I don't know, but I've been told
Eskimo pussy is mighty cold!
(RabiedRooster, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 14:39, 1 reply)

There is a war between the rich and poor, a war between the man and the woman
There is a war between the ones who say there is a war and the ones who say there isn't
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 14:18, 15 replies)

Street violence & the world's worst have-a-go hero
One night I was strolling home with a friend after a night out. Up ahead there was a couple having a blazing row in the street; we were going to have to pass them, so I was watching them carefully.

Just as we reached them, the argument appeared to reach a new level, and the bloke suddenly reached behind and whipped out what I assumed was a knife, and was bringing it around towards the woman's face.

Then, to my utter amazement, I find that I've tackled the knife-wielding maniac, and I'm pinning him against the wall by the wrists. He looks totally shocked; I suppose I look fiercer than I really am, especially from about 10cm away. In reality I'm a soft southern bastard who couldn't fight a cold, of course.

We stare at each other for a moment, then both our eyes flick up to the knife. Which, I'm sure you've worked out already, wasn't a knife at all. In fact, what he was holding was a piece of paper, which he was intending to wave accusingly in his partner's face.

So, now I'm stuck. There's really no well-defined protocol for having aggressively attacked a total stranger for what could have been no more than literary criticism. I release his arms, and we gradually back off, with muttered apologies and careful, watchful reassurances. Eventually both groups could go on their way. The last thing I heard as they wandered off was the woman, saying to the man, "See! Now look how you've embarrassed me in front of those people!"
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 13:48, 5 replies)

Nightclub
As a callow youth I collected glasses in a nightclub. Think late eighties, all expensive imported bottled beers, Miami-Vice style pastel colours and neon lights in the shape of saxophones on the walls, very swish. Oh, and in Wigan. Yeah.

The door staff looked like clones, stamped out of a mould labelled "six four, nineteen stone, none of it fat, mid-twenties, buzz cut, big grin". They all wore white tuxedos to stand out in the crowd and were all jovial rugby playing lads.

Now, rather tragically, there was a bloke who used to turn up to the club dressed in a white tuxedo too. He was about five foot eight, probably about nine stone when he was damp, in his forties with thinning hair and Mike Read-style glasses. He'd stand by the dancefloor with a tonic water but never chat anyone up or dance, and the poor fella didn't seem to have any friends.

One night a punter was leaning over the bar harassing one of the barmaids, pointing and shouting obscenities about didn't she know who he was and he WOULD get what he wanted, etc. etc. Tragic little fella was standing behind him, and tapped him on the shoulder to attract his attention. The punter glanced round, spun on the spot and delivered a punch that would have taken tragic fella's head off... if it had connected. As it was, he just kind of leaned back slightly and swatted it on its way like it was an irritating mosquito, and then in the space of no more than a second hit the guy in the face AT LEAST a dozen times. It was almost funny - he looked like he'd been speeded up like the end of a Benny Hill show. I could hear the sound of the impacts over the music and it sounded like a drum roll. Mouthy punter literaly had absolutely no idea what had hit him and crumpled to the ground. I have literally never seen anyone move that fast. If the Matrix had come out in 1986 I'd have been able to use it as a reference - as it was I'd just never seen anything like it.

Two of the clones came over, one took the shoulders and the other took the legs and they got him out of there. Tragic fella got himself another tonic water and went back to the edge of the dancefloor.

In conversation with one of the clones later I learned that tragic fella was not, in fact tragic at all, and was, in fact, also one of the door staff, hence the outfit. Bearing in mind that the man I was talking to spent his free time carrying a rugby ball at a sprint into oncoming mountains of muscle intent on doing him injury, I was impressed when he described the little bloke as the hardest man he'd ever met. Vegetarian teetotal non-smoking Buddhist, apparently. Quite the conflict resolver, as well - apparently I'd witnessed something very very rare, as he hardly ever had to actually hit anyone.
(SonofRojBlake, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 13:15, 6 replies)

Combined Cadet Farce...
At school, we had to join the CCF (Combined Cadet Forces), we had no choice, it was obligatory for the first three years. Actually we did have one choice - Army, RAF or Navy.

School law followed the following principles: Army = hard & cool; RAF = cop-out wimps & Navy = gay. Of the 100, 13yr old boys singing up to the class of 1987, 70 went into the army, 20 into the RAF and 10 - the majority of whom have since come out - into the navy. I plumped for the RAF.

The school took this very seriously, the entirety of Wednesday afternoons were given over to square-bashing, boot shining and endless meetings in the 'RAF hut' - where we were taught to identify planes, how to correctly iron our trousers and how the Battle of Britain was won.

Every month, someone from the real armed forces would visit - and we did some pretty cool things. Once, they brought a life raft that you'd find attached to a Chinook. We had do dive in the pool, swim to the life raft, inflate it, climb in and row to the other side of the pool within 30 seconds. We were drilled on this endlessly - so much so, that if my BA flight to NYC ever crashes into the sea, I know I will survive.

But the biggest and best thing about the RAF was the annual training flight. We'd all pile in a coach off to Brize Norton, where after hours of safety training - which included the vital parachute simulation, where we'd leap off a desk, pull an imaginary cord and shout 'Jump Jump Sir!' in response to a mad RAFer screaming 'Jump Jump Cadet!'

And then it was time to fly. The first time I went I was shaking with excitement. I'd heard all the rumours. They let you take control! They do a loop-the-loop with you! They do barrel rolls! Even the site of the puny Chipmunk we'd be flying didn't dampen my enthusiasm. Topgun was blowing up at the time and my head was filled with Welcome to the Danger Zone, Iceman & Maverick. I couldn't fucking wait to blast some commie scum out of the sky.

First up was poor old Fitzsimmons. He'd cried on the coach journey. He cried during the training. And he continued to wimper as he was strapped into the huge parachute rucksack and had the old-fashioned, leather oxygen mask clamped too tightly to his face. The mask covered everything but his eyes and a shock of fire-red hair. The weight of the parachute forced him into a stoop and he waddled across the tarmac to the plane.

We watched as they taxied and took off on his maiden flight. Sure enough, the instructor, showing off as always, performed a gravity-defying loop and then buzzed the runway at less than 50ft. Shortly afterwards - much sooner than we expected - they came back to land. The top flipped open and out staggered Fitzsimmons, who was led by the hand back to base.

Once inside, he had a frenzied fit, clawing like crazy at his mask. The instructor calmly unfastened the clips from the back of Fitzsimmons' head - only to leap away in disgust, swearing like buggery. The entire mask was filled with vomit. It spilled out over the sides and flooded the floor through the disconnected oxygen tube. This was of course the funniest thing we'd ever seen.

Fitzsimmons was ordered to wash up and go away. He sat on the floor shaking like a leaf, all ginger hair and green complexion - not a good mix. And then it was MY turn.

Parachute on. New mask fitted. I almost ran to the plane. I climbed up, sat behind the instructor and we took off. It was beautiful. The glass canopy allowed me a 365 degree view of the world. Even more so when the instructor looped-the-loop - I could understand why Fitzsimmons lost it. He then proceed to climb almost vertically, explaining that we were going to the stall the plane as the fuel ran away from the engine. That was terrifying. Then, the fucker turned into a nose dive and bump-started the engine. The rush was immense.

'Cadet! Would you like control?' 'Yes Sir!' 'Cadet I am handing you control, do you have control?' 'Yes Sir! I have control'. And with that I took the joystick between my legs and began to fly. Keeping my eye on the attitude indicator, I kept the plane level, banked a bit and basically flew. It was piss easy.

Then I noticed the red button. On the top of the joystick was a lid. I flipped it and the most inviting big, round red button was under my thumb. I pushed it. Nothing. I pushed it again, this time holding it down - but again, nothing. They must have disconnected the gun I thought. Shame. The instructor came on the line. 'Cadet! We're going to land. I'm going in fast with some hard banking. Are you ready?' 'Yes Sir, proceed.'

We came tearing down towards base. I couldn't help myself. I grabbed the stick and mashed down on the button.

'PEW! PEW! PEW! DADADADADADADADA! BOOSH! BRRRRRR! DADADADADADADA!' I screamed my gun and bomb noises at imaginary enemies.

'Too close for missiles! I'm switching to guns! 'I'll just brake and he'll fly right past me! ICEMAN! This is Maverick!' I blithered, channeling Tom Cruise before he was gay. All the time smashing down the big red button.

'Cadet! Stop that now!' bellowed the instructor. 'You're right in my fucking ear!' I calmed down and we landed. After exiting the plane I sadly walked across the runway back to base. When I came in, the entire room was pissing themselves and about 10 uniformed, real RAF people were slowly and cynically clapping me.

Turns out the red button wasn't a gun. It wasn't even a bomb-release switch. It was a one-way distress radio frequency that connected directly to the base's traffic control tower. But at least I didn't throw up.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 13:14, 16 replies)

My dog got into a fight once.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 13:08, 7 replies)

Well this one time my Fire Warriors got charged by a Daemon Prince....
And I had to roll six 5s and then four 6s to kill him.... and I did*! Then he failed his 3++ save all four times!

*To be fair, he was down to one wound anyway...
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 12:51, 8 replies)

I have a war story that involves me in a very, very small way,
and is one of the most humbling experiences I think I've ever had.

A very good friend of mine is a corporal in the army. He's done a couple of tours of Afghanistan with the Household Cavalry. He loves his job, and is the very definition of a professional soldier. If you were to talk to him about it, you'd think that the army was just one big drinking session with your mates in various hot countries around the world. I've heard it said that the lads who get into the serious shit over there are the ones that don't really ever mention it...

So, last november, my friend comes to me with a request. It's remembrance day and his unit are laying a wreath for one of their friends that was killed in action. But the picture they have for the middle of the wreath is a shit quality and they don't have any means to print a better quality version out. He knows I work with Photoshop, and so he asks me if I could redraw the picture for them. No problem. He sent the file over and I redraw it at a higher resolution. The picture is the insignia for the Brigade Recon Force. It took me about 20 minutes to do. I sent it back. It was literally the very least I could do.

A couple of days later, and I received loads of messages from my mate, and the other lads in the unit saying how grateful they were to me for redrawing it and how much it meant to them that I'd (a civvie, no less) taken the time to do it for them. It took me 20 minutes.

I don't really understand my own feelings on the subject if I'm honest. To receive all these messages thanking me for a job that took 20 minutes from guys who go and fight - and die - so that I don't have to fills me with a variety of conflicting feelings that I find hard to process. Pride, guilt, sobriety, thankfulness... And for something I (re)drew in my bedroom to be placed on the Cenotaph as part of memorial day... It just forced me to see, in very, very sharp focus, just how very fucking privileged I am. Its an experience I wish everyone not already in the armed forces could have. Especially that little cunt Charlie Gilmour.

Here's the wreath:

tinyurl.com/c27l57o

The soldier's name was Jo Woodgate. I never knew him, but I am privileged to have played a very, very minor part in keeping his memory alive. His death was in all of the newspapers owing to him being a close friend of Prince Harry (The Household Cavs are his regiment).

He was, by all accounts, an amazing guy. My friend says he was the best human being he ever met. If you have a minute, you should read about him and think for a second about what people like him do, and have done throughout the years, in order to give us the lives we lead.
( PMGT -Bacon., Fri 1 Jun 2012, 12:27, 10 replies)

Sorry, nothing to add but this:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVESMxs4rbA&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Always makes me smile.
( Turquoise Hexagon Sun has just dropped acid on, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 12:21, Reply)

I front a rock band from the late 1980s
and, er ... something.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 11:41, Reply)

Is there a difference
between a 'farmer accent' and a 'pirate accent'?
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 11:30, 37 replies)

Did you hear about the magic argument?
It turned into a war!
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 11:24, 1 reply)

I'll just
Vicky Pollard this - b3ta.com/questions/bedroomdisasters/post1259875
here.

I had completely forgotten this and it was such a good chuckle to reread.
EDIT: Grab a beer, get yourself comfortable we can all watch history repeat itself.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Fri 1 Jun 2012, 9:31, 20 replies)

Ross Kemp in "not a twat" shocker!
Lady Scaramanga's has a mate whose husband is in the RAF.
Thoroughly decent chap he is too (despite a slightly pathalogical devotion to the Queen which almost led to him caving my head in once, but anyway...)

Harder than every B3tan put together, he's done two tours in Iraq and two in Afghanistan.
His stories tend to revolve around the rugby club style antics rather than the bombing and killing people side of things.

One evening we'd gone for dinner with a few other friends and the subject turned to Ross Kemp. Me, being a media junkie started laying into "Ross Kemp in Afghanistan"

"Oh, it's clearly bollocks. There's no way a TV company is ever going to let him into harms way. I know how telly works; the re-edit everything to make it look more exciting than it is; they probably dub on explosions and stuff. Guy's clearly a cock as well. What the fuck does he know about war?"

"It's funny you should mention that", says rock hard RAF man who could probably kill me with his little finger "Cos we met him last time he was filming there."

*gulp*

"Not only is a proper nice bloke with the utmost for the armed forces, but he risked his life several times when he was out there. The boys kept having to pull him back, cos he wanted to get closer to the action. He was not at all what I expected. I never liked the guy either; I thought "Oh, here comes hard man Mr Actor", but he wasn't like that at all. And what you see on the programme is probably as real as it gets without being there. Just goes to show..."

It does indeed.

And luckily he never hit me.
( Joe Scaramanga with a G-double-O-D vibration, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 9:28, 14 replies)

Q: what do sheep farmers use to fight wars? A: baaa-listic missiles.

( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Thu 31 May 2012, 23:51, 4 replies)

war does not determine who is right
Only who is left
(Just Harry What should I put here?, Thu 31 May 2012, 23:44, 4 replies)

Isn't life
war with ourselves?
(RabiedRooster, Thu 31 May 2012, 23:36, 3 replies)

Army Bands
Send messages out to universities asking people to make a career of it. One that we received recently was for the mounted division of whatever. Skills required- degree level music, high performance, physical fitness.

One friend seemed really enthusiastic. After a few days of their gushing about how qualified they were, and how it was their dream job, their careers advisor asked them if they were applying.

"Nah," they said, "I'm allergic to horses."

"It's not stated as a weakness in the job outline, though. Go for it."

S'yeah. If you see a sneezing saddled soldier...
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 31 May 2012, 23:19, 2 replies)

One-armed bandits
I spent my 6 months working in an Afghan police station. One of the characters was Wali, the jailor. Wali's distinguishing feature was that he had only one arm, the other having been lost due to unspecified violence some years ago. He was a pretty useless jailor, but I preferred not to tell him so as he could easily have kicked my arse with his remaining limb.

One day they had a new prisoner in, so I went down with an interpreter to get his story. It turned out that the guy had been in a dispute with another local family over some boundaries. Rather than harrass the council, hire some lawyers or accept mediation, they two families decided to settle things in the local way: they shot each other up. Our hero had acquired a war wound as a result, which he decided to show us. Rolling up his trouser leg, he revealed the world's most pathetic scar - his adversary must have been using a bb gun, such was the puny size of the injury. Wali's response didn't need translating: rolling up his own trouser leg, his calf looked like someone had set their dog on it. "You think that's a scar? This is a fucking scar, my friend."

The guy didn't say much after that.
(Wasmaschine!, Thu 31 May 2012, 20:54, 2 replies)

SHITBOX
i forgot about this guy for last weeks question of the week.
a little late but a great read nonetheless.
www.falmouthpacket.co.uk/news/4588410.Pervert_got_sex_kicks_in_slurry/
www.falmouthpacket.co.uk/news/fpfalmouth/4763999.Sex_slurry_pervert_is_at_it_again/
www.falmouthpacket.co.uk/news/8885115.Pervert_caught_pleasuring_himself_in_slurry_for_third_time/
(little lord muthafuckin fauntleroy, Thu 31 May 2012, 20:53, 10 replies)

Covering my mates in burning hot shit!!
I was in Saudi in 1990 waiting to cross the border for the start of Op Granby (Gulf War 1). The days were long and hot and consisted of constant exercising and waiting for the nod to begin the ground push into Southern Iraq.
Being a FNG (Fucking New Guy), I was constantly chosen to do all the menial shit jobs ie, guard duty, pan bash, and latrine duty.
Latrine duty consisted of pouring a jerry can of petrol into the the trench that contained a weeks worth of shit and piss from a squadrons worth of blokes (roughly 130), lighting it and letting the noxious rancid waste burn.
On one of these occasions me and the other three FNG's were doing the normal latrine duty. It was my turn to light the petrol but unfortunately I lit the petrol soaked rag as my mate Eugene was still pouring in the petrol.
WHOOSH the flames shot straight into the jerry can. Now a normal, well adjusted bloke would have dropped the jerry can, unfortunately Eugene, being a nutter started running all over the place still holding onto the burning jerry can and covering all our gear, weapons , respirators with burning fuel.
As this was going on the jerry can was expanding, getting bigger and bigger like a balloon.
He eventually tossed the jerry can into the flaming shit pit, the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief and turned to try and put out the burning fuel that was gradually destroying our equipment.
Must have been 20-30 seconds when the jerry cans elasticity gave way and with a loud BANG the jerry can exploded and covered all in the vicinity in burning shit and piss.
Oh how we laughed!!!!
(Hammy1801 may have scabies!, Thu 31 May 2012, 20:26, 3 replies)

I was fighting in Iraq in 2007
The only scar I came back with was from tripping on a wire and falling on my tent-pole.
( Terry_Tibbs Coarse and violent nudity. Occasional language, Thu 31 May 2012, 19:43, 6 replies)

one of the ugliest brawls I've been in was at a new years eve concert in the early 90's
A good mate, a singer and would-be promoter, had organised a New year's Eve concert in one of the more working-class areas of suburban Melbourne, in an old drive-in. He had a good line-up with a couple of international acts. He underestimated the lack of alternatives available to the locals, as it was a big sellout with more people than tickets. He'd also understaffed both in security and gate staff, a first-time promoter's error. Still, the concert progressed well with a good vibe, even though having a slighly odd edge about it. People were openly dealing drugs, bikies had taken over half the mosh pit, and a bloke wearing speedos pushed a fridge past me, a whole fridge-freezer laid on its side with wheels bolted on. The security had given up and were letting everybody in. I was on e's myself, though this is not lol massive drugs story.
The band finished just before midnight and we did the countdown amongst a shower of sprayed beer. Then, instead of another band coming back, they started playing Pink Floyd's The Wall on the drive-in screen. Maybe 6 or seven thousand people, drunk, drugged-up, full of energy, and suddenly left without anything to do. Except stare at The Wall. With no sound.
It all happened really quickly. People starting howling, then pushing, then a huge open brawl broke out all over, a mad free-for-all. I watched as one bodybuilder type near me started thumping people at random in the head, anyone who came within his axis. People were getting kicked, going down and getting stomped on. On those movie bar brawls, you don't see someone just standing there head down holding a t-shirt up to his broken teeth as his blood and snot drip together to the ground with a look that said "what the fuck just happened?".
A bunch of cowardly people like myself who just wanted to get the fuck out of there all went for the exit, and formed a suffocating heaving crush. I made a few good directional choices and got out early and didn't look back. Ive seen my share of fights, and been in a few in high school, but I've not seen the likes of that night before or since.
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 31 May 2012, 19:43, Reply)

My Great Uncle
was a Desert Rat in world war 2 - part of the 7th Armoured Division.

Whilst he was out there, their location was to be kept top secret at all times, so before he went he bought a map of the world and over each of the countries in Africa he drew a different number of kisses "xxx".

Then, whilst he was on tour, he would send postcards back to his Mum with a correlating number of kisses identifying where abouts in the world he was so she could keep track of his progress and know he was safe.

The desert rats were a mean bunch of bastards. They kicked the Italians out of Africa during the war, then later on the Germans, as well as fighting in Normandy and ending out the war pushing the German armoured divisions back across Europe. It makes me proud to know members of my family were involved.
( PMGT -Bacon., Thu 31 May 2012, 19:01, 3 replies)

War hero
My Great grandfather died in the trenches in Northern France in 1915.

Nothing unusual there.

I've been researching my family tree and recently received confirmation of how he died from the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

He was struck by lightning.

Bugger.....no medals then.
(penrose your dog's got tits, Thu 31 May 2012, 18:50, 2 replies)

I once asked an entire messageboard for a fight
because they didn't vote Donkeygums as the winner of a meaningless non-competition.

Then I called their mums a nasty name.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 31 May 2012, 17:49, 3 replies)

I'm a nure on a busy orthopaedic ward in Liverpool
Every moron that gets shot, stabbed, beaten to a pulp etc. in the city centre comes my way at some point. When their idiot friends come in it's all "Didn't fackin 'urt", "I'll fackin' 'ave 'im" and so on. Give it ten minutes and they're the first to be crying into their pillows for oramorph/mum.

I've seen 90 year old men dying of cancer (while suffering the agony of a broken femur) take it quietly and with more dignity than I'd muster in that state. THAT's tough.

Any prick who thinks throwing a punch or twelve or blowing someone's foot off with a shotgun makes you 'hard' needs to take a look at people who genuinely fucking well are and THEN compare themselves.

Oh yeah, something (relatively) humerous. I've met one lad whose ex-girlfriend has an 18 month old son to him, has an ex(as of two weeks ago) girlfriend who found out last week was pregnant and has recently started going out with his latest girlfriend. As he's going to be laid up for a few weeks I can't to find out the what happens when they invariably meet at the same time should be an interesting 'conflict'.

tl;dr Scallies aren't tough and sometimes hospitals can get like the Jeremy Kyle show.
( Funkenschlag still likes dogs more than cats, Thu 31 May 2012, 17:35, 12 replies)

My grandad was in the home guard
the outfit he was in only had one tommy gun between them - they used to take it in turns hanging on to it.

my dad remembers when it was my grandad's turn - he kept it behind the sofa.
(magictorch, Thu 31 May 2012, 17:28, 2 replies)