I am a stupid man. Thats it, its out there. Ive dropped screwdivers in my daughter's eye, adopted stray dogs and pooed in my pants for a dare. But I reckon there are some arrsers out there who need to open up and let the world know just how stupid they are. Im not taking about MdN knocking one out into a fish tank, which is odd but pre-meditated, Im talking about epic (but humourous) feck ups, by accident: Im gonna steal one of my own (sorry Scotty) to start us off, heres how a rough young lad from the wrong side of the Pennines rubbed shoulders with his betters.... Right then, now I normally take about 3 pints to tell this... it's the Ronnie Corbett in me you see! So me and 12 other thrusting young Royal Marines Captains turn up at Staff College (please forgive the Ruperishness - we were RM so not proper officers). 6 months of very dull, very boring men talking about guns and technology and history...yawn. So we, the official mascots of morale, lighten things up by turning up at the bar twice a week in fancy dress (Marine thing...). You know Mr T, Smurfs, Gay Biker, Village People, Boxing Ring, Streetfighter II, Storm Troopers usual stuff. Well, there's something about Bootneck Officers and Posh Tw*ts from the Cavalry and Guards Regiments: we have nothing in common but get on like the proverbial firey maisonette. We got very pally with a chap called Rupert (honestly!) and he was terribly posh, very well connected etc. Thought we were "interesting" and said we "simply had to keep in touch" after Staff College. So the scene is set... About 6 months later, we get an email from Rupert, "do we want to come to a bash, at Mummies hoyse, Harry and Wills might be there, the theme is feathers and fur....?" Do we, feck yes! Sorry, distracted there for a minute... Where was I, right, the "Do"! So we do the ring round but there's only 2 Bootnecks in the UK at the alloted time (ops/courses etc) so me and a pal are the sole representatives of Her Majesty's Commandos available. We put the planning team together and do the operational analysis: it's posh, so no perviness, no black maskers and binbag costumes, and we'll have to keep our arrses in. OK. So we decide to go for rented costumes, which goes against the grain as home-made is best, but with Royalty potentially present we can't afford to let the side down. We think about costumes, Feathers and Fur, so, what, dog-suits? Cat-suits (hmmm, too lateral)? Rio Carnival feathery body-stockings - too pervy? Red Indians with headdress? Nope, got to keep our arrses in. Then we get it, the perfect costumes....... We book the rooms in Chelsea Barracks, turn up early on Friday afternoon, have a couple of "sharpeners" in the bar and get changed. Now, were standing at the bar in Chelsea Barracks in our silly rigs and all these posh plummy 2nd lieutenants are asking us questions about polo ponies and Pimms and it occurs to me - I never did ask Rupert about the protocol for these sorts of dos. And being a bit of a rough diamond I just made a few basic assumptions based on previous experience. I can hear the faint whine of a warning siren in the back of my mind... I shrug it off. This was a mistake, no siren sound without a reason..... I think every good tale has a moral to it: The moral to this one is "never apply a Royal Marines template to a Civvy run ashore - it will end in tears" We dive in the cab, give the cockney sparra the address and I voice my slight discomfort to my mukker. "What's the worst that can happen?" says he. I shrug, it's too late anyway, we have stopped outside Jeeves and Wooster's Pad. It's a "Mews" (I'm told). 7 stories high and mahoosive. As we get out I can hear the cabbie giggling in a way that makes me think he's seen Dom Jolly sketches go pear-shaped before. There's that warning siren again. Louder now. I knock on the door and wait. I say door, all it was shy was a drawbridge and a portculliss. I swear to God, a FECKING BUTLER opened the door. A real 'un! Tails, Morning Suit, the -ish! With his eyes shut and in a meg-hoitytoity voice he manages to get out the words "Good eeeeevening, may I take your......" before he is struck dumb. His jaw actually went slack. Inside the palace there is a sea of black tie and ballgowns, not the 200quid numbers from M&S like mine, the real ones! All the chicks have on feather boas and stoles (sp?) and fur coats and feathery masks and stuff. All the gentlemen are wearing feather or fur trim on their Gieves and Hawkes Dinner Suits. Outside the door me and Royal are in a slightly different attire: I'm in a chicken suit and Dan's wearing a bear costume. I swear you could hear a pin drop before Rupert swoops down a wooden starcase and shouts "my dear Booty fellows, do come in, have you met Tamara?" He didn't even skip a beat! Bear looks at Chicken, Chicken shrugs and looks at Bear. Bear turns to Butler and says "sorry, mate, genuine mistake". Gives him his daysack and gets on it! Best party I ever went to, by acountry mile. Harry and Wills didn't turn up in the end and we had to travel back to Chelsea Barracks on the tube at rush hour, but that's another dit! So, "self-depricating humour, in your own time................GO ON"