The hidden dangers of Foreign Deployment.

In days gone by a foreign Deployment or "doing a foreigner" (as it was known then before PC decided that meant kicking the shit out of a wog) had hidden dangers that might at a glance not seem obvious.
One such incident that cost me dearly happened in 1969, and began quite innocently in a bar in central Birmingham called the "Pullman".
It was situated by the Royal Mail sorting office, just a lick from New Street Station.
Anyhow, just back to UK from an eighteen month foreign, standing at the bar with three oppos having a nice quiet drink, when in it came.
He was about 18, hair cut really short to head, pair of boots, trousers bottoms well up his leg, collarless shirt and bracers.
Now me being a compassionate sort of bastard, looked and thought poor fucker he must be on hard times, so I offered to pay for his tot.
Alook of sheer disbelief came across his face replaced by aggression as he snarled "You fuckin Gay or sumfink".
Fuck he's well north of the river I thought, mistaking his affected suvern ascent as a wandering cockney, with attitude problems.
"I thought you looked a bit down on your luck" I said gob smacked at the hostility radiating from my new found friend.
He looked puzzled and retorted"You want Bovver or sumfink"?
"I'll take sumfink" I said as I was engrossed at that stage in a dirty great pint of larger that was more enjoyable at that point of the evening than splitting heads.
It was at this point the down and out launched his attack and hit me so hard my next of kin felt it, and cut my face open just above my eye.
My fuckin bronzy bronzy ruined I thought I'll kill him.
So I punched the down and out until his lamps went dim and threw him down the stairs so I would not be tempted to kick him. (Said I was compassionate)
I looked at the bar man and said "what the fuck was that about"?
He said you three best be on your way, there's usually quite a few of them gathers here at this time of the evening.
"Is there a hostel near here then"? my oppo asked.
We left the bar still quite bewildered until later that evening we were educated as to the delights of the new "Skin Head" fraternity.
With puters and new technology, that kind of situation is seldom likely to occur.

 

My mate Paddy S was sitting in his local (Cherry Tree Guzz) having a qiet pint and being a WO1 was reading the Daily Telegraph three lads were around the pool table obviously had a few pints and were rather noisey so Paddy keeps his head inside his paper.
A short while later a young couple walk in buy some drinks and sit down, the three lads begin to make lurid comments about the lads girlfriend then start flicking bits of pasty crusts at them. The lad politely asks them to stop and they reply with the C and F word so he walks over to the biggest lad quick as fcuk bang bang down he goes quickly followed by the other two he then walks over to the barman and gives him a bollocking for serving them and allowing them to get so pissed, he then leaves the pub with his missus.
After a short while the three lads sort themselves out clear the blood and snot from their faces and the big fcuker says "anyone in here know where that fcuker lives" and an old pensioner sitting quietly in the corner with his half pint says - "be careful son somebody might tell you"

 

Remember in my skimmer days when we came back from a Windies deployment and all piled ashore in the red hot summer of 1976 and the pub we hit first (this is pompey BTW) was toppers with fanny wearing tartan scarves, white trolleys to just above their ankles with tartan borders and jackets the same.

Being bronzed Gods we tried to trap, enquiring whether the wee lassies were down on holiday to be met by "Faahk orf, ya skate cunt".

Turns out some group called the Bay City Rollers were all the rage and this was the rig their fans dressed up in. We just happened to have tried to trap some of Pompey's finest!!!