only 17 at the time and watch her apply lipstick daily for 2 wks lol
I used to take the piss out of a poor kid who, due to his malnourished musculature, couldn't keep up when the insults over his Tesco jeans and faux leather 'Budgie' jacket cranked up his Kilburn Irish rage and he would chase me round the Victorian edifice of our school until, exhausted, he would burst into tears. Ah, happy days. Cheers for the workouts Tommy. Ya pauper ye.

Worst of all I have created no sockpuppet accounts.


I'm sorry to the then Mayor of Fleetwood, who's speech I ruined and confidence I shattered about ten years ago.

T'was long ago and far away on the Isle Of Man. Things are a bit different there and I happened to be mates with the mayor of Douglas of the previous year.

He invited me along to the mayor's ball, so I got myself a tux and a date and set off to dinner, bejewelled with medals as I was.

Fuck me, it was wank. The catering company had managed to squeeze 400 people into a room that could take 200. The waiters couldn't get about, the kitchen couldn't cope. Some big fat dignitary's wife sat behind me, occupying all her own space and 3/4 of mine and the catering company had ensured that I had no elbow room, necessitating that I should eat cold food like a preying mantis.

To add insult to injury, come the guest mayor's speech... well, the poor bloke was a wreck, had nothing to say and said it too quietly leaving the whole room straining to hear his boring drivel, delivered in a halting monotone.

And I snapped. Jerking my thumb at the mayor I turned to my date and began mocking. It went something like this - [video=youtube;0nbiB3W4bR0][/video]

'Shurrup', whimpered Zoe with tears of laughter rolling down her face.. 'SHURRUP... shurrup, ffs'

In my drunken stupour I didn't realise that he could hear me and as he got worse because of it, I became more enraged and louder. I did not see the ex mayor's face turning purple with impotent fury as the densley packed throng prevented him from getting to me.

I did not realise that I was at this point louder than the mayor and the entire room straining to hear could only hear me. As an honoured guest I had been granted a seat at what you might call the second table, directly between the top table and the masses.

I did not see the master of ceremonies steaming across the room until it was too late.

It was like something out of Laurel and Hardy as I was hurled down the steps of The Hilton in my tuxedo.

I still daren't go to Fleetwood.

Sorry about that, your Grace. I do hope you recovered.
When HRH Prince Phillip visited BATARSE in the late 80's I was on TS and could do a bit of caligraphy, so was asked to write the usual blurb in the Mess visitors book and also in a book that was to be presented to HRH.

The book was about wildlife on the Prairies of Alberta. After I'd finished the caligraphy, I had a browse through the book and there was a picture of an elk, so what else could I do? I drew a massive cock and balls on it. Quite pleased HRH didnt have a scan through it after being presented to him. Might have appealed to his sense of humour, I don't know.
I still feel guilty about the time I blew up my CO's garden with about 2 tonnes of ANFO.

I told him it was going to be a duck pond, and that he could shoot the ducks from his bedroom window.

I lied.

He ended up with about 4½ acres of a quagmire, about 3-4 metres deep.

Serves the bastard right for putting me on a fizzer for rolling a landrover.

See, I lied again.

I don't feel guilty, the bastard deserved it.
True dit.

Many years ago there was this lass in the year below me at school, she was never liked and was always being bullied by all and sundry. It was assumed that she would probably end up on Benefits for the rest of her life and no doubt would be producing sprogs left, right and centre.

Well one out of two was correct, then she started making a shed load of money ......... we never knew that Susan Boyle would make such a good life for herself
Aged 6, I poured a bottle of coke over a downer of a similar age, I didnt want her getting in the paddling pool naked by all accounts.

Aged about 14 I took a shit in my stepbrothers bed. After his dad died he had become a born again bed-wetter, so when he tried to say the shit wasnt his, he wasnt widely believed...

I also got a headshot on him with my catapult, which left him with stitches. Couldnt worm my way out of that one.

A bit more recently, I popped round to an ex's for a quickie, whilst on the way to a meal with the girlfriend of the time and her parents. Managed to get the ex's hormone jam slopped all down the front of my stonewashed levi's. When I realised that I had no way of cleaning my jeans before dinner, I concocted a bullshit story about getting mugged enroute.
So not only did I pay nothing for the meal with the gf and her parents, I also got sympathy sucks on demand for the following few weeks.

Most recently I shot my neighbours cat, sorry.

Probably more repressed memories to come.
u cunt pittswamper the poor blokes prob on prozac for the rest of his life
My work at Beckford Primary was all in good stead.
I shall go to bed tonight a happy man safe in the knowledge that a pauper dreads the mention of his Tesco bombers being 'Fackin' shit' and needs psychiatric help to get out of his festering pit of an early afternoon.
I know most of you lot have little or no conscience, especially when it comes to bullying the weak and picking on the pond life of society – and rightly so. But despite this disposition, I have on occasion suffered a little ‘reflected guilt’.

Anyway, fuckers – what guilty skeletons do you have in your closets?

Over to you...
conscience walt.
First year of primary school. Been living in Germany as my dad was posted to Nienberg holding back the 3rd shock army armed with pickhelves and yellow handbags.

When we came back to Britain I joined school halfway through the year and as the new kid, became a bit of a target.

One particular lad really had it in for me but I got my own back in the bogs. I had unzipped by the urinals and about to unload when said arsehole came to the next pisspot. I right faced and pissed all over the cunts left leg.

Guess who was the target for bullying for the rest of the year.

Pissy pants. I'm sorry....

(No I'm fucking not, you cunt)

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Posted before, but for a wider audience
Me and a mate (I’ll call him John, cos that’s his name) had decided on a weekend on the lash in his hometown, Newcastle. This would be my first night up there and I was especially looking forward to a visit to the Bigg Market, as I needed some new sports socks for PT.

We made the trip over from the Fatherland without incident and got a tad merry on the boat, eventually rocking up at his gaff in Gosforth late on the Friday afternoon. This was fitting in nicely as it meant a quick intro to his folks, quick shower and offski into town for a few scoops. This went exactly as planned, we did get royally pissed and the locals all took the piss out of my accent until I started chatting up their lass’s, who were enjoying the attentions of proper REME swordsman for a change, and conversation about things other than Newky Broon, the Toon & Alan Shearer. In fact, one lass gave off a gusset-moistening moan when I asked who Alan Shearer was. A vast kebab on the way home was all the company I needed that night and all was well in my world. The beer jacket leant to me by my Geordie sidekick kept me lovely and warm, the kebab compass worked a treat and I didn’t even mind sleeping on his bedroom floor in a dossbag. (I was disappointed with the Bigg Market as there were hardly any stalls there at all. They really ought to visit Cardiff Fruit Market before they start boasting like that.)

I digress. Saturday night was to be more of the same, only with an earlier start and a later finish. Added bonus meant that his folks were out and away that night, so we had the whole house to ourselves, though his Ma did warn me about bringing back “any dorty who-eres” whatever they might be. We got out and on it early, and worked our way across town on a fairly conventional night out. .We got chummy with a couple of likely girls, poured a few glass’s of Chardonnay into them and generally treated them liked princess’s. The one swapping face with John also had a tattoo on her arm with the words “John – True love” in it, so as you can see, all was going well.

Now, I tend to get hungry when I’ve had a few and nothing stands in my way. I decided that I fancied a curry and the girls agreed, saying they knew of a place down by the river that was pretty good. It turned out to be a converted railway carriage (ring any bells with anyone?) and, as promised, the scoff was top notch. So good was it, that John troughed more than his fair share and plenty of Kingfisher to wash it all down.
We settled up and ordered a joe baxi back to his gaff with our new lady-friends, and all looked to be going well. Sadly, it wasn’t to last and John, overcome with the effects of a long sesh on the Broon, a fairly hot Madras and a cabby who thought he was Colin McRae, decided to spew all over the cab door. To give you the full flavour of the incident, the door pocket of the car (a navy blue 1998 VW Passat, if memory serves me) was full of his curry sick, mixing in with the pints of Broon which had been poured in all afternoon.

The driver wasn’t impressed and nor were the girls. In a frantic attempt to save myself the £50 puke-penalty and still get my hole, I fibbed to the driver and told him there wasn’t much to worry about and that I could easily clean it if he stopped at the nearest petrol station. The harsh light of the of the forecourt convinced me I couldn’t and when the cab drew to a halt the girls got out and walked off without another word. Oh well. I paid the penalty and got the driver to run us home, pausing only to have an argument with him when I lit up in the cab. (my reasoning being, I had just spent £50 and the car needed a valet anyway, one fag’s worth of smoke wasn’t going to make a jot of difference.)

Back at his and I carried John into the empty house and dumped him on the sofa, where he flaked out, the ungrateful northern monkey. I went upstairs with my hormones still frothing and didn’t really fancy the dossbag & love sock, so I decided to treat myself to a little luxury and kip in his mum & dads bed. Got myself comfy but decided to have a shufty through their bedside cabinets, as you do

Not much in his dads other than folded, ironed hanky’s and biros. Mum’s however, turned up a small plastic heart-shaped box with the words “for your bottom from my heart” in gold on the top. My curiosity awakened, I opened up the box to find a pair of frilly pink knickers. Naturally, I put them on and started wanking. And just as naturally, the booze caught up with me & I blew myself out and dozed off mid stroke.

Sometime around 11:00am, I was shaken awake by my oppo and it was pointed out that 1) I shouldn’t be in his Mums bed and 2) he hoped that I hadn’t had a wank while in there (told you he was a mate). I assured him that I hadn’t shot my wad between her sheets and waited for him to leave the room before getting up and taking off his Mums smalls and checking them for any DNA I might have left in them. I then stowed them back in their rightful place, got dressed and went downstairs to get ready for the long drive back to Germany.

So, to Johns Mum, I wish to apologise. It was me that skidded your smalls. But only cos your son cost me 50 sheets and a bunk-up. Sorry about that.


Was never really very good with the women back in the early 90s. They'd be interested at first, until I opened my trap and I'd started talking to them like they were a completely new species - which looking back I suppose is actually true in some of those cases. Anyway...

An ex-girlfriend of mine in the 90s - one of the very few I'd actually managed to go out with long enough to be invited back to her parents. Turns out that even though she was a little 'rotund' - she was also a bit of a belter in the sex-ed dept. The only problem was her parents. Extremely old fashioned, in every sense of the word. And now this young squaddie from 'down the road' was on their radar (my first 'proximity' shag, if you will), I'd often be the source of much jabbing with the walking stick as we'd leave the house to go on our date, along with a significant amount of semi-drunken bile about keeping my hands in my pockets, looking after his pride and joy, among a few other rants. Oh if only he fucking knew what a filthy girl she was... Her mother would then chip in with a little more subtleness about her, but insist on telling me she knew what young lads like me are like.

Well I suppose if you're going to have a regular lassie close to camp that's awesome in keeping your testosterone levels in check, then there has to be a down-side I guess. That involved a twice-weekly cross-examination by her parents at our 'sit together' meal. Although I planned my revenge in some cunningly thought-out style.

See, the old man had bowel problems. And one thing I'd noticed during my evenings at the Victorian Dad's household, was that he didn't mind letting one go on occasion.

So in my ingenuity - I thought on just this one occasion, that I'd let one of my own nuclear-strength, 'been-brewing-for-a-day-and-a-half' guffs plough softly into the old seat cushions of their 50 year old sofa, with a view to him copping the blame. Almost immediately however, to my surprise the old man reached for his stick, scrambled to his feet and started beating their dog with it, whilst yelling to him "get out of here, you stinking little shit!"

For the first time since I'd known him the old man appeared to soften a little as he apologised for his dog's flatulence. I had hoped for a full-on assault from her Mum and a full-blown domestic to erupt.

Sadly though, I was left looking at the dog's saddened face through the window of the kitchen door he was now peering through with his ears locked firmly into the 'bad dog' position.

Poor little mutt.
A little similar to pebbles, on returning as a pads brat from Germany and NI in mid 80's (just after Brighton Bombing), i was stuck in a 3rd year primary on a run down NE coucil estate. (Dad had decided to do a moonlight flit with his bit on the side) Being the new kid with a slight Antrim lilt to my accent did not make for happy living. 2 individuals, Gizmo!! and his twin brother had particular pleasure in chasing me around the estate/school/fields and more than once a good filling in. This lasted until the end of primary and as they went to a "speshul" secondary i manged to avoid them.
Fast fwd to 1989 an i have a Saturday job in a sports shop in the 'Boro and in walk the 2 knobbers, walk right to me and treat me like a long lost brother (no apology for the beatings though), Big Giz explains that they are on last warning before YOI and they saunter off to peruse the store with a "watch me bag pal".

So to Simon and Terry, i apologise it was me that dropped in the 2 England football shirts to your holdall. It was also me who tipped off the Assistant Manager you were "shifty looking types, probably on the rob"

And apologies to my stepdad, the kicking you took round the back of the bookies for no reason was arranged out of love and as a thanks for the years of wonderful parenting, you complete cnut!
All true im afraid mudbutton, this is the first place I feel I can air my sins without fear of judgement.
Normally if I confess this shit I get called disgusting, but I think if you can do something to make yourself laugh, then do it.

Pebbles you have reminded me of another school incident.
Ive always had a thing about feeling the need to piss in inappropriate places/situations.

I remember I had left class one day to go for a piss, when I saw a kid I knew and liked well enough, heading into the toilets at the bottom of the corridor.

By the time I got into the toilets, I could hear and smell that he was going to be in the trap for a while.

As I mentioned, this guy was in no way somebody that I disliked, but I knew he was in there and he didnt know I was outside the cubicle. All of the cubicle walls in the school had about an 8" gap at the bottom.

Through which, I could see his shoes and his pulled down trousers.
So I aimed my stream all over said trousers and ankles, for no reason other than I thought it was funny.

A more recent piss related one was at a music festival last year. Now first off i would like to say, that when these hippy fuckwits decide to bring there kids to these booze and drug fueled weekends, they really cant complain if shit happens.

The story I was told the morning after, when trying to fill in the blank patches in my memory, went something like this...

We were in the D&B tent at about 4am, it was packed wall to wall. I was ratted after 48hours of pretty much constant drinking, and as such my bladder wasn't my friend.

I apparently told my mate next to me that I needed to go outside for a piss, he didnt want me wandering off, because when drunk, im a fucking liability.
So he said (in jest apparently) just piss where you are.

Now as mentioned this tent was properly sardine-canned, so he really didnt think id just piss. Especially, as directly in front of me, was a small child stood between his dad's legs.

Well I pissed didnt I.

Apparently saturating this kid, who then started crying, I also soaked the back of his dads trousers.

By all accounts the dad was fucked and didnt even notice, so I think that really im absolved of blame, the kid should never have been there.

My parents are very proud of me btw, if only they knew what a cunt I really am.
We had a lad at school who had something wrong with his hamstrings and had to walk around on tip toes all the time, and he really struggled with stairs, of which there were a lot at that school. We used to sing "Here comes the hotstepper" at him every time we saw him battling his way up then laugh like a drain. Fucking cruel cunts.

Another one - years ago my cousin who was also my best mate at the time split up with his lass after 4 years, he was gutted. I then broke the mates code & had her noshing me off after a night out a week later and carried on seeing her on the sly for a while. He never did find out!

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