During operational tours in static locations, it was quite common for the less desirable bits of the compo ration pack to start stacking up. It was necessary to find things to do with these items. To make and consume hot beverages from all the tea, coffee and hot chocolate provided was a full time job. It was possible to construct sangars from the buckshee sundry items packs after a couple of months. With this in mind, in a small corner of a Kigali football stadium, "Ultra-screech" was born. On the back end of a 14 hour night shift, we were looking for something to keep awake, when my colleague suggested a double hit of 2 sachets in one water bottle, one orange, one lemon. It was extremely tart and made the lips smack as you drank it, but it was easily do-able. I was never a big fan of this cross between Kia-Ora and defoliant, but boredom produces strange past-times. The riggers Bosnian power lifting stories more than confirm this. Over the next few weeks we simply kept upping the ante. It culminated in the first and only Ultra Screech championships. Eight of us around a GS table, with a water bottle each and a mountain of sachets in the middle. We started at 5 sachets each (flavour optional) and moved up in batches of 5. A good swig was taken by each contestant, whereupon he had his water bottle topped up by the umpire. The first drop out occurred at a measly 10 sachets. Clutching his throat as if he was going to turn into Mr Hyde, he scuttled out of the 18 x 24 and back to obscurity. Most of us had previously tested ourselves at 20+ and were able to cope with the monstrous corrosive effects on our oesophagi and digestive tracts. By 25, people were starting to wilt visibly and by 30 there were only two guys left. I'd dropped out as soon as I realised how much the screech had fcuked me up. I'd turned to say something to a fellow contestant but the noise that emerged sounded like a cross between Jack Duckworth and Phyllis from the Street. My vocal cords had been stripped until they only vibrated at the lowest frequencies. A look in the bottles of the two finalists revealed a glowing pile of toxic sludge. Both were at the limits of their screech endurance. They both managed to hit the 40 point but were rapidly deteriorating. Contestant 1 had a big bib of orange drool all around the top of his t-shirt and his pupils were changing size independently. Contestant 2 looked slightly better but his teeth were getting loose and some of his hair had fallen out. Contestant 1 topped out at 42 with a scream of "I cannae fackin doo nae more." Contestant 2 sank his 43rd sachet with aplomb and celebrated by not sleeping for 3 and a half days. Have any other ARRSE members created impromptu sporting competitions from ration stockpiles?