What happened to your face- AAAAAAAAGH

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by GrumbleWeed, Mar 16, 2005.

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  1. Over the past few years, it has come to my attention, that there are a frightening amount of scantily clad, enormous arrsed buffadillopigs roaming the land where an unsuspecting squaddie or sailor may bump into said moose and end up either mocking it for all it's worth, or taking it home to give it one in the scratcher. A friend told me a story of a mighty heffer that he managed to talk back to his barracks (with the cunning use of grunting and a small amount of false interest), managed to give it a portion of loving only to be greeted by the RSM. Apparently, the lovely fluffy RSM of death, was more alarmed that one of his men was being sexually assaulted by a hyeena than he was to the fact that there was a female (albeit a rather dubious one) in the block. He later told me that this was common ailment of the town that he was based in.
    Anyone got any good stories of buffadillogorillapigaphants being brought into the limelight?
    :?: :?: :?:
     
  2. Erm, pretty much every girl I've shagged since in the Army was a stinker. Does that count?

    :D
     
  3. i guess- but there must be a REAL honker that each and everyone of us remember conning back to their pit!!
    Even yours bernoulli!!!
     
  4. Oh yeah, definitely got one in mind!

    I was accosted by one in the local sticky-floored, watered-down beer, flooded toilet squaddie bar, and went back to hers. To be fair to her, she had a great sense of humour.
    She just was blessed with a face that looked like a platoon of Greenjackets had loved and left.

    After the sweet, sweet loving, I dozed off, only to wake to find what I can only describe as a warthog crossed with Jimmy Hill advancing across the bedroom towards me in the cold morning light.
     
  5. i nailed a bird in weymouth , who was so fat , the lace up front dress she was wearing made her look like she was being pushed through a mincer.
    i swear i couldn't get both arms to meet around her , and each of her lils looked like a roofers nail bag , and they must of weighed in at a couple of stone each, she looked like arthur mullard with a perm , and had those fat "cankles" shoved into a pair of stilletoes , i only did it because i got threatened with a severe kicking from my section commander if i didn't come back with her skiddies ... (honest guv)
    anyway , back at hers i thought "oh well , in for a penny..." and dived on the bouncy castle of love ..
    anyway , i was giving this bird a major "hate f*cking" , not pulling any punches , and giving it everything i had , the sweat was dripping off me nose , when what does the fat c-unt say ............
    "don't hold back love ..... you wont hurt me"

    hurt her .....f8ck me , i was about to try and use the telly magazine on the side as some packing , it was like f8cking the sky .

    so , as we layed there (me in her shadow) in post coital bliss (i was planning my exit strategy..which involved chucking a donut in the corner and making a break for it) i made my move for her trollies , which were in a pile of their own on the floor , i'm not saying they were big ..... no wrong , that's exactly what i'm saying , they were like a cam net and i had to roll them up and try to stick them in the pocket of my jeans ... no go , they wouldn't fit ... i ended up rolling them into a sausage , and tying them round my waist (told you she was big)

    upon my return to the tented camp at wyke regis , we pitched her knickers , and 4 blokes moved into them for the week. :D
     
  6. I copped off with a good looking girl one Friday night in 1987. I was a bit leathered, but successfully chatted her up. She was giving her mate a lift back that night, so there was no chance of any inter-knicker action, but I persuaded her to go to the Aldershot flicks with me the next night.

    I spent the next day, chuffed to fcuk, bragging up the block about how I was going to get me end away that night, rubbing my hands together like I was trying to start a fire.

    I got to the pictures early, and a had a quick pint in the Traf, to steady my nerves. A couple of the lads had been in there on an all dayer and wanted to know what I was up to. I explained and was given various motivational speeches, which were generally accompanied by rhythmic pelvic movements. I checked my watch and moseyed down to the cinema.

    She showed up five minutes later. I was drinking a vendor brew and the surface started shaking like that bit in Jurassic park when the T-rex is coming. I looked down the road and saw a big, ginger, monster waddling towards me, waving. That couldn't be fcuking her, surely.

    "Convoy, convoy," she started shouting. It fcuking was her. Overnight, she had put on 15 stone and dyed her hair 'stinks-of-lag.'

    Before I could think to leg it, she'd got up to me, and was successfully blocking any means of escape, by the simple mechanism of her girth.

    I greeted her, trying to muster some enthusiasm that simply wouldn't muster. She'd done herself up a bit. It looked like someone had fired a double-barrelled-make-up-gun at her from point blank range. She had a satsuma coloured face with a neck whiter than Billy Connolly's legs. She had a cleavage-exposing top on. Unfortunately, her cleavage started at the top of her neck and continued until it reached a beergut of darts-player proportions.

    I could only think of damage limitation and thought 'get her in the fcuking dark before anyone sees me'

    "What film do you want to watch?" I asked

    "Oh, i'd love to see Bigfoot and the Hendersons."

    Brilliant!

    I had to sit through Big-fcuking-foot and the fcuking Hen-der-fcuking-sons with Ann Widdecombes ugly sister. Not only that, we'd just got £60 back for food and accommodation and she nearly blew the lot in the sweet shop before we went in.

    The whole time we were in the flick, I couldn't even watch the film. She was far more riveting. I've never, before or since, watched someone neck as many stickies in 90 minutes. Every now and again she'd look at me and give me a chocolate grin that belonged in a Scat film.

    When I wasn't watching her, I was working out what to do when the film finished. There was no way on this planet, I was taking her to the pub, so I hastily invented a Sunday duty, that meant no drinking and an early night.

    She seemed disappointed but accepting, as she tipped the last few revels down that pelican gob outside the cinema. She even offered to give me a lift back up the block. On the way up, she said,

    "Is there somewhere quiet we can go? I want to say thanks for a lovely evening."

    The correct answer was, "NO, get me back to safety now, you gopper." Unfortunately, the horn of an 18 year old bloke knows no bounds and we ended up in the car park behind Maida Gym.

    So there I was, sat in the passenger seat of a Fiat Punto, getting a nosh off Grotbags from the pink windmill. She didn't even take her seatbelt off. Her head was fcuking massive. She was blocking my view, from the footwell to the dashboard. After quarter of an hour of monstrous sucking, I let fly and she gobbled the lot. She sat up and went to give me a kiss. Seeing her coming towards me, I honestly thought I was going to turn to stone, such was the horror of her j-izz and minstrel smile.

    That was it for me, I jumped out of the car and legged it. I was a hundred metres down the road before I realised I still had my knob out!!!!
     
  7. Med Hat, Winter Repair 1983 - Too many to mention. Some even used to wait until we were pissed at the end of the night and round us up like lassie.

    AFKAC - hysterical. More than one chuckle stifled whilst reading that.
     
  8. Aldergrove 1993

    I was on an early duty and had retired early to my pit.

    My welsh oppo had gone to the bop and had told me to put the pillow over my head if I didn't want to hear / see him climb on top of the EEC butter mountain he was bringing back to the block.

    Reliable as ever, Daz brought back a growler of monsterous proportions with zits all over her face and plasters over the tattoos on her arms..... She had the Broadest NI accent I had ever heard, that was soon enough muffled as he was trying to choke her with his Bloodstick.

    He wasn't bothered that I was awake, and to be frank nor was she.... I was sniggering because I was sober and could see what a hoofer is was. I just wanted them to hurry up so I could get some shuteye.....

    Not log after in a high pitch Welsh accent I got 'MDN... I'm up her arse.. is it'

    'Magic mate' I replied from under the pilow, trying not to picture that in my mind.

    All went quiet for a moment then I could hear muffled laughter from a range of 'too close for comfort'

    As I pulled back my pillow and sat up, there was Daz, with a Full on woody pumping it over my bedding... You dirty cnut I screamed and leapt out of bed to avoid any more milk heading my direction.... I was sober and livid and he was pissed up and laughing his head off with a tool in his hand that had just been up the tubby mingers apple fritter.

    I was going to punch him but immedialty wondered what the image of two naked men, a spunky bed and a Tub of lard laughing in the corner would look like to any onlookers passing the room and looking in in hearing the comotion.

    I called him a cnut and told him he was kipping in my pit and me in his as I had to be on duty in a couple of hours....

    When I woke up in the morning there was a great big skiddy on the bed from the munter he was spudding. :cry: :cry:

    Not two weeks later I walked into the ablutions and saw the same hoofer with a then Cpl Pilot (now WO1 QHI) sunk to his back wheels on top of the tumble dryer
     
  9. Glasgow, 2000

    We were standing by a ship in build, and were staying in private accomodation in Partick. After a night down the Byers road, we retired to a squalid establishment called "Cleopatra's", which is quite simply The Most Horrible Club In Scotland. I soon fell under the spell of a stretch-pant clad minx, who had similar vital statistics to the Pyramid of Cheops and a face like Crash on Deck. Two pints of snake bite and a taxi ride later, we were back at her place in Annisland. We sat down in front of the telly, and things soon became creepy and squalid. She asked me to comb her hair, and so I gamely kneeled behind her and ran a comb through her lank and greasy locks. As the comb skipped over the scabs and bumps on her head, I was rapidly sobering up, in the process proving that the body can process more than one unit of alchohol an hour, in extremis.... I cast a bleak and despairing eye around the room, taking in the pile of soiled underwear, the picture of Lady Di, the overflowing and malodorous cat litter tray, and the copious correspondence from the local Mental health Trust. 8O Anyway, "England Expects", and all that, she had payed for the taxi so it seemed ungentlemanly not to pay her back in kind, so I folllowed her into her boudoir in the manner of a man walking to the gallows, and had the kind of sex that makes you want to lobotomise yourself with a screwdriver in order to forget..

    The following morning I awoke pinned to the matress by an arm the size of a young oak across my chest, while herself was busily giving her oppo the de-brief over the phone. She said that she had "found herself a wee Sailor-boy", and that "he has a pretty wee tongue on him..." :oops:
    There is no longer Walk of Shame than that from Annisland to Yarrows, with the rank taste of indifferently maintained clout in your mouth... :cry:
     
  10. good effort- old vanny spiller would have been a better bet eh!!!
     
  11.