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5 Minute Fiction-enjoy!


ROTHESAY, Monday 5:15 am
Tug Wilson woke up, and realised he was stark bollock naked and bloody freezing. There was a mountain laying beside him rolled up in all the blankets and sheets that had been on the bed the previous night. The noises eminating from beneath the heap of old eiderdowns ranged from horse-like snorts and whinnies to full throttle lumberjacks chainsaws gone berserk. Tug tried to get his senses into some kind of working order and began to survey the gloom that he had surfaced in to. A pair of old brown curtains, dangling by their last two hooks at the bedroom windows allowed just enough light in for him to see that he was not actually in the hotel room he should be in. There was a battered, cigarette burnt dressing table propped up against the far wall, its two front legs balanced on bits of cardboard, and scattered across the top of the dresser was an assortment of lipsticks, face creams, deodourants and chunks of jewelery that Bet Lynch would have been proud of. The forlorn remains of two fish suppers took pride of place in the centre of the dresser, and dangling from the mirror was a gigantic black bra and a pair of equally enormous off-white ladies panties. Tug was now feeling very confused and, it was at this precise moment that the midget in his head donned a pair of steaming boots and commenced to kick the crap out of the back of his eyeballs. The ferret that had taken a dump in his mouth the previous night had already done a runner, leaving him with a blended aftertaste of cod, chips, deep fried haggis and weasel shite. The midget continued his assault on Tugs optic nerves as the humungous mound of female flesh snoring loudly next to him regained consciousness, rolled over and uncovered it head. A big, round face peered at him in the early morning gloom, offered up a gummy, toothless smile and then began speaking in a croaky Scottish hung-over accent. Tug zeroed in on its mouth, located above at least six chins and below a nose that would not look out of place on an elephant seal.
"Yill no gerra tarksi this time o' the feckin' mornin' lad, so I'd get a feckin' shift on iff'n yae wanna get back tae yer feckin' sub before it feckin' sails.....yae ken??". Her breath battered his nostrils, a foul mixture of fish supper, Glenfiddich and Capstan full strength tabs.
The words filtered slowly through Tugs addled brain. Morning.....Early.....No Transport.....Get a fu**ing shift on!
She blew him a big blubbery kiss, rolled over - farted and prepared to kip through until opening time. Tug catapulted off the bed and started grovelling around on the floor in a frantic search for his clothes. He hauled on his underwear and trousers, then pulled his shirt over his throbbing head. As he was yanking his socks and shoes on, whilst simultaneously hopping dangerously down the staircase - the voice boomed a final time from the bedroom he had just rapidly vacated.
"Shut the feckin' door on yer way oot!!"

The front door slammed and Tug ran full pelt down the rain-lashed, wind-swept silent street, in search of the harbour and the jetty the boat was tied up alongside.

It was close to 6:00 am as Tug clattered down the gangway onto the submarines casing. He was soaked to the skin, freezing, hung over and in
dire need of a large fried breakfast. The sentry, swathed in layers of foul weather clothing nearly had a heart attack as he sudddenly became aware of the soggy apparition stepping off the end of the gangway. He quickly stood to attention and saluted.
"Morning Captain!", the sentry said.
"Lieutenant Commander Wilson returned the salute, hoping that the sentry would not pay too much attention to his somewhat dishevelled state.
"Morning breakfast on yet?"
Wilkes smiled knowingly, "Think so sir....harbour stations is at half seven ' aint it?"
The Captain descended down the ladder into the warmer air of the submarines pressure hull. Just before he disappeared from view he called up to the trot sentry.
"Oh...and Wilkes....",
"You never fu**ing saw me!"
Reminds me of a mate's dit when on a survey ship (can't remember the name now), and they were the first navy ship in years to visit Valparaiso and had a stonking reception from the local ladies. The ship was at anchor and running a boat routine.
Last boat back and the OOD is told by the QM that a few are still ashore.
OOD awakens at 0700 and sends the boat back in to collect the condemned men. As the SMB arrives alongside with a rough looking bunch of passengers in sat on the back end the OOD shout's down "Well done lads, that'll be you lot at the skippers table then"
At which point the skippers sticks his head out of the cabin and replies
"Or maybe not".

Disclaimer: second hand dit, words and times may not be exactly as written
Your home may be at risk if you do not keep up with your mortgage repayments.
Only women and poofs moisturize.
Back in the 60's it was the practice just before we sailed from Dolphin for the Captain to come down to the boat with a group of Senior Officers Capt SM 1 normally. Few words, salute then down the gangway, where we were closed up at Harbor Station, casing party ready. In gangway, skipper on bridge, let go forward, let go aft, slow astern. (Do they still do that?????)

On this day Truncheon is sailing for Fishplay Exercise, then jollies to Bergen, Helsinki and Lubeck 12 weeks away. AB M***d RP3 is late in fact very late having woken up in deepest Pompey. He hits the pierhead steps off the PAS Boat from Vernon at the run, resplendent in his brown shoes, brown suit and green shirt plus shreddies. Along the jetty is Lt Cmdr Belton and party. Our brave AB slings them all a salute not withstanding he is in civvies and a cheery "Good Morning Sir". Then to cheers and applause from the casing party, hops on board . Captain gets up to bridge and off we go.

Hunt the boat for spare steaming kit for M***dy and a cap for Captains Table. Weighed off 1 days Leave, tough call we are at sea for four weeks. Passing comment from Skipper. "Capt SM was very impressed that my crew were that keen to get back to my boat". Mucho gold stars we think.

Not quite the same, but boats sailing from Faslane tended to be much the same. On this day though a certain SSN was paying of and on it's final trip to refit, so not the normal waving of party of SM3 and a couple of staff but Commodore Clyde, RM band the lot. Just after the let go Ford let go aft bit you could hear the baleful message from manoeuvering over the control room broadcast waft out into the crisp Faslane morning, @reactor scram reactor scram reduce all electrical load ford.' We hastily sent the bits of string back to the jetty and the farewell party walked dejectedly back to the command building and about an hour later we quietly slipped away.
Nutty said:
On this day Truncheon is sailing for Fishplay Exercise

:lol: :lol: :lol:
Please tell me that you had "HM Submarines" on your cap tally, I can only imagine the humour walking round with "Truncheon" on yer forehead, nearly as funny as seeing a Wren with "Beaver" on hers. :lol: :lol:
Lingyai said:
Nutty said:
On this day Truncheon is sailing for Fishplay Exercise

:lol: :lol: :lol:
Please tell me that you had "HM Submarines" on your cap tally, I can only imagine the humour walking round with "Truncheon" on yer forehead, nearly as funny as seeing a Wren with "Beaver" on hers. :lol: :lol:

Perhaps a little Deja Vue as well considering Nutty's post service employment.
Lingyai said:
Why, did he also serve on "HMS Loafing in the sun drinking red wine" as well?

No I had HMS/m A1 on my first cap tall. As to Truncheon I was Plod for many a year and use to smack miscreants with one (no realy we used our radios) cos you did not have to submit a report as you had to if you even drew your Truncheon.

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