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War Hero
Book Reviewer
Lets face it, Lil's is becoming slightly left of gay. What we need to do is start again.

After the first Gulf war, i was sent down to the Falklands. Clearly i had upset someone and they intended to pass me off to annoy the Crabs. This started from day one. As a fully confirmed steely eyed doer of death, i found their ways annoying to say the least. On a muster parade one morning, an RAF Warrant Officer asked me why my toecaps were not bulled. I informed him that my Squadron doesn't bull boots, we leave that to the foot guards. Fucking imbecile. Could he not see that i was a roughy, toughy, trained killer? Bullshit aside, MPA was full of bars and i spent most of the time trawling them, trying to get into the females rooms, or preferably their knickers. Needless to say i failed utterly. Clearly these crab birds were fearful of a bona fide warrior in their midst. Either that or they were fucking lesbians.

One evening i was walking up the bloody long corridor, minding my own business smoking a fag. The following is an account of what happened next;

Female Crab (From behind me) - "Put that cigarette out"

Me - "Get stuffed"

FC (Now in front of me) - "How dare you. I'm an RAF Police Officer"

Me - "Fuck my luck. A pig in knickers"

FC - "Do you know it's an offence to smoke in these corridors"

Me - "Is it? I can't see any no smoking signs"

FC - "You're standing underneath one. Put that bloody fag out"

Me (takes a couple more pulls on fag and drops it on floor) - "There you go love."

FC - "Don't fucking call me love. Show some respect. I'm reporting you. What's your name?"

Me - "LCpl GS Table"

FC - "You haven't heard the last of this. I'm watching you"

Bully for you love. Anyhoo, as luck would have it i was in the air refuellers bar that night (the one with all the alarms in it) whereapon i spied on my power mad sweetheart sitting with some of her crab chums. Unfortunately for her, i was pissed and in the mood for mischief and revenge. I popped off to the karzi, took off a boot, removed a sock and proceded to lay a cable in it. Trying to curl one off into a sock is quite tricky, especially when you're pissing all over the place as well. After various yoga positions, i managed to leave a decent deposit in the sock and popped back to my oppos with what looked like the strangest sausage in the world. Moving my muckers to a safe distance i started to swing the sock around my head, a bit like David with his sling shot, although David didn't have particles of shit flying everywhere. When there was enough momentum, i launched the missile which flew across the bar and landed with a satisfying "Plop" sound on the coppers table. Being rozzers, their first reaction was to examine the item in front of them. "What the fuck is this?" enquired one. "Christ knows" said another. Another, much braver than the rest, pick up the mysterious sock shaped parcel with with his pen and examined it close up, only to fling it (to my utter delight) into the lap of the power mad bitch. "It's a fucking sock full of shit" he cried. The love of my life shot up as if someone had just shot a tazer up her fragrant starfish and in her haste to escape the stench, tripped over and banged her head on a chair, much to the amusement of my muckers.

My point? There isn't one. I just wanted to share a dit with you. I'm off now to shove some fireworks up a cats arse.
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War Hero
Book Reviewer
Thinking about it, poo featured quite a bit on that tour.

We did one of those "The Argies are invading again" exercises and i was tasked, with a few of my lot and a couple of crabs, to go off on a foot patrol. These crabs were clearly not up to it and insisted on stopping every 15 minutes where they would remove their webbing and helmets and crash out on the deck. My mate got pissed off with this and on the fourth unscheduled stop, stated he need to empty his bowels. However, he took one of the crabs helmets with his. As we moved off, we watched with anticipation as the warrior placed said battle bowler on his noggin, only to have half a ton of shit fall on his head. Laugh? I nearly shat.
Good call.

Lil's really has been shite lately, hence my absence.

Nothing like a good shit in a sock dit to get things back on track.

Twas the night before Christmas.....well actually it wasn't, it was mid July and we were sailing into the port of Honky Fid after a few arduous weeks at sea, we had to wait at anchor until our allotted time to sail in, escorted by the Hong Kong police in some mega Gucci RIBs.

Anyway, just so happens some big fancy cruise ship was in town at the same time, they too were waiting at anchor next to us and the throngs of fanny on the upper deck were clearly visible to all of us. As is the SOP in this scenario, we decided to take our tops off and start flexing under the pretence that we were cleaning the 4.5. I stood on the fwd breakwater and cleaned the barrel in a suggestive manner.

After a few cheers from the cruise ship and some wolf whistles they weighed anchor and sailed in before us. After a few hours of fucking about, we sailed in too and berthed right behind the cruise ship with our arse end against theirs. A few punters were on the QD of the cruise ship which was obviously much much higher than ours, we waved, they waved back, they invited us onboard for drinks later.

Unfortunately our plans to invade the cruise ship in our best banyan rig were dashed when the Jimmy made a pipe saying that the cruise ship was completely OOB to all ship's company. Bad times indeed. Turns out the sneeky fuckers in the weird room had been invited to a cock and arse and us lower deck scum were most definitely not welcome.

Anyway, we fucked off ashore got pissed, went whoring etc. and had an all round good time in one of the best cities on earth. That night after returning to the ship, we were out tabbing on the QD as one does, when we decided to exact our revenge upon the cruise ship.

So, pussers socks were removed, lengths were coiled into them and we launched our disgusting missiles high up onto the QD of the cruise ship, you can really get a good bit of distance if you swing the sock round a few times like a slingshot.

Not sure what the outcome was, I was bedded down with a stinking hangover the following morning, I can only assume they were very happy with their presents.
Thinking about it, poo featured quite a bit on that tour.

We did one of those "The Argies are invading again" exercises and i was tasked, with a few of my lot and a couple of crabs, to go off on a foot patrol. These crabs were clearly not up to it and insisted on stopping every 15 minutes where they would remove their webbing and helmets and crash out on the deck. My mate got pissed off with this and on the fourth unscheduled stop, stated he need to empty his bowels. However, he took one of the crabs helmets with his. As we moved off, we watched with anticipation as the warrior placed said battle bowler on his noggin, only to have half a ton of shit fall on his head. Laugh? I nearly shat.
That reminds me:

Second hand dit alert so please don't accuse me of dit rustling, but I do know the chap who was involved and I trust his integrity fully so this must be true. I also may have posted this before somewhere, but fuck it, it's a good dit.

Norway at some point and some green lidded types are doing some skiing and swimming in the icey lake business. Anyway there are some Lynx's or Junglies or whatever type of WAFU machine they take to Norway, that are also part of the picture.

So, one day the WAFUs are accompanying the booties for a little bit of familiarisation and team bonding, they are on a long walk or possibly ski trip, just taking in the scenery and breathing in the nice icy Norwegian air. One of the pilot chaps, decides that it will be jolly japes to put a large heavy block of ice in amongst one of the senior booty's gear without his knowledge.

After a few miles, senior booty chap gets the hump and can't work out why his bergen is so fucking heavy, he is proper threaders and decides to repack his gear. On opening his top flap, he is greeted by a huge block of ice and two WAFUs laughing like masturbating chimps.

The booty takes the joke well but silently decides to get his own back in a spectacular fashion.

The following evening, he looks at the flight schedule and realises that the next day will involve a whole morning of flying with no breaks. A plan hatches.

He creeps into the helicopter and finds the pilot and the observer's helmets hanging up in the cab. He takes the helmets from their perches and pulls out all of the padding and radio gubbins from the helmets, placing each one in turn up to his buttocks. He grunts a bit and curls out a couple of epic logs into each helmet, the kind of shit that can only be achieved after eating weeks of dehydrated arctic rations. Yum.

Mr Booty then delicatley repacks the helmets with their padding and radio gubbins, pushing the poo firmly down away from view. He places the lids back on their perches and goes back to bed. One should remember at this point that we are in Norway, Norway is rather cold and overnight, the shit freezes, eliminating much of it's odour and it's squishiness, this helps the turds lie undetected in the helmets.

So the following day, the crew jump in the cab and pull on their cold helmets ready for a long morning of flying. The booty decides to accompany them for a bit of a joy ride. So they take off and start flying around, it's cold remember, so the pilot puts the heating on full blast and everyone is happy until the poo begins to melt inside the lids. As a funny smell begins to emerge in the cockpit, accusing glances are exchanged between the pilot and observer, until brown pungent liquid starts to run down the side of the pilot's face.

Having both hands on the controls he decides to investigate the liquid with his tongue, unsure of the strange, new, unpleasant taste, he looks to the observer for guidance who now also has molten shart running down his forehead and nose.

Good times.
Continuing the frame of sock dits....

Mate of mine was trapping a "well heeled" young lady who asked him (and a mate) to go and meet "Mummy & Daddy" at their place "in the Country" to get their approval prior to impending nuptials! Not being ones to turn down "up homers" and the chance to bone the Chief bridesmaid (sister) in the process, at the weekend jumped into the car and roared off to the gaff in deepest Hampshire. Turns out this place was an old Geoprgian farmhouse up 3 miles of drive. So after an afternoon / evening of drinkie poos etc eventually staggered off to appointed rooms (not en suite) ... Middle of the night mate gets caught short and rather than try to find the bog which was miles away ... opted to curl one down in his sock. Having done so wondered where to stow it and in his rather inebriated state opened the window ... and having given it the obligatory twice round his head let fly and the offending sock sailed out into the night.

The following day breakfast was served in the conservatory and it was drizzling slightly ... half way through breakers ... Mummy looks up and sliding majestically down the glass was ... the sock trailing a brown sludge! Needless to say he didn't get approval ...


War Hero
Book Reviewer
The beauty of the Falklands was that we had two man rooms (unheard of in the Army) with a hot and cold sinkrinal in them. This prevented the need to walk the ten or so metres to the latrines in the middle of the night when you needed a piss. One evening, after a heavy session down at Deanos in Port Stanley, we came back to the facility and held an impromptu piss up in our accomodation corridor. After about half and hour, one of the Infantry lads asked me where the bog was. "Fuck walking down to the latrines mate, just pop in that room and used the sink" says i. "Cheers mate" replied the Infanteer.

About an hour or so later the chap, who's room it was, turned up and had a couple of cans with us and stated he was going to get his head down. He entered his room and we heard "What the fucking shitting Jesus? Which one of you cunts has been in here then?" On walking in the room, i saw him pointing, horrified, at his sink. Left plumb in the middle of the sink was a perfectly crimped bum cigar. To add insult to injury, the dashing Infanteer had wiped his arse on the curtains.
Gen dit.
Finished a long patrol and one of the baby stokers bimbles off weekend as soon as we hit the wall. When he gets home he goes out on the lash and gets absolutely bladdered. During the night he needs a dump and goes crashing around the house in what, is now, unfamiliar territory, looking for the heads.
Mummy wakes up due to the noise and goes looking for her little boy and can't find him. She hears a noise from his wardrobe and cautiously opens the door to met by the sight of her baby curling one down in said wardrobe, his drunken response was "FUCK OFF, I'm in this trap".

Gen Dit as his mum phoned the boat up and complained to the skipper about what us nasty submariners had turned her little boy into. She also wouldn't let him ride his motorbike back to Guzz as it was too dangerous.
Just thought of another, boat was in Rotterdam and I was sharing a room with my mate, a chef, when I got stung for an extra duty. I got back to the hotel the next day, opened the hotel room door and got met by what can only be described as a brown stinking fug of foul air.In the the bin was a pair of nicks with the remains of a brown anaconda in it and shit footprints all over the carpet.

I gave cookie a boy a kick (the cleaners were coming down the corridor) and told him to sort it while I went for a shower. Unfortunately he'd tried to wash all the shite off himself before passing out and trashed the bathroom including 2 shit handprints inside the glass shower screen so I thought "fuck it, I'm off to the pub". To make matters worse one of the RO's had crashed in my rack and swamped it.

Just to round a perfect day off, in the pub were most of the JR's mess, the couple of beers turned into an all day sesh ending up in a sex club around the corner which in turn caused me to be 4 hours adrift with the boat under sailing orders (just made it as the gangway was about to go off) and me lifting me lid at the next table.
Back to the sock and shit related shenanigans:

My cousin lives in a small hamlet a few miles from Torpoint, near where Stan lives. Anyway my ship was doing some bone ex down in Guz and due to some machinery breakdown we had to go alongside for the night and were given a buckshee night off. It was Thursday so I decided to smash in half a day's leave and go and visit my cousin for the weekend. I jumped on the Torpoint ferry hoping to grab a taxi up to his. All the cabs must have been having the night of because I waited fucking ages and none came so I started walking.

After a mile or so, I started to feel a rumble and felt an overwhelming need to empty my bowells. I found a secluded driveway up near where a lot of senior retired officers live. I dropped my kecks and cheesed down a nice long Bungle's finger in the middle of the driveway. Having no tissues, I resorted to using one of my socks to wipe up.

Sockless but satisfied and feeling fresh, I continued on my way, until after another mile or so, a shocking realisation slowly dawned upon me. My socks were Raleigh socks, they had my name and number sewn into them and were now sat atop a steaming pile of shit in the middle of some ex Admiral's driveway.

Decided it was probably best to go back and hide the evidence.


War Hero
Book Reviewer
Went to a reunion at Blandford in 2009 and although i could have dossed in the Officers mess, i decided to share a tent with one of my old war oppos. It was a bit of a mistake really. He is a notorious loony who suffers from PTSD and can get gobby after a few sherberts, True to form, he got absolutely shitfaced in the Sergeants mess and gobbed off to all and sundry, so much so, the RSM requested i get rid of him before he got the kicking of his life. I escorted him what seemed like miles back to where we were camping on the sports field and couldn't be arsed to walk all the way back. As i was pretty hammered, i decided to get my head down along with my insane chum.

I remember having this realistic dream where all i could smell was shit. I awoke and oddly enough, all i could smell was shit. Concerned, i did a quick check and test of my doss bag which was mercifully free of any waste. I sat up and saw my oppo sitting naked in the middle of the tent looking like a shit smeared version of Colonel Kurtz from Apocolypse Now. The fucker had shat in his maggot and managed to smear it all over himself. I booted him out of the tent and told him to fuck right off, the filthy beast. To this day, he is convinced that it was me that shat in his scratcher, the fucking idiot.
I remember having this realistic dream where all i could smell was shit.
I had a dream just like that once. I awoke to find the lad in the bunk beneath mine hastily gathering up his, duvet, mattress, pillow and clothing into a big fetid shitty bundle.

Being a good lad he hoyed the lot off the arse end of the ship, something he regretted the following morning when he sobered up and realised that his phone, wallet and keys were in his jeans pocket which had also made it into the oggin.
Officer of the Day HMS York Rosyth some of the grunters decided to have a run ashore in Edinburgh, off down Rose street they trundled.
Some jockenese porridge wog hears there accents and slips a crippler drug cocktail into DWEOs wet, 10 minutes later he goes fcuking bulgy eyeballed, sweaty and starts to shake like a shitting dog. Before the est of the grunters could stop him he'd done a runner out of the boozer. Dweo wa a bit of a Bear Grylls type chap avid survival mag reader, its fcuking November and freezing and forwhater reason his drug addled mind dcides he should take all of his clothes off and hide. -10 in an alleyway lost his clothes some remembering an article he read in a mag he takes an enormous shit and smears his entire body in it hoping it would form an airtight seal around his body to retain the body heat.
Someones raises the alarm probably from the stench and the police arrive then pass him onto the provost. I as OOD get a phone call about 2330 from the Provost Marshall I he asks my name and I say CPO S I need to speak to an officer immediately he states I say sorry but there's none onboard there all on a run ashore. After a pause he says Chief cleer the flightdeck area I only want you at the gangway.
15 minutes later it appears - a shit covered naked DWEO escorted by two crushers and the PM still rather groggy he smiles at me which cracked all the dried excrement on his face and says sorry Stan. PM says get him showered and into his bunk and tell no one except the XO and MAA tomorrow - good oldStan can't keep a secret the whole fcuking ships company knew by breakfast, poor old DWEO held left the ship shortly afterwards and he was actually a fcuking nice guy.

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