Had a bit of a mad day yesterday. In between going to test shoot a nice matched pair of Purdeys and resigning from the HAC, my missus thought she had gone into labour. Anyway, it's a slow morning so I thought I'd come here and bore you cunts with the story. The day was all going rather well, apart from a bit of traffic. It had been a beautiful morning and I'd been out in the countryside blasting clays and seagulls and eating bacon sarnies. After I'd finished shooting, I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to grab a Kentucky, go down to Armoury House and hand my kit in and sign off. It's been a long time coming, I'm ditching London soon and the rest of the TA is quite frankly shite so transferring to another unit isn't an option for me. I don't do drill practice in portacabins, sorry. So with a bit of a lump in my throat, I handed over my MOD 90 and realised that it was the first time since the age of 16 that I didn't have a service number. Whilst sorting through my bursting locker of junk, I pondered on the fact that the mob really does make you accumulate some crap. Save for my beret, Lowas and a Camelback which I traded some unit stickers for with some yanks, I didn't keep anything and handed over a massive box of junk to the store man. As an armourer, I'm obviously involved with weapons on a daily basis and I'm reasonably well known within the unit for fucking about with old swords and stuff, occasionally I help the Pikemen and Musketeers out with a bit of maintenance in exchange for lunch and a bit of port. As I turned to leave, the store man presented me with a lovely leaving present; ''here you are Ravers, some old codger left this to the Regiment and no one wants it, don't suppose you fancy it? It's going in the skip otherwise.'' Being a bit of a hoarder and a pikey I was well chuffed as he gave me what appears to be a genuine 18th century Scottish basket hilt sword. It's in gash order mind, and some twat has spray painted the hilt in Halfords gold paint. Once it's been through the sand blaster and I've cleaned it up a bit, it'll look awesome above my fireplace. I've found another one here that appears to be the same, towards the bottom of the page: Sold Items - Antique Arms and Weapons from around the World It was at this point that I received a frantic call from the wife: ''Babe, I think I'm going into labour, my waters just broke a little bit, can you come home?'' So I said my good byes, promised to stay in touch with the lads, thanked them for the sword and jumped in the car. As I battled through the London traffic to get home, eyeing up birds in their summer wear, I watched as a scene unfolded in front of me. A smartly dressed man was walking down the street on his iphone. In broad daylight, I then watched as another gentleman of a dusky persuasion calmly wandered up to the bloke on the phone, punched him square in the face, grabbed his mobile and walked off. At this point, years of military training kicked in and I leapt out of the car. I grabbed one of the Purdeys that was sat on my back seat, loaded a pair of cartridges and picked up the sword in the other hand. I chased the assailant down City Road, shouting at the cunt and firing a warning shot into the air. He obviously shat it and curled up in a ball on the floor, fearing for his life. I held him at sword point until the police arrived and after checking that the geezer in the suit was OK and receiving a pat on the back from plod, I jumped back in the car and continued home to my missus. Now obviously that last paragraph is bollocks. It's what went through mind, but if I'm honest the real course of events went roughly like this: After watching the bloke get twatted, I thought; ''ouch that had to hurt, poor fucker.'' I then watched as the dusky gentleman made off with his phone, he looked big and he probably had a knife (he was black after all), so I sat in the safety of my car and did nothing. I considered stopping and helping the victim but there were a few other people around and I was on a red route and quite frankly, in a bit of a hurry. It occurred to me afterwards that never again in my entire life (probably) will I be driving through a built up area with two guns, a box of 250 cartridges and a massive sword in my car and have the opportunity to use them on a criminal. Now obviously I'm a little fucked off that I missed my chance and I would have loved to unload a 12g into the thief's kneecap and fucked him up a bit with the sword. In reality if I had taken this course of action, despite doing society a favour, I realise I'd probably be spending a very long time receiving free food and accom at her Majesties pleasure, that's if I hadn't first been shot by a police sniper. Anyway I got home, pondered what could have been and tended to the missus. Turns out she wasn't giving birth and she'd just pissed herself a bit.