Akela, I will do my best.
It's hard to believe now, but 12 year old me was a well behaved, serious little cub scout. All dib dib dibing my ging gang goolies and tugging my woggle like nobodies business (dear god, i feel like I am channelling the spirit of Eric Morecombe). I was dutiful and knew my sheep shank from my bowline and could knock up a bivouac in no time flat. I was 'sixer' (I think that's what they were called) to...well...presumably 5 other scouts, (if that's how it works, the memory isn't holding up too well here I have realised) and as such they were my responsibility on the 12 mile night hike we had planned.

I'm not even sure that we would be allowed to do this, these days, without a qualified adult chaperoning us - cos that's healthy, a grown man willing to spend his night walking 6 pre-pubescent boys into the dark woods...but anyway, off we set, with my scarf done up neat, my map and compass safely in their waterproof pack, my whistle and my torch ready and food all nicely wrapped. I led us across the first field. To a ditch. I looked left and right, across and figured it would be easier to navigate the ditch than walk the length of it to the edge of the field where, presumably, there would have been a bridge. Unfortunatley it was wider than it looked. And deeper. And more full of stagnant water. Still, we manfully...well...boyfully...made it across. Although Keith cried.

Once I'd counted heads to make sure the short ones hadn't drowned, I got the map out to see where was next. Or at least I would have done. But my waterproofing, expert though it was, had been let down by, well, not closing the waterproof wallet.

Anyway, onwards and upwards.

Soggy map abandoned, navigation by the stars not being an option by dint of me not being a 17th century navigator and working on little but the vague idea that the Scout camp was near Brentwood and Brentwood was 'behind that church over there', we set off again across the field. And then the next field, and the next. And next. And then we were at the church. Have you ever tried getting 5 11 and 12 year olds to walk through a graveyard in the moonlight when they are cold, wet and already exhausted? It's not easy. Not easy at all. Scott held my hand. Andy held my other hand. Dave and Chris hugged each other. And Keith cried. Again. Although in fairness, he'd been at his Nan's funeral two days earlier, so I think Graveyards were already a sore point with him.

But still, I took my responsibility seriously and led them through with little more than mental scarring and one case of stinging nettle rash from suggesting to Scott that he could 'push into those bushes so no one can see you if you need to pee'. (It's OK, the rash was only on his arms). And then we were off again. We'd made it to the road. Well, lane anyway. The thing about footpathless country lanes with no signage or lighting or roadmarkings is that they look remarkably similar in both directions...

And that's how we found ourselves, four hours after we had set off, back at the scout hut. The empty, locked Scout Hut. Keith cried. I gave up and cried. Then went to the phone box and called my parents.

In truth, it was worth it when my Dad bundled us all into the car and drove us with his fists clenched knuckle white round the steering wheel to the campsite where he proceeded to tear each and every (drunken) Scout leader more than one new arsehole each.

I never went back to Scouts.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 16:40, 8 replies)

I think 'Sixers' may be the guides actually.
Not sure what I was. But i wasn't in the guides.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 16:43, closed)

naa, cubs had sixers as well
good tale though, and quite nicely told
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 16:50, closed)

sixers and seconders
and, yeah, I distinctly remember being loosed in some woods overnight for "a hike" ...
( the mighty badger Aphrodite, on a bar stool, by your side, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 17:31, closed)

We used to play "wide games" at night
at the Scottish Scoolboys Club summer camps at Portavadie, Loch Fyne. A hundred of us stumbling blindly around in the rain over boulders and ravines in the pitch dark, with our precious cargoes of hidden beers and soggy squashed cigarettes, the aim being to capture some flags or some such nonsense. Happy nights.
( Three Dog Man, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 19:27, closed)

*something about being in guides*

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 16:50, closed)

*or eating a brownie*

(the_icks has the sweet essence of giraffe, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 18:01, closed)

a brownie in your pants is worse

( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Mon 28 Mar 2011, 19:50, closed)

I knew a chap
who got caught with a Brownie in his pants once.

He had to sign the Sex Offenders register...
( Hunter Stockton was murdered by a bicycle wielding axolotl,.,.,.,., Tue 29 Mar 2011, 13:43, closed)