Top lad you. Cheers.

Ravers

LE
Kit Reviewer
Book Reviewer
For reasons that are far too boring to explain, I found myself driving past Kidderminster today.

I‘ve only been there once before and that was entirely by accident.

Some years back I was on an RFA (big floating petrol station and bomb shop) that used to spend most of its time in the lochs of west Scotland. We’d call in at some shitty little fueling jetty in the middle of nowhere and go and get smashed in little country pubs in fishing villages. It was all rather nice and sedate but a pain at weekends when you wanted to go home.

So Friday comes and I decide; fuck it, I’ll go home and see whichever bird I happened to be banging at the time. Usually I’d arrange a flight from Glasgow to Luton as it was cheaper than the train.

This time one of the other lads offered to give me a lift to Birmingham, after which it was only a shortish hop on the train to Tring, my destination for the weekend. Of course in return I would contribute towards fuel, as is the unwritten rule of matelot lift sharing, as decreed by Lord Horatio Nelson himself when he first gave Admiral Collingwood a lift up the line in his clapped out Peugeot 309.

Anyway I digress.

The plan was pretty simple, Nathan would drive from Dunoon to Brum, drop me at the station and I’d get the train to Tring. All being well, I’d be home by about 8pm and would have time to hit the pub and meet up with the pash.

So we banged on some tunes, sat back and hit the open road. Eventually I fell asleep.

Many hours later we come to a stop and I awake.

”We’re at the train station mate.”

I look out the window and notice that we are very much not at the fucking train station.

”Er where the fuck are we Nath? This isn’t Birmingham New Street.”

”Yeah there was a bit of traffic round Birmingham so I thought I’d drop you here in Kidderminster instead. You can get the train to Brum from here, it’s not far.”

”I don’t suppose this is negotiable?”

”No, I only live round the corner and I’m done with driving today. Off you fuck.”

So I traipse off in the rain to Kidderminster train station. There is a limited weekend service. I have to wait on the platform for 2 hours for my train. When it finally comes it’s one of those shitty little local trains that stops at every fucking station. It takes another 2 hours to get to Birmingham.

Eventually I get home at 1am. The train from Kidderminster to Brum took longer than the drive from Dunoon.

Fucking top lad or what.
 
For reasons that are far too boring to explain, I found myself driving past Kidderminster today.

I‘ve only been there once before and that was entirely by accident.

Some years back I was on an RFA (big floating petrol station and bomb shop) that used to spend most of its time in the lochs of west Scotland. We’d call in at some shitty little fueling jetty in the middle of nowhere and go and get smashed in little country pubs in fishing villages. It was all rather nice and sedate but a pain at weekends when you wanted to go home.

So Friday comes and I decide; **** it, I’ll go home and see whichever bird I happened to be banging at the time. Usually I’d arrange a flight from Glasgow to Luton as it was cheaper than the train.

This time one of the other lads offered to give me a lift to Birmingham, after which it was only a shortish hop on the train to Tring, my destination for the weekend. Of course in return I would contribute towards fuel, as is the unwritten rule of matelot lift sharing, as decreed by Lord Horatio Nelson himself when he first gave Admiral Collingwood a lift up the line in his clapped out Peugeot 309.

Anyway I digress.

The plan was pretty simple, Nathan would drive from Dunoon to Brum, drop me at the station and I’d get the train to Tring. All being well, I’d be home by about 8pm and would have tune to hit the pub and meet up with the pash.

So we banged on some tunes, sat back and hit the open road. Eventually I fell asleep.

Many hours later we come to a stop and I awake.

”We’re at the train station mate.”

I look out the window and notice that we are very much not at the ******* train station.

”Er where the **** are we Nath? This isn’t Birmingham New Street.”

”Yeah there was a bit of traffic round Birmingham so I thought I’d drop you here in Kidderminster instead. You can get the train to Brum from here, it’s not far.”

”I don’t suppose this is negotiable?”

”No, I only live round the corner and I’m done with driving today. Off you ****.”

So I traipse off in the rain to Kidderminster train station. There is a limited weekend service. I have to wait on the platform for 2 hours for my train. When it finally comes it’s one of those shitty little local trains that stops at every ******* station. It takes another 2 hours to get to Birmingham.

Eventually I get home at 1am. The train from Kidderminster to Brum took longer than the drive from Dunoon.

******* top lad or what.
Good drills!

Sent from my S41 using Tapatalk
 

3123

Swinger
I remember once giving a sailor a lift to Kidderminster and he fucked me over for his share of the petrol costs.

He ended up missing his Grindr date in Tring.

He’s never let it go the whingeing twat.



My cock stinks...
 
If it happens again give me a shout, I have a driver running through Kidderminster every night and I could have you picked up.

He's not heading anywhere near London but it obviously doesn't matter to Ravers.
 
A friend of mine was accosted in London - no other word for it - by some very rude foreigners who demanded to know how they get to Knightsbridge/somewhere suitably touristy and dear.

Given the lack of manners demonstrated, my friend was delighted to give them directions to somewhere near Hemel Hempstead and managed to contain his glee as they hopped into a taxi. Pretty sure Johnny Foreigner was also thinking "top bloke" as they headed out of London watching a rapidly climbing taxi fare.
 

Ravers

LE
Kit Reviewer
Book Reviewer
Same ship different bloke.

Bill was actually pretty sound but a bigger geek you’d fail to meet.

Aged 40 he still lived with his mum (because it was cheaper) and his only hobby was Microsoft flight simulator. Oddly the bloke had zero interest in real planes, he just liked the computerised versions.

He could be found most nights sat in his cabin flying from London to LAX in real-time.

Yep.... he’d actually sit there for 13 hours staring at a computer screen while the plane was in auto pilot. He even had the actual aircraft manuals and would do pre flight checks and voice procedure.

Anyway this bizarre hobby meant that Bill never actually went ashore.

Now on this ship we had to keep 1 in 12 duties. It wasn’t a real duty, we just had to be onboard and wait around in case there was a fire or WW3 started. You didn’t even have to go to a duty watch muster.

So it’s the run up to Christmas leave and we’re all heading out into the aforementioned Scottish fishing village for a curry and a few beers. Unfortunately it’s my turn to be duty. No big deal, we all have our turn in the barrel.

The thing is Bill isn’t going ashore, he’s flying from Sydney to Mumbai in a 747. Now you’d probably think that he’d be quite content to do a duty stand in, given that he was staying onboard and there was literally zero effort on his part. He could still fly his plane, just needed to not leave the ship.

I‘d done the bloke plenty of favours in the past including fixing his car once.

”Sorry mate, I‘m busy tonight. Can’t do you a stand in.“

So the lads went ashore and had a cracking time, I sat in the mess watching DVDs by myself and Bill spent the evening in his cabin, talking to himself pretending Air Traffic Control were listening.

Fucking top lad. Cheers.
 
Horses, cunty shipmates...

Your middle name Jonah by any chance @Ravers ?
 
Same ship different bloke.

Bill was actually pretty sound but a bigger geek you’d fail to meet.

Aged 40 he still lived with his mum (because it was cheaper) and his only hobby was Microsoft flight simulator. Oddly the bloke had zero interest in real planes, he just liked the computerised versions.

He could be found most nights sat in his cabin flying from London to LAX in real-time.

Yep.... he’d actually sit there for 13 hours staring at a computer screen while the plane was in auto pilot. He even had the actual aircraft manuals and would do pre flight checks and voice procedure.

Anyway this bizarre hobby meant that Bill never actually went ashore.

Now on this ship we had to keep 1 in 12 duties. It wasn’t a real duty, we just had to be onboard and wait around in case there was a fire or WW3 started. You didn’t even have to go to a duty watch muster.

So it’s the run up to Christmas leave and we’re all heading out into the aforementioned Scottish fishing village for a curry and a few beers. Unfortunately it’s my turn to be duty. No big deal, we all have our turn in the barrel.

The thing is Bill isn’t going ashore, he’s flying from Sydney to Mumbai in a 747. Now you’d probably think that he’d be quite content to do a duty stand in, given that he was staying onboard and there was literally zero effort on his part. He could still fly his plane, just needed to not leave the ship.

I‘d done the bloke plenty of favours in the past including fixing his car once.

”Sorry mate, I‘m busy tonight. Can’t do you a stand in.“

So the lads went ashore and had a cracking time, I sat in the mess watching DVDs by myself and Bill spent the evening in his cabin, talking to himself pretending Air Traffic Control were listening.

******* top lad. Cheers.
So why was he your best man and the God father of your first born son?
 

Ravers

LE
Kit Reviewer
Book Reviewer
A friend of mine was accosted in London - no other word for it - by some very rude foreigners who demanded to know how they get to Knightsbridge/somewhere suitably touristy and dear.

Given the lack of manners demonstrated, my friend was delighted to give them directions to somewhere near Hemel Hempstead and managed to contain his glee as they hopped into a taxi. Pretty sure Johnny Foreigner was also thinking "top bloke" as they headed out of London watching a rapidly climbing taxi fare.
I have a lot of time for that.

Our previous farm manager was accosted by some particularly cunty walkers a few years back.

They weren’t happy that he had cattle in a field that had a footpath going through it or some shit. Anyway he gave them short thrift and off they fucked across another field that didn’t actually have a public right of way through it.

”You’ll not get very far going through there.”

They ignored him and cracked on.

Before reaching the end of the field a good 600m away where there is a river and a fence, with no gates, no bridge and no stiles.

He just smiled at them smugly when they walked past him on their way back 10 minutes later.
 
I used to have a particularly nasty boss [Maurice] who had a habit of appearing uninvited at birthday celebrations, leaving parties or wherever there was a free drink to be had. Needless to say that he never put his hand in his own pocket (other than to play pocket pool).

Just before I left the company one of our old timers was retiring. We issued fake invitations to the team, one of which was "accidentally" left on a desk where it could be seen by Maurice. Only we had arranged the party to be elsewhere, about 8 miles away in a similarly named pub in the next village.

Needless to say there was great mirth on the following Monday and a baffled Maurice who had rocked up at the wrong pub and spent quite a while trying to ring people to find out what was going on. No mobile phones in those days so no possibility of getting hold of anyone.
 
Maybe the second dit was Allah`s retribution for you falling asleep when your mucker is driving in the first dit?
 

Ravers

LE
Kit Reviewer
Book Reviewer
“Deirdre” Barlow was a complete cunt of the highest order. He had a razor sharp wit, but was a bully and was just a prick to everyone. No one really liked him and it came as little surprise that he eventually became a regulator (Royal Naval Policeman).

To my horror I got paired with him on gangway duties for a period of a few months. That was our only job. We did fire brigade watches of 2 days on, 2 days off, 2 days on 4 days off. During our on days we’d do 6 hours on, 6 hours off, stood on the gangway acting as security guards.

It was fucking dogshit.

Anyway Deirdre and I actually bonded a bit. He wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t trying to impress people and he had me in stitches occasionally.

But his darker side would occasionally shine through...

This dockyard worker had been coming and going from the ship for weeks. We’d got to know him fairly well as we checked him on and off the ship every day. One day he forgot his Tee card and we couldn’t let him on. He started effing a blinding at us and calling us jobsworths.

To be honest I probably would‘ve just let him on, but Deirdre was senior and he was playing by the rules. He made the bloke walk back to the other side of the dockyard to get his Tee card from his locker room.

So things soured with this particular docky.

A day or two later, the bloke is stood on the jetty welding up some sort of bracket out of metal. We watch as he fabricates this thing over a period of 2 or 3 days. As we‘re watching one day, we notice that he’s stood on some flattened cardboard boxes. Unbeknownst to him, a spark from his welding kit has ignited the box and one corner of it is on fire, flames are starting to creep up his leg, but he hasn’t noticed.

Deirdre shouts “oi mate!! Mate!!“ he’s jumping up and down, waving to try and get his attention.

The docky turns angrily and says “what the fuck do you want now?”

”Oh nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

A few seconds later the bloke‘s leg is on fire and he’s jumping up and down trying to put himself out while we’re both in stitches.

Anyway no one is hurt, the docky exchanges more unpleasantries with us and goes back to making his bracket.

The following day he’s back again, still won’t talk to us and gets to painting his bracket that up to now has taken nearly 4 days to make. He cracks on all day, first coating it in red oxide paint, then two or three coats of pusser’s grey.

It finally gets to 4pm and he fucks off home, giving us another glare as he crosses the gangway.

About 10 minutes later, I watch Deirdre calmly walk over to the bracket, he picks it up and hoys it straight over the side, before returning to his brew and saying nothing.
 

Tyk

LE
This time one of the other lads offered to give me a lift to Birmingham, after which it was only a shortish hop on the train to Tring, my destination for the weekend. Of course in return I would contribute towards fuel, as is the unwritten rule of matelot lift sharing, as decreed by Lord Horatio Nelson himself when he first gave Admiral Collingwood a lift up the line in his clapped out Peugeot 309.
Nelson? In a FRENCH!!! shed? I hope it was a prize.
 
Same boss, somewhat earlier:

Maurice is also a fat greedy pig. We have a free canteen (not a restaurant, the food was crap but it was free). Maurice will invariably fill his face then fvck off back to his office where he will sleep bolt upright for approximately 45 minutes EVERY day.

I find this out when I go into his office one day and find him spark out and snoring gently sat bolt upright. I leave his office without him noticing as I realise I have another 30 minutes peace and quiet until he comes round. Our entire engineering team knows of his habit and we learn not to disturb him for at least 45 minutes after the end of official lunch break.

One day our works director (started out as a lab tech and reached company director level) comes down the corridor knocks and goes into Maurice's office. He is asleep at this point, bolt upright as usual.

Cliff [the director] comes across the corridor to our office (self plus my oppo senior engineer) and says "he's fvcking fast asleep in there!"
We nod and say yes.
Cliff does a double take
"Does he do that often"
'Every day for about 45 minutes after lunch'
"Fcvk me!"

Cliff walks off.
Maurice is effectively demoted when another manager is brought in and he is told to report to the new man. As they are nominally the same grade, this is an effective demotion. I am also told to report to the new man who is a fully committed hands on manager. We get on very well and are still in contact 28 years later.
 
Same boss, somewhat earlier:

Maurice is also a fat greedy pig. We have a free canteen (not a restaurant, the food was crap but it was free). Maurice will invariably fill his face then fvck off back to his office where he will sleep bolt upright for approximately 45 minutes EVERY day.

I find this out when I go into his office one day and find him spark out and snoring gently sat bolt upright. I leave his office without him noticing as I realise I have another 30 minutes peace and quiet until he comes round. Our entire engineering team knows of his habit and we learn not to disturb him for at least 45 minutes after the end of official lunch break.

One day our works director (started out as a lab tech and reached company director level) comes down the corridor knocks and goes into Maurice's office. He is asleep at this point, bolt upright as usual.

Cliff [the director] comes across the corridor to our office (self plus my oppo senior engineer) and says "he's fvcking fast asleep in there!"
We nod and say yes.
Cliff does a double take
"Does he do that often"
'Every day for about 45 minutes after lunch'
"Fcvk me!"

Cliff walks off.
Maurice is effectively demoted when another manager is brought in and he is told to report to the new man. As they are nominally the same grade, this is an effective demotion. I am also told to report to the new man who is a fully committed hands on manager. We get on very well and are still in contact 28 years later.
I had a Radar Theory instructor, very clever but could not understand that a thick squaddie, was well a thick squaddie.
He used to go to the Officer Mess drinking port and then fall asleep....we all had to resit that phase, on paper
 

CatsEyes

War Hero
One night, on the 31st of a month some years ago, I was Guard Commander on an RAF base in the UK. At around 11.40pm a car approached the closed gates and I saw the outside guard approach it and check documents. The chap stayed with the car outside the re-closed gates talking to the driver for a few minutes and I called to him from the doorway to make sure he was OK – yes he was, he shouted back. I assumed it was a mate of his.

After a few more minutes passed and at midnight I was in the process of sending his replacement out to take over when the guard signalled to me to come out to the car. I asked him what the problem was and he said that he couldn’t let the car on base as his tax disc had just expired. The complete ba$tard had just kept the driver talking outside the gate for twenty minutes in order to do this.

I handed the matter over to our RAF “police” rep who was obviously inspired. During the night, he patrolled all the car parks and found 13 other vehicles which were displaying out of date tax as of midnight. Top lads all round.
 
Why would you want to visit Tring?, apart from the Rothschilds stuffed animal museum (pleasant in a League of Gentleman's "Are you local?" kind of way) there is very little else there
 

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