The floor is sticky, the air is thick with tobacco smoke and the steam from a thousand illicit pisses, the walls are adorned with a veritable bumper crop of RMP headlights, boxhead shop signs and the flags of minor units who are still not letting any Sappers past the front gate. The bar is open, there is no such thing as a 'smoking' ban and choice of drinks consists of either the cheapest Markhof pils, those little bottles of sour apple gunk, the bottle of whiskey the youngest one-pip wonder has bought in a desperate effort to get in with troops or - if you're really popular or brave - a can of the Seniors' reserve stock of Guiness and Bitter. The section is arranged around the table in order of seniority, the full screw placed nearest the bin to ensure that all beers have really been finished and the 17 year old nig is shitting himself somewhere in the middle. The music is the Quo's classic 'In The Army Now' album on repeat, BFBS TV is on mute and there is already a vomit slick winding it's way across the floor from the birthday boy's table somewhere across the room. Swing of Herforder, fag tapped on packet before being placed between tank-park-dusty lips and sparked up. A burp and then... 'OK lads...you've gotta answer this one. If you had to do it, the badge - *********** or in the mouth? Hic.' Well?