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Matelots and weddings/posh soirees really don't mix well.

I fondly recall my mate Wiggy's wedding about 10 years back. Foolishly he invited the entire mess and most of the Warfare Department, so 50 odd lads. Things were off to a good start when I was tasked with sorting out the wedding present.

Being a complete cunt, I bought them the cheapest, shittiest toaster Argos could muster and instructed everyone else to follow suit. On the day of the wedding, they lined up in the reception venue, greeting the guests as they arrived, accepting their gifts and placing them on a table.

As we, the matelots, started to traipse in, Wiggy immediately suspected something was up. On receiving the 5th or 6th, identically shaped box, you could see him starting to freak out a bit. Slowly but surely the pile of oblong boxes started to stack up on the table, with his eyes darting back and forth between the boxes and us. Eventually he cracked and demanded to know what was in the boxes.

We played dumb, saying that we'd all just sorted our own presents out, it was pure coincidence that all 50 of us had decided a £4.99 toaster would make an idea wedding gift, great minds and all that.

To be fair we did slip the receipts in the boxes so he could take them back and get the cash. Unfortunately for him, Argos has a policy where by they'll only accept 3 returns of the same item per person. By all accounts, him and his new wife spent their first week of matrimonial bliss driving to every Argos store in the South East, trying to offload 50 odd toasters.

Don't ever invite me to a wedding.


War Hero
Book Reviewer
I recall when we got posted to Bulford. The local town of Amesbury was our local drinking hole and it had a couple of good(ish) pubs there. One of them had a pool table in and it was a rare Thursday night when it wouldn't be surrounded by the local slappers.

A mucker of mine, who was a big hit with the ladies, took a fancy to one of the aforementioned girlies, and decided to use his charm on her. This worked and before the next round, i saw the pair of them disappear out the door. Around half an hour later, they both came back in and he made his way over to us. "So" says i, "Did you get a shag?" He took a swig of his pint and indicated, with a nod of his head, at her lower leg area. Around her ankles were two distinct hand prints and dangling from the back of her skirt, was the biggest glob of jizz i had ever seen in my life. He, being the perfect gentleman, had decided to not to tell her and was quite content to have her walking around the pub with this jizz dangling about behind her like a waterskier behind a boat.
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A few years back I was driving a taxi at weekends to generate some cash for a specific purchase.
Three of the lads I worked with were ex forces, two being Army and the other ex jack.
There were around 18/20 drivers on the circuit and although good lads by and large, they took themselves pretty serious.
The area we worked was pretty rough and on one estate we had good work in the main but quite a few problems, and the boss advised not to get out of the car to knock doors, just blow horn and pull away after a couple of Min's.
We had a hard knock nothing frightens me, and they all know not to mess with me type.
He goes down the vale (Castle Vale est) and gets out the car to go and fetch his fare which he thinks is on floor 6 in a block of flats.
He leaves his car locked out the back.
When he comes back he finds car unlocked and ignition hanging out with the lock barrel gone.
He tries to use the Radio and to call base, nothing so instead he phones.
He then tells a story of catching the perbs at it and a fight to the death the perbs running away terrified of him etc etc etc.
He then tries to start the engine and its dead. He touches the wires again and still nothing.
He jumps out pulls the bonnet catch and horror of horrors there is no engine, the lumps missing.
And he's standing there looking gob smacked as one of the Army lads (Kenny) drives around the corner in the blokes REAL car.
They prepared a double right down to spraying the inside with the after shave he was always blasting into it (it helps pull the birds he said).
A cortina one had bought to take the engine out for his own car. As it was the same colour inside and out as hard boy they hatched the idea.
He tried to blag that he knew when he was on about his "assailants" but when it registered that the lads knew he was full of it he did one never to be seen again.
Fuckin hell, Rummers, as wind ups go that take's the biscuit.

Talking of biscuits and windups:

On the Fort Vic in 2005 or 6, we were milling around in the Indian Ocean/Persian Gulf, exceptionally bored and accompanying Illustrious on a goodwill/sales mission to India.

Anyway, we had a flight embarked which means the ship was toppers with WAFUs. As a result, the big Cheese WAFU Admiral came over from the lusty to say hi and do his bit to boost morale by ensuring everyone had to spend the week beforehand cleaning a stinking massive RFA.

On his rounds route, he was due to drop into our little WE 'crew room' so we laid on a decent spread of biscuits and wets for him.

As we waited for him to arrive, you could see everyone sizing up the biccys, eyes were darting back and forth shiftily as lads waited for the first man to dive in. I had my eye on the custard creams that were closest to me, the first sign of movement and those fuckers were gonna be mine. Each of us had selected our target and it was only a matter of time before someone lost their composure.

Time ticked on and the tension grew, eventually one of the PO tiffs cracked and dived in, scooping up a massive handful of Bourbons. Not wishing to be seen off, everyone else piled in, scrabbling for the best ones until all that was left on the plate was a few crumbs.

With cheeks bulging and crumbs dribbling down our chins, we heard the still being piped in the flat outside, signalling the arrival of the Admiral.


The now empty plate was hastily hidden beneath some mess cushions and we all choked down the mouthfuls of biscuits as quickly as possible, just as the Admiral came in and the room was brought to attention. Unfortunately the PO who had instigated the biscuit melee hadn't been quick enough and was still munching by the time the Chief walked in.

Eventually, after much small talk, the Admiral fucked off but the Chief stayed. Looking mightily pissed off, he demanded to know what had happened to all the biscuits. Fingers were pointed squarely at the PO tiff, not only because he'd started it and had been caught with a mouthful of Jammy Dodgers, but because he was technically in charge.

The Chief left, but not before promising that he'd have to take this incident very seriously.

Throughout the following week, the Chief would pipe each of us who'd been in the crew room to his office under the pretence of an interview with the Reggy. Once inside he'd let each of us in on the windup. He was going through all the motions of bringing in a Court Martial for theft of Naval property against the PO, he'd even found a bit in an ancient and obsolete copy of articles of war that stated nicking an officer's scran was punishable by death, reduced to life imprisonment, if death was no longer available.

Interviews were had, statements were taken, the lot, he even declared the crew room a crime scene and took some phots.

As word filtered down to the PO that he was going to be CM'd for nicking the biccys, bravado set in and he started giving large about how he wasn't scared of Colchester etc. etc.

A date was set for his 'table' and slowly but surely you could tell he was really beginning to shit himself over it. As the day neared we all started to wish him luck, admitting however that it did look grim for him, on the evening before, he even started packing his bags in anticipation.

As the day arrived, we all gathered round the corner of the Chief's office so as not to be seen, the PO waited patiently outside in his 1s, clearly shitting himself. As he was marched in, we all sneaked round to hear what was going on. As he marched up to the table and sprang smartly to attention, the presiding officer, the flight commander, read out some bumf about the seriousness of his crime and about how he'd failed as a leader.

Just as the PO started to nervously give his statement and heartfelt apology, the Chief produced a big plate of biscuits from under the desk and said, "anyone fancy a bourbon?"


Lantern Swinger
It was Christmas and a white one at that. I was on Dolphin's main gate and was well pissed as this was my second xmas spent on duty and not with my wifey (the first being during the IRA threat of 1983/4 when stationed at HMS Centurion)!

The P.O. was a Janner and at 2 in the morning - half way through the 'Hey didle diddle!' he shared a cracking dit. He came from a classic Cornish village which was inundated with J.Arthurs every summer - looking to find their heritage. He told a tale of an old boy who'd fleece these yanks year in and year out with one hell of a tale!

Yank walks into pub and barman kicks off a bit of conversation. It gets around to the fact that he's on a tour of like minded Americans looking for their roots. He sends the Septic off armed with a free pint to 'old Father Frank' sitting in the corner playing dominoes.

Yank sets down pint, introduces himself and asks for a little inside dope on the local colour. Inevitably, King Arthur and Merlin are raised in the conversation and Old Frank reveals that Merlin is still alive and well! Of course this was met with disbelief of the strongest kind! Frank layed it out - stated that if the Septic had the minerals to put a fiver on it, he could actually talk to Merlin on the pub's pay phone and Merlin would tell him which card he'd selected from the pack Frank had at hand!

As it's beer o'clock the rest will be posted later if anyone wishes to hear how it plays out! Cheers
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