I was 21
It was Blue Lace nightclub in Bradford.

I was a postman.

When I was 5 I lost my eye due to chronic glaucoma caused by a tumour. When I was about 15 I bashed my head and got a tiny scar on the forehead. When I was 18 I jumped over a fence and smashed a kneecap.
So much is true.
But not tonight. Tonight I was an ex-para. Tonight I had served in the Falklands, My best mate had trod on a mine, he got smeared, and I got hospitalised and then invalided out. Tonight I was a hero, the dogs bollocks, and I was going to pull.

She was about 19 and gorgeous (I had already drunk a fair few pints that night, so she may have been as beautiful as much as I had been a para)

After a couple of dances, and a couple of snogs we got chatting.

"So what do you do?" she asked, "I'm a postman now" I replied, "but I used to be in the army."

She asked me why I had left, so I told her. I told her about that dreadful night. We had been tabbing from Darwin through Fitzroy and on past Bluff Cove to advance on Stanley. Just before we reached Mount Longdon we crossed a minefield deposited by the Argentine forces. My best mate, Jim, had trod on a mine and the shrapnel from the blast had got me. Despite the loss of my knee I had dragged Jim to the safety of some nearby rocks, but there was nothing that could be done and, sadly, despite my heroic efforts he died. My injuries were so severe that I was in hospital for the rest of the conflict, and upon my return to the UK was discharged.

She agreed with me that it was a shame that I had had to leave the army. That being a postman wasn’t so bad, and that I was lucky to be alive. Then she asked the question.

“What regiment were you in then?”

“3 Para.” I replied.

“Oh that’s lucky!” she exclaimed, “My brother’s in 3 Para.” He’s just over there. You want to go and see him. You’ll be able to have a right good chat about old times. You might know him”
Oh no. No no no.
Noooo.
I am naturally a coward. I know what members of the aforementioned regiment do to people who are stupid, nay suicidal enough to claim to have been in The Parachute Regiment. It’s not nice. There was a distinct possibility that I might lose another kneecap, if I stuck around. I might lose a lot more. They really can be brutal buggers when they want to be, and giving some soft twat in a nightclub a really good kicking to uphold regimental honour would be seen as the start of a fairly good night out.

Suddenly sex with the vision of loveliness that stood before me did not seem as half as attractive as my future survival. “Errrm, that’ll be good” I said. “I’m just off to the loo and I’ll go over and have a chat with him on my way back. Can you look after my drink for me?”

I casually walked past the dance floor and turned round the corner towards the toilets. Once I was out of her sight I went straight for the exit, down the steps, and legged it out of the door.
I never went back to Blue Lace. I never again claimed to have been in the army. I never met that beautiful woman again either. But I am alive. I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to any members, or former members, of The Parachute regiment who happen to be reading this story. I have learned my lesson and for the last 20 years have never repeated my stupid, reckless, unforgiveable behaviour.

Please do not feel that you have to kill me. I am genuinely sorry for what I did

Length? Sorry, but at the end of the evening it had shrivelled to about a quarter of its normal size.
( Occulus Swallowed, instead of spat, on, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 21:09, 1 reply)

maybe
he was lying too? spooky
( BadBadman saw an incorrect comma placement on, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 21:13, closed)