Top lad you. Cheers.

Firstly, a bit of background. On a boat when alongside, there is a sentry up top by the Main Access hatch (the hole by which one enters a submarine). He is armed and is known as the Upper Deck Trot. There is another chap in the Control Room, who keeps an eye on things inside, known as the Lower Deck Trot. Looks at dials and answers phones.

There are 2 telephone landlines, one to the Skipper's cabin and a general one in the Control Room.

As you all know, when answering a phone, if a squeaky voice asks for Chief X, the correct response is NOT 'Oh, is that his wife?' .........Unless you are a brand new out the box sprog.

When chaps on a boat are having 'marital problems' the standard response to an unwanted squeaky voice call is 'sorry love, he's under the casing / in the dockyard' thus denying availability of Chief X.

So it came to pass that during my divorce proceedings, having cunningly avoided contact with the ex, who knew all the dodges, her being a Wren, I'm in the Control Room when the phone rang.

'Hello, submarine XXX'
'Yes, love, he's standing right beside me'

Her 'Not under the casing then...


Top Lower Deck Trot!
Makes you wonder if Magic Grandpa has tried to visit a submarine, all those Trots must have surely peaked his interest
 
Did anyone have a 'word' with the numpty at a later date ?
After a fashion, as soon as the DS left the block . . . ;)
 
Knuckles healed OK then?
Funny you should mention that....

So said "chef", the longest serving Pte in the army of Christendom, was the "still living at home with his parents" neer do well fruit of their loins. The problem being, his old man was the TAC Caretaker and so he lived in the fukcing drill hall. literally. No job to speak of, he odd-jobbed for the Trp Staffy who ran his own heating installation business for cash-in-hand. It all turned a bit sour when Pte Knob "borrowed" the van, hocked a load of (what he thought was) scrap copper that was intended for a job then crashed the van on the way back and left it sat in the MT Yard denying all knowledge of his handywork when the Staffy came in to get his van and kit for the job. The ensuing altercation involved the staffy cracking Pte Knob's schwed with a fire extinguisher. Staffy was then charged with assault, and there was discussion about how do dis-MBE him (won the year before for services to the Crown with the first tracnhe rush of BLiar's "people's honours") and drum him out. I was in favour of busting him to Cpl (enough responsibility he would have to behave, but signal intent of wrong doing) but the CO ignored the sage advice and busted him to Pte MBE with resulting big-balls swaggering about the platz as the busted SSgt, now one of the lads with an MBE on his chest. In the end I persuaded the REME to take him off my hands and then post him as soon as he re-badged.

Top Lads.
 
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 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 ******* 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.
Last time I was in Kidderminster was when I was doing a job for Richard Branson. £600 for the weekend plus all the beer you could drink, which turned out to be a lot, which ended up with 3 of us at very late o’ clock standing on the bank pïssing on to the seats of his punt... next morning it was big cheesy grins watching the Virgin trolley dollies queuing up for a ride in Richard’s punt. There is a picture somewhere, probably in the attic with my shrunken stable belt...
edit: one of my companions was an environmental health inspector...
 
Last time I was in Kidderminster was when I was doing a job for Richard Branson. £600 for the weekend plus all the beer you could drink, which turned out to be a lot, which ended up with 3 of us at very late o’ clock standing on the bank pïssing on to the seats of his punt... next morning it was big cheesy grins watching the Virgin trolley dollies queuing up for a ride in Richard’s punt. There is a picture somewhere, probably in the attic with my shrunken stable belt...
edit: one of my companions was an environmental health inspector...
t would have been better / more amusing if you'd p!ssed on Branson....
 
t would have been better / more amusing if you'd p!ssed on Branson....
You could have got away with that too, just claim you were trialing the new Virgin watersports service
 
How I never ended up with something more serious than a wee bit of thrush and chlamydia, I'll never know.
A long, long time ago my pal, Kev and I were taking a holiday around Malaysia from our unit in Singapore. We stopped over in KL, settled in to the hotel, had a meal and went to the nightclub attached to the hotel. During a drink-sodden evening we danced with a LBFM who was quite stunning - the red dress she wore really showed her considerable attributes off to a T, no other came close to how attractive she was (were beer goggles responsible? Memory says no).

Sometime later Kev decided he needed to go to the bogs, during which time the LBFM decided it would be nice if we got to know each other a little better and so we legged it to my room where we had a little bit of rumpy-pumpy shagged each other stupid.

Somewhere around 1am I received a phone call from Kev asking did I know where the LBFM had vanished to...... I told him I'd go down to the club and see if she was still there. About ten minutes later I kicked her out, she knocked on his door and all was well as she didn't tell him of her previous session with me.

When we got back to the unit it was very obvious that Kev was not drinking beer and when asked if he had a dose he confirmed that he got it from the LBFM in KL. Obviously I was worried sick as I had no signs of an STI. "But, but, I shagged it too and I'm in the clear" said I. "Are you sure?" said Kev, "Yes" said I, but the next day I was off the the STI clinic to get checked. I was clear (thankfully).

When I told Kev that I was clear, he said "of course you are, all I have is a strain - that'll teach you to shag the LBFM before me".

Twat!! lesson learned.
 
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.
Go on, what station.?
 
Funny you should mention that....

So said "chef", the longest serving Pte in the army of Christendom, was the "still living at home with his parents" neer do well fruit of their loins. The problem being, his old man was the TAC Caretaker and so he lived in the fukcing drill hall. literally. No job to speak of, he odd-jobbed for the Trp Staffy who ran his own heating installation business for cash-in-hand. It all turned a bit sour when Pte Knob "borrowed" the van, hocked a load of (what he thought was) scrap copper that was intended for a job then crashed the van on the way back and left it sat in the MT Yard denying all knowledge of his handywork when the Staffy came in to get his van and kit for the job. The ensuing altercation involved the staffy cracking Pte Knob's schwed with a fire extinguisher. Staffy was then charged with assault, and there was discussion about how do dis-MBE him (won the year before for services to the Crown with the first tracnhe rush of BLiar's "people's honours") and drum him out. I was in favour of busting him to Cpl (enough responsibility he would have to behave, but signal intent of wrong doing) but the CO ignored the sage advice and busted him to Pte MBE with resulting big-balls swaggering about the platz as the busted SSgt, now one of the lads with an MBE on his chest. In the end I persuaded the REME to take him off my hands and then post him as soon as he re-badged.

Top Lads.
Wassamatter? Run out of rat poison?
 

NI-EX-MEDIC

War Hero


All 3 ARV cars - close enough to identify you as the ones having a chat - screech to a halt and let the target escape.

Uh-huh.
It was14 or 15 years ago an I have little doubt that all the services at the time were constrained by the mantra dont touch the muslims
 
Today they'd get a fine quicksmart from some lovely bod at the DVLA. :cool:
Prison Service college----- 2 duty wankers stitched up numerous non taxed vehicles(mine was taxed)

Jobsworth wankers.

Wonder how they managed on the job.(power in a uniform)
 
It was14 or 15 years ago an I have little doubt that all the services at the time were constrained by the mantra dont touch the muslims
"All the services" are not constrained by mantras, or mandalas or masalas.

You are, quite simply, lying. Your dit never happened, you were called on it.

Happy trails, pardner.
 
Go on, what station.?
The RP staff at Sch Inf Warminster in 1986 were keen on doing something similar during their night patrols. A number of us found notes on our windscreens pointing out our BFG registrations had expired and we were not to use our cars until it had been renewed. What they did not know was there was a period of grace between expiry and new registration as a result of the efficiency of the BAOR BFG office.
 

BopBopBop

War Hero
4 tonner driving fecking miles across Germany overnight.
2 drivers in the cab and 2 of us in the back asleep in our maggots.

I wake up and we are parked in an autobahn service area. Cab empty.
Grab my mate and both run to the toilets.

Back out, no truck.
Top Lads those drivers.

With our broken German we found a young guy in a BMW who spoke broken English and related our sorry saga.

We sped down the autobahn until we caught up and stopped the truck.

Fortunately there were no other army convoys on the road that night as we wouldn't have known which truck to stop.

The German may still have my cap badge. Top bloke.
 

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