London Underground, 1991
1991, just before the first gulf war land phase kicked off, 10 Downing street was mortared. That was the day that yours truly was discharged from Woolwich Military Hospital after having my knee and leg sewn back together (how was I hurt before the land war started? That would be me being in a forward OP over the naughty side of the border, and the US Fighter that came to "protect" us from the Iraqis that had seen us actually bombed the Land Rover with a Union Flag on, rather than the arab horde chasing us. "Hullo AWACS, Hullo AWACS, this is us. Can you ask the USAF to leave us alone, and we'll throw rocks until the Tornados get here").

Any road up, no transport available so I had to get the tube then the train. But what ho? Mortar attacks at street level mean the Underground is packed (me on crutches has to stand), then the fucker stops in a tunnel ... for ages.

Arse bisuits.

To really top it off, this arse with a seat leans over, taps me on the leg (cheers cunt) and asks if I'm back from the gulf. I tell him I am - the february sun tan, the "Saddam Busters" T shirt, and the brick shithouse look might have given it away. Did he offer me his seat? Did he fuck. Said the change in weather must be a bit of shock, then goes back to his Financial Times.

PS. It wasn't all that much of a change of weather actually. The desert gets -fuckº cold quicker than you put a jumper on, so take that, smart arse city feller.
(nobbyd is wanking furiously to industrial grade porn on, Tue 3 Jun 2008, 21:54, Reply)