Back to Basics

#41
Thanks to Ninja I have just had a poo-related memory dug from the depths of my beer-addled brain. 'Twas Ark Royal and we'd been back at sea for almost a day having spent some time in Majorca. Anyway, the night before we'd gone ashore for a few last ales and hearty helpings of paella. My mate (RIP) and I were on the program to blast off into the ether and play around pretending to shoot each other down, which we duly did. Playtime didn't last too long. After about 10 minutes of turning upside down and inside out my mate called a halt to the proceedings and then tried, subtely, to tell me he wasn't feeling too good. He obviously had an embarrassing problem since he didn't want to share it with the fighter controller and the rest of the Ops Room. Anyhow, he sidled up alongside me and held up the white plastic sheet from his kneeboard, onto which he'd written (in chinagraph). "I've shit myself".

Being the caring, sharing sort of bloke I am I obviously didn't relay the message but just about died of laughter. Without letting everybody on the boat know, we couldn't really 'Charlie' early, so we spent the next 40 minutes or so stooging around more than we normally did, while still pretending to be steely-eyed bringers of death (ahem). The fighter controller knew that something was amiss but knew better than to ask (he was the Sqn 'D', not one of the boat's).

Fast forward the end of the sortie and it was back to Mum for tea and medals. No sooner had we shut down than I saw my mate clamber down the ladder and then waddle across the flight deck. Now the killer end to this dit (as far as my amusement was concerned) was the fact that we were flying around in immersion suits. So that poor bugger had been sitting in the runniest, prawn and octopus flavoured crap for the best part of an hour, whilst it burnt his arse and invaded his nostrils with the putrid stench.

I caught up with him as we signed the jets back in and it was really funny watching the expressions of everyone crammed into the little maintrol space (or whatever it was called) as the smell from Lt Shitty-Suit offended the noses of all present. He decided it would be better to wait a while until the de-brief so, in the meantime, wandered off to the back of the boat where we lived to get cleaned up. The story should, of course, end there but that would have been a bit too kind. Not so for Lt Crap Suit. He thought he'd got away with it and, basically, just took all the bits and pieces from his immersion suit pockets and then climbed into the shower, still clothed in everything but helmet, lifejacket and boots. I've still got the photo at home as we disturbed the peace of his moment of shame. His expression tells a story of telling me to go elsewhere as he stands in a green bag pulled around his waist and full to his waist of shit-coloured demin water :-D
No no no don't tell me you were a zoomie on ARK 2000-03???
 
#42
No no no don't tell me you were a zoomie on ARK 2000-03???
No, you're safe, Stan. I left the RN in '96 and it's gone downhill ever since :) I did 2 back-to-back tours in Ark, so have good knowledge of where the Wardroom, Aircrew Feeder, NAAFI and Sqn Briefing Room are. Apart from that, I did once go to the COMCEN and Chinese cobbler but got lost on the way back. I did leave breadcrumbs to show me the way out of the bowels of the boat but some bastard hoovered them up.
 
#43
No, you're safe, Stan. I left the RN in '96 and it's gone downhill ever since :) I did 2 back-to-back tours in Ark, so have good knowledge of where the Wardroom, Aircrew Feeder, NAAFI and Sqn Briefing Room are. Apart from that, I did once go to the COMCEN and Chinese cobbler but got lost on the way back. I did leave breadcrumbs to show me the way out of the bowels of the boat but some bastard hoovered them up.
Pontius
Think that was Jamie Millers time as commander and my old mucker Eddie Seaboots was WO Gunner happy ship, by the way the WEO at the same time is now working as a maintenance man at a holiday camp in Newquay who says you never get on afteryou've left the service.
 
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#44
Taking a leisurely bimble back towards the thread has got me thinking. Does the title of "Back to Basics" mean that someone has got to go and shag Edwina Currie?
 
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Seaweed

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#45
Now the wafus are in on this I will wheel on a friend who I knew when he was changing from Electrical to fish-head, before he was 'asked' if he would like to be an Observer. Deciding he would rather kill himself than have somebody else do it for him (we were based at Portland and constantly distracted by being sent out to look for mislaid aircraft, this was in the days of Leonides-engined Whirlwinds), he promptly volunteered for helicopter pilot which is what the Navy really wanted anyway. So off he went to Linton to start learning to fly. He told me later that he always felt guilty if he flew over Newark as that was where he had chucked his sick-bag overboard out of his Chipmunk.
 

Blackrat

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#46
A good mucker of mine told me this dit from when he was on site guard in Germany.

For those not in the know, site guard was when the stirling chaps of the Army would have to sit up freezing towers guarding missile silos. I had to do it once and was so bored, i felt like topping myself. In any event, my mate and his band of merry men took over from the Royal Highland Fusiliers. These fuckers were notorious for leaving shit filled socks wedged behind the feeble radiators and this time was no exception. The major down side to being stuck up a shite smelling tower was the lack of a karzi. You would have to open the hatch, climb down the ladder and walk to the pisser or nearest tree. The clever ones would take empty bottles of coke. Not so my oppo. Getting caught short, he turned to his fellow guard and informed him he was going to wazz down the hatch. This he did, only to hear a roar from the bottom. Ten seconds later, my good friend was confronted by an angry looking Sergeant Major who smelt like a tramps undercrackers who just happened to be climbing the ladder to check everything was ok.
 

Ninja_Stoker

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#47
Pontius's dit reminds me of a recent excursion I had to one of the UK's inhabited offshore outposts, visiting a series of secondary schools conducting careers presentations, acting as wingmann to my mate, a Royal Marine.

Day one, as we arrived at our first school, I leaped out of the Transit van, landed in a pothole and fell on my arse in a puddle of water. Needless to say my oppo thought this hugely entertaining & it set the tone for the next few days, the Chuckle Brothers would have been inspired.

Day two, after a "dodgy pint" the night before, the journey was punctuated with loud noises from his side of the cab and choking noises from mine. As we pulled-up at the next secondary school, my oppo parks the van & I leaped out, missing the puddle, to find out where we could unload the van.

I was met at the central entrance by the Head Mistress who pointed down a straight endless corridor: "Last Classroom on the left". I asked if we could drive the van around the back of the building to unload all the clobber via the fire doors at the far end, straight into the classroom. "Certainly" she said, "But it's a bit of a convoluted route". Spotting my chance: "No worries", says I, "Jump in the van and guide my driver, I'll walk through & meet you".

As I pointed to the van I caught sight of my oppo shaking his head vigorouslyy, making chop signs across his neck, opening the windows and frantically wafting the VUR log. Undeterred, I opened the van door, bundled her in and gave a cheery wave as I slammed the door. The sight of the poor woman emerging from the van a few minutes later, suffering from the signs & symptoms of nerve agent poisoning will live with me for a long time. Laugh? I nearly bought a round that night.
 
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#49
Nicks'n'Socks Jolly Jape.

Faslane - after a particularly long wander about under the sea somewhere, for which
I didn't get a fu**ing medal.... me and one of the Grumpy Corner Watchkeepers
abandoned the boat as fast as was possible in order to catch the train outa there.
Anyhow - seeing as we both minged a fair bit, we stopped off at Bernards/Jack Blairs
Naval Outfitters and checked out his latest stock of boxer shorts and brightly coloured
socks. We purchased a few dozen pairs of each and some brand-spanking new jeans,
T-shirts and shoes and upon departing his clothing Emporium, we promptly opened
our pussers grips, delved around a bit, and ditched all our unbelievably vile, much
worn and skid-marked underpants, plus numerous pairs of socks (that really
should have been disposed of in the same manner as blue asbestos), in the bin
outside the NAAFI Shop over the way.
After reporting to the Hoolie-Bar for the mandatory slaughter-fest, we changed into nice
clean underwear and freshly purchased clobber - staggered back to the bin and dumped
the rest of crap in there with the stiffened socks, mud-coloured Y-fronts and shredded
pornography.
By-passing the inboard accommodation - we then hoofed it to the train station and
on arriving at Glasgow Queen Street -went our seperate drunken ways on extended long weekend.

I got a complete row of seats all to myself, carried on glugging tins from the buffet and
got myself chucked off the train in Newcastle. Managed to somehow get the correct
train and was supposed to get off in Doncaster. Woke up just as some twat was saying
"The next stop will be Kings Cross......." - where the fuck Hull had gone is anybodys
guess.
Staggered about the station for several hours and eventually fell off a train in Hull about
a day and a half after leaving Edinburgh.

Went home, said "hello" - had a bath, sat down, stood up at 20:30 and proceeded back
to Faslane feeling a wee bit seen off.

Ohhh the fun we had.


Billy-Fuck-All-Pals.
 

Blackrat

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#50
When we had the snow last year, i was out with some muckers on the piss. One of our number was known for his minesweeping. As soon as your back was turned, he'd nick your beer and claim it was his all along. Now i was the only one drinking Peroni and the fucker swiped one of mine early on in the evening. My oppo had enough of this after an hour or so and asked for my empty bottle, which i gave to him. Off he popped into the karzi where he duly filled it with his golden refreshment. To make it seem like the genuine article, he left it out in the snow for around half and hour. He brought it back in the boozer and left it on the table with all the other drinks. Sure as eggs is eggs, the round avoiding swine picked up the bottle and took a hearty swig, much to our amusement. At first taste, he didn't twig. However, after the third swig he looked at me and said:

"Fucking hell. What's this piss?"

"Piss" i informed him.

How we all chuckled as he ran outside to eject the contents of his stomach over the bonnet of a parked car.
 
#51
Mate of mine got married and spent his honeymoon living it up on an all inclusive
holiday in Goa with his new wife. Came back and showed us a load of photos (pre
mobile phone/digital camera days). Whilst telling us of his sexually rampant honeymoon
and showing us photos of various tourist places, the photos chaged to a set in which his
wife was sitting on a low wall, clad in a bikini top and a pair of very tight shorts. He
started to flick through about a dozen photos which showed his wife - caught in time,
leaping off the wall with a humungous gush of hot brown sludge erupting from the
gusset of her shorts. Apparently, she had gone down with dodgy guts the day before
and was "in a hurry" to get to a crapper whilst ***** was busy snapping off his
pictures. He was sure she was about to shit herself, but continued to ask her to pose
for "nice photos of their honeymoon" before her sphincter eventually gave out and
she exploded in a cloud of bubbling dung.
He just kept on snapping his piccies, and I very much doubt if they're in the family
Wedding/Honeymoon photograph album. In the last picture he proudly showed off,
she appeared to be sobbing her head off and was pictured walking towards the camera
very much like John Wayne on a bad day.

Oh how we laughed.
 
#52
Someone should really rehearse all this stuff, and go on tour as a stand up comedian. I would
imagine it would give Frankie Boyle cause for concern, and he don't give a flying f**k for anything,
anyone or any subject whatsoever.
 

Blackrat

War Hero
Moderator
Book Reviewer
#53
Viewing the thread Pontius posted about idiot Russians blowing up their mates using an airbag reminded me of a story.

During the Gulf war (the one without the shock and awe), we would sometimes have to resup at Yank echelons. This was fantastic as the gullible thick twats would just let you run amok in their store tents and let you take what you wanted. I remember filling up the panzer with camp cots, night parkers and MRE's (for a change of menu, although they were equally as shite). We even managed to swap a box of rations consisting of nothing more than sugar, powdered milk (top row) and rocks (hidden underneath) for some gucci smocks with the "Hell on Wheels" Brigade. They probably thought we were so nails that we ate the fucking rocks. Good luck boiling them in your mess tins.

Anyway, one thing the Yanks did daily was dig mahoosive pits and burn all their gash. This was even done on the front line in full view of Johnny Arab, who must have thought their American enemy were retarded. Resting up one evening my oppo and i were getting a bit sick of this blatant lack of discipline and disregard for tactical awareness. Watching trained soldiers whirling burning boxes around their heads while whooping like demented Apaches was just too much. Having built up a sizeable collection of tins consisting of Pilchards in tomato sauce (Fucking honking. Even the Arabs spat it back at us), sugar and powdered milk, we decided to add our own fuel to the fire, as it were.

We both walked over to the boy scouts jamboree and asked if we could burn some of our gash. The spams, polite as ever in the presence of real soldiers, were more than happy for us to add to the flames. So as not to appear too suspicious, we hung around for five or so minutes making small talk and then like a good former News of the World reporter, we made our excuses and left.

Sitting on the top of the panzer, we lit a cigarette each and patiently waited for the fireworks to begin. They did not disappoint. To be honest, the bang of the tins going up was louder than we expected but what really surprised us was the thicko (who was, at the time, prodding the fire with some sort of stick) who went flying backwards as if shot. Our gallant allies thought he had been and we witnessed the sight of them carrying out some excellent drills while trying to find out where the shot came from. Now this was made more believable by our chum who was screaming his head off while clutching his face. He was red from head to foot and it looked like some of his insides were leaking. Of course, this was the effects of pilchard tins taped to sugar tins on the human form. Of course he was screaming, it was hot as fuck.

Just when things couldn't get any more bizzare, the medics arrived on scene and we were treated with the sight of one of them trying to insert a drip, while another was wrapping the worlds biggest dressing around the poor sods head. All the while this bloke is screaming from the pain of having half a ton of fucking pilchards stuck to his head. It reminded me of a Keystone Cops scene with people running around in utter chaos. Eventually, things died down and the medics realised that the insides of the fellow warrior resembled some sort of fish. The fact that he smelt like a crack whores gusset assisted with this weird form of triage. When calm was restored, we made a fairly hasty exit, but not before chucking some more tins on the smouldering furnace and stealing some more kit. It was a satisfying evenings work.

Yanks. The gift that keeps giving.
 
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Blackrat

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#54
One of mine from another thread, but worthy of here:

I walked into the block washrooms in Germany one Sunday morning to find, ramrod straight with no kinks, a turd balancing between the hot and cold water taps on the boot cleaning sink. The distance between said taps was approximately 30cms. I still wonder to this day how this was done. Did the offender squat over the taps to commit the deed? (clearly moving forward to drape said steamer on said taps). Did he shite on some cardboard and drape the poo over them? Was it removed from the karzi and manipulated onto the plinth using his oppo's racing spoons? It was such an amazing sight, it was still there three days later. It was a Turner prize winner without a doubt. Even the Squadron OC came along and had a shufti and stated that impressive as this specimen was, he saw a chum of his lay a cable the size of a reticulated Python in Belize, and then looked on as a pig came along and scoffed it.
 
#55
A good mucker of mine told me this dit from when he was on site guard in Germany.

For those not in the know, site guard was when the stirling chaps of the Army would have to sit up freezing towers guarding missile silos. I had to do it once and was so bored, i felt like topping myself. In any event, my mate and his band of merry men took over from the Royal Highland Fusiliers. These fuckers were notorious for leaving shit filled socks wedged behind the feeble radiators and this time was no exception. The major down side to being stuck up a shite smelling tower was the lack of a karzi. You would have to open the hatch, climb down the ladder and walk to the pisser or nearest tree. The clever ones would take empty bottles of coke. Not so my oppo. Getting caught short, he turned to his fellow guard and informed him he was going to wazz down the hatch. This he did, only to hear a roar from the bottom. Ten seconds later, my good friend was confronted by an angry looking Sergeant Major who smelt like a tramps undercrackers who just happened to be climbing the ladder to check everything was ok.
All along 2 Deck on a 42, there are tubes that lead down to the engine and machinery spaces, the idea being that one can chuck a fire hose down the pipe if things get a bit hot down there.

I frequently used to chuck my own 'fire hose' down there and lay yellow waste to the stokers below. By the time they'd managed to climb the ladder to confront me, I'd be long gone. I even managed to get the MEO once while he was on a set of rounds down there.
 
#56
The tale of Big Baz:

Big Baz was a horrible individual who habited the pit below mine. He looked like a younger but more haggard version of Ross Kemp and was covered in a variety of utterly gash ink, much of which was half finished. Baz would decide on an elaborate tat design, get the first half done and then not bother to go back and get the second half sorted. Baz really was an utter gypsy, he drank wine from a pint glass and smoked for England, but I loved him dearly.

Baz was considered to be a simple man of few scruples and little would bother him, quaffing a pint of piss or licking an oppo's ball sack was all in a days work for him. One day during a riled debate about banging birds on the blob, much to everyone's suprise, Baz expressed his intense dislike for period blood. This was totally unexpected, I'd seen this man lick his own sperm from the clam of a Cambodian hooker and something as tame as banging a chick while the painters were in, shouldn't really have bothered him.

Baz was quite insistent, he made it clear to everyone that he was actually terrified of menstruation and would retch at the thought of seeing a lady's glop.

A plan hatched. A sailor who shall remain nameless, decided it would be a giggle to give Baz's a present one evening, so he went to the Wren's heads and stole the tampon bin. He carefully emptied it out and while Baz was on watch he gleefully decorated Baz's rack by hanging the crusty blood stained cunt bungs above his pit, like Christmas decorations.

It was a thing of beauty and for added measure a small dollop of ketchup was placed on his pillow.

When Baz returned from watch, he hit the fucking deckhead, after the initial vomiting had subsided and he gained his composure, he windmilled every fucker in the mess and had to be held down by four people. He was so disgusted, he had to move pits because he couldn't stand the idea of sleeping in his old one, even after it had been scrubbed out to fuck.


Edited to add: I don't condone the defacing of people's bed spaces, in my opinion it's a direct breach of the Geneva Convention. Touching someone else's rack is very bad Geneva indeed.

Fucking funny though. ;)
 
#57
Can Man on the Cherry B in the early 70s was a big fat gayer who looked like a very large version of Meatloaf complete with long greasy hair and the manky twat would go ashore in No8s and a filthy courderoy jacket the colour of a turd. He had horrible stretch marks on his monstrous fender belly and would only take a shower after pipe down, he wobble up fwd for a dhoby wearing a old manky white towel that barely fitted around him. When he came back pissed he would fondle all us Juniors in the mess square trying to slip his tongue down your throat. One night he must of gone on a real bender and at call the hands the fcuking mess was stinking he'd shat his pit and rolled all over it during the night even the 3 badgemen were gagging, killick of the mess orders him to clean it up byt he told him bollocks the mess chefs would do it. Well I've never heard fcuking squealing like it as all the killicks dragged him naked up to the showers and scrubbed him with a hard broom till his skin wa bleeding. He made a complaint to the Jimmy but funy old thing he had left the ship by lunchtime ad never returned.
 
#58
During a onboard heavy campaign of the traditional "Muppet v Diver War" one of the muppets decided he needed to take it to the next level. After getting absolutly bollocks he heads up to the focsle (Divers Part of Ship for those not in the know) and curled down a champion log the size of a soft nosed projectile between the anchor cables. This annoyed the divers no end having to clean it up as the ship was going to sea that day. What is better though was said muppet had used the head rope to wipe his ass and this was only discover when a bubblehead was pulling in the headrope. Oh how we laughed.
 
#60
I can't remember if I ever posted this dit and can't be arsed to trawl years of threads.
When I first met my Missus it was up the line and I was with her uncle who was in the mob at the time with me.
We all lived in the same town.
We were at Haslar together as well but I met her up here.
So the first time I went out with her she takes me to her mates engagement party, and she was a wealthy bugger, so they hire the local Rugby club which is a big posh Georgian shack in the middle of a huge park. Not jacks usual gaff.
I don't want her to think I'm a piss artist so to get the right amount of glop, every time I went to the bar I sunk a short.
After about five or so pints (plus the Pernod's at the bar) I am feeling good.
Alas in 1984 Superman was pretty high in the charts.
Now I love dancing and was up on the floor no probs, and they play superman, comb your hair, brush your teeth, take a hike,
SUPERMAN that's when you punch out.
But not the engaged girls dad in law to be. Fuck he went out like a light.
I got away with my life barely and with my head hung low was cordially invited to leave. My missus to be being a QARNN saw it as funny as fuck but we never did get an invite to the wedding.
On subsequent dates when she saw me drink normally, she could never understand how I was so merry that night on er... 5 or 6 pints.:twisted:
 

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