Urban Escape and Evasion


After a dozen pints and a small nations supply of Jim Beam, of course she was going to look attractive. That's why I'd spent all of 3 minutes chatting her up in the taxi queue. The night of passion between the perfect couple that followed would be Hollywood gold for a romantic movie, unless of course the director saw the CCTV footage of a fat munter being groped and humped in the back of a taxi by an absolutely mashed squaddie.

Blinking through the haze, it was dawning on me that I'd bloody well done it again. I was naked next to an equally naked horror, and I had no idea where I was. I was just lucky enough to have woken first, it was time to pop smoke and get back to the block.

I looked over at my conquest and immediately dry-heaved. The make-up had been washed away by the heavy sweaty antics earlier, and her greasy acne made her face a stark contrast to her milky white, council issue breasts, the same breasts which were tucked into each armpit, leaving her vast gunt sticking significantly higher than them into the air. Oh sweet jesus no.

My addled brain quickly went into panic mode, and other facts were smashed into my conscious mind. Oh fuck me no, there was a babysitter wasn't there. There were toys everywhere. Fuck no, fuck, fuck, fuck, it's a single mother council rat SCH parent trap. Get out. Now. Go man, go!

Managing to extract my arm from underneath Mount Scutter, I crept downstairs into the dingy living room. Somewhere, my worldly possessions were amongst the grot and the grime. I found my jeans, and hallelujah! my wallet was still in there. I quickly slid them on, and spotted my shirt and shoes, picking them up. Socks? No sign. Fuck em. I need to get some mileage between myself and the snoring lardbucket before it stirs.

I gingerly tried the front door - locked, no key. Shit. I crept to the back of the house. Locked, no key. Double shit. Nothing else for it - kitchen window, go.

I landed in the back garden, and took in my surroundings. My initial suspicions were confirmed, and I was smack in the middle of one of the roughest estates around. On one side was an endless terrace of gardens, the other side only 3 gardens before the main road. That'll do, I thought. Leaping over into next door, I landed in the garden and was immediately aware that in the house was a very large, very tattooed bloke at his grill, cooking breakfast. And a semi naked squaddie has just landed unannounced in his garden at 8 oclock on a Sunday morning. I froze, not sure what I should now be more afraid of, the kicking he's about to give me or the assault I'll get from Shebacca when he hands me back to her. The man mountain spoke.

"Don't worry mate, you're not the first. You can use my front door if you want."

I trudged through the house in utter shame, up the path, and - without looking back - pegged it barefoot up the road, only pausing at a payphone to get a (hungover and chuntering) mate to pick me up sharpish.

Over to you lot.
Sounds pretty much like my St Paddy's day, only exchange 'roughest estates around' for E. Belfast- i only knew i was getting closer to the main road as the quality of the 'political artwork' was improving with each road junction!!
Didn't you ask the large tattooed bloke for a bacon sarny?
Homo, you should've had another go ;)

If she was that fat she'd have made a cracking breakfast
A muckah of mine pulled a fat, but pretty Lebanese bird in West London. A few posh drinks and then back to the flat Daddy's rented for her in Kensington. The Doof does the deed and both nod off. Doof wakes to find all doors locked and no sign of keys. Decides to climb out of ground floor window... alarmed. Fat Lebanese bird comes flying down. "WTF are you doing?", "I was looking for a pencil to leave you my number....", "Half waoy out the window?" Smack!
You would think after the centuries and countless hundreds of thousands of us who have awoken in that situation such escape and evasion drills would be part of phase 1 or at least phase 2 training for all arms.

In fact it is such a predictable occurance that surely the Army have a duty of care to provide such training and I wonder when the first successful compensation claim will be brought against the MoD for failure to provide.
It was a balmy evening in Reading, June 1990 if I recall, and young Taff49 had finished his REME basic training at Arborfield. A night on the tiles was called for, and so my jeans were cleaned, my favourite Ben Sherman was pressed to military levels and my desert wellies were spotless.
Following 6 hours of reasonably heavy drinking with the rest of the group (probably 8 or 9 of us) I found myself in heading down a metal spiral staircase into a nightclub (to this day I have no idea what the club was called – answers on a postcard please). A quick trip to the bar for a watered down pint and then off to recce my new surroundings.

Target aquired. There she was, the woman of my dreams. 5’4” in her five inch heels, and with a diameter only slightly less that her overall height. She looked better than human, almost like a pair of black leggings filled with wet sand, and a curry stained white blouse which was straining to hold her in. Straining so much that the little “windows” that open up between the buttons allowed tantalising glimpse of her fish belly white flesh, which glowed in the ultra-violet light of the disco. Her hair was a magnificent birds nest of a tangle, looking very much like my Mk 6 helmet during the camoflage lessons of just the previous week and the stumpy fingers gripping her pint of lager looked made for holding my love truncheon.

Cutting to the chase, we left together, my Princess and I, and a glorious night of divine lovemaking ensued, followed by a few hours where I blissfully slept the deep sleep of the truly innocent.
Saturday morning dawned far too early for my hangover, and my first conscious thought was that my pillow appeared to have changed colour. Weren’t Army pillow slips spotlessly white? Mine certainly didn’t have purple marks on them. Blotchy, purple marks. And they didn’t move by themselves.


I cranked open an eye just as Bride of Ginsters chooses to roll over away from me. Luckily it didn’t wake and continued to slumber, with a wheezy, raspy snore which made me want to kill myself. Certainly killing her was beyond me.

She was awful. But let’s not dwell on that. A quick wriggle had me out of the bed without disturbing it, and then it was time for phase two of the plan. Mission:- to find my clothes. No sign of any of them, then a blurry memory of wrestling and undressing each other on the move came to me, and I enlarged my Area of Operation to include the landing. Result, there’s my jeans, my shirt is visible halfway down the stairs, as are my undercrackers and one sock. A rummage through my jeans reveals my wallet with the oh-so-important MOD90 safe and sound, so with the primary objective achieved it’s time to extract. By now I’m in the living room, still starker’s but with all my stuff (less one sock). Through the front room, as stealthy as a Pathfinder, front door locked. I retrace my steps, through the kitchen, back door locked.
I begin to sweat. Kitchen window is too small. It must be a terrace house as there are no side windows. I’m starting to contemplate the unthinkable (i.e. back to bed) when I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Like a startled Ninja I spin round, to be confronted by a mid-teens youth in his pyjamas. His face remains utterly blank as he holds out a key to me. I take the key, unlock the back door, and retreat into the back garden. I throw on my clothes and tab like away faster than a GreenJacket from a shallow grave, running deeper and deeper into Reading until I spot a cab, the driver of which twigs me for what I am and reaches for the hidden “fare enhancement” button under the dashboard.
Whilst up on 'exercise' up in sunny Inverness, a few of us went on the lash in the town, ended up trapping off with some lass who took me back to hers o=in what seemed like a five minute taxi ride, the last memory I had of the night was her laying back smashing herself with a dildo and saying we would have to be quiet as her brother was asleep in the next room!

Anyway, woke up at early hour and thought 'where the fuck am I ?!' snuck out of bed and with the stealth of a very stealthy thing I found all my clothes and shoes, bonus! Thats when I tried the door...no luck and no key...so plan B came around and I found myself having to squeeze out of the front room window before jumping down to the garden and running as fast as a very fast thing I got out of the street and tried to get my bearings, I had a feeling it wasnt going well when I realised that I was on the wrong side of the massive bridge up there!

Ended up finding a newsagents and after buying a sandwich and trying to make small talk with the 'happy' shopkeeper I found out where I was and got him to order to me a taxi back to the barracks we were staying at! It was when I got to the barracks that I realised that I was diffy one mobile telephone :(
Ull. There's no H in Ull. Nor, apparently, anywhere that sells salad. But, with the dash and self-confidence that we only possess a week out of Training Reg the young crusader was determined to put in a night out that would make George Best look like a Babycham drinking rent boy. Or an Airman.

Clad in the early 90's trapping armour of a lime green shirt that would have orbiting cosmonauts dropping the blinds, jeans white enough to grace a Daz advert and enough hair gel to stick two yaks together I knew, I just knew, I was going to end up humping at least a 9.5.

Sadly, my 18 yr old ego was writing cheques my liver just couldn't cash. I remember the laughter on my mate's face, the look of pity on the doorman's when we left and the look of horror on the fast black driver when he thought about what Blobzooky was going to do to his shocks but me? Stuff 'em, I'd pulled a beauty, it was my arms that'd got shorter.

Some time later I had what I now know to be a moment of clarity. Looking to my left was a kind of deep patty of pale cellulite spreading away to the end of the bed. The view to the right was the same. But I wasn't just on the Daughter of the Creature From The Black Lagoon. Worse, I was still in it. But, to my credit, I managed to fight through. "Fcuk it", I thought "I'm here now. I might as well finish the job". Now that's fighting through. It must have been like watching a mouse rape an elephant but I managed to fire my filthy seed and then collapsed into sweet unconsciousness. I suppose it was the shock.

A few hours later I woke up as it got up. I didn't know mattress springs could sound grateful. "Alright love" it said "fancy a cup of tea?" Christ, it had a voice like Geoff Capes after 200 Benny's. I made my excuses, on parade in a bit, off to Bosnia later, Granny's funeral in half an hour. "Merciful God, just please let me go!" The Beast looked disappointed, it was probably just hungry. "Stay a bit" it grunted "I'll put my sexy knicks on, look!" Sweet baby Jesus, it was holding up a pair of pants that looked like those comedy 'Mother-in-law' things you used to see on market stalls. I've seen smaller marquee canvases.

A sort of sudden burst of movement saw me to and through the door. Kind of the same way a cornered, frightened field mouse scuttles between a terriers legs. In the cold light of dawn I didn't have a clue where I was but I could feel the curtain's twitching. "That's the idiot who went back with Godzilla last night". I could hear the thoughts from a dozen clsoely packed council slums.

If only forums like this had existed then I wouldn't have spent the next two hours on a sink estate looking for a phone box that hadn't been burnt out. Or shat in. Nor would I have ended up on the same bus as my oppo's from the night before. And I wouldn't have had to listen to them telling everyone else on board about the virtual planetoid from the night before.

Urban E & E? It should be a MATT.
Dubb_al_Ibn said:

There you go; an Urban Escape and Evasion QM thread !

Which are the best trainers for shinning down a munter's drain-pipe and what sort of LED headtorch will I need for climbing over garden fences?
But ..... errrr! :slow: That would suggest that, early in the evening, when putting on the hair putty ........

........ you had the aspiration that, some hours later, you would have inseminated some fat, acne-ridden, saggy-chested, snoring, lard-bucket/scutter. 8O

Yep. I see where you're coming from. :D Same behaviour seldom brings different results. :wink:

EDIT: Good to see you back, in your familiar incarnation, Fugly.
shimna01 said:
Sounds pretty much like my St Paddy's day, only exchange 'roughest estates around' for E. Belfast- i only knew i was getting closer to the main road as the quality of the 'political artwork' was improving with each road junction!!

ahh good i wasnt the only one making my way up the n/town ards road pissed that night.


spike7451 said:
Fugly said:
Over to you lot.
Part 2 coming in around nine months Fuggers?...
That happened around 1995, so i bloody hope not - that's a lot of backpay!

VG, excellent stuff. Reminded of a couple more myself, I'll get tapping....
Most of the weekends I spent in Weymouth circa 1992 ended up like the tales told here... oooh, flashbacks...

edited to add this was in my wild youth, pre the current Mrs Sfub, so when she reads this please don't worry about me going to Weymouth in June.
Verticalgyro, that is a quality post.

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