[andy popp]

How come I've never seen this thread till now?

Anyway, its back in the day (the 80s) and we're at Manchester Airport, of on our jollies in Spain - we being me, a certain Beris-based welshman and a certain accident prone Beris-based Lancastrian. Funds for the trip are extremely limited, consisting in their entirety of my freshly cashed giro. Nonetheless we clearly feel its worth investing in a pre-flight tipple and purchase from duty free 1.25Ls of gin. To the bar, where we buy a single pint of lager. One big gulp each sees this down to a half, which is topped up with the gin. Down that goes. Now we are in a fit state to drink the rest of the gin neat in the 30 minutes remaining before boarding. Remarkably, we are allowed on and the flight passes in blur of deeply crass behaviour (much shouting, groping the women in front through the gap in the seats, falling over in the aisles, on top of people etc.). We disembark and are stood in the queue for passport control when the Lancastrian starts fumbling about his person in a rising panic. He's lost his passport. Next minute he's back out the door and sprinting across the tarmac towards the plane, with the heavily armed police in hot pursuit. Bounding up the steps he barges through the wall of stewards trying to prevent his entry and starts scrabbling under the seats. He emerges two minutes later looking rather sheepish; it was in his pocket the whole time. Remarkably nothing more his said (nowadays they'd have laid waste to him without hesitation). Its night now and lie down immediately in front of the airport and go to sleep. We awake to baking sun and to find ourselves in the midst of a rapidly filling taxi rank. They have no intention of stopping filling it one bay after another and only a last minute scrabble prevents us being runover. A rather long and dull trudge into the city follows. Two very enjoyable weeks later we get on the plane home to be greeted by the very same cabin crew. Remarkably they even give us a welcoming smile. Sorry, no vomiting, shitting, or shagging.

[Fiend]

Good tale although the lancastrian's name is curiously absent

[Jaspersharpe]

Top stuff. If we're going down the "Old Skool trip story" path then I suppose this is worth a read for those who've not seen it.

[Houdini]

Good tale although the lancastrian's name is curiously absent

Total no-brainer.  To the Naughty Step w/ you...

[slackline]

Not sure if this counts, as we did it deliberately.

On Sunday evening the VERY pregnant (and overdue) Mrs Starfish

Help out with SCIENCE 

[milksnake]

this thread is dynamite, best read in a long time. altough my stories are very similar to a couple already posted i feel compelled to post them anyway.

1 My step brother and I went snowboarding in Italy a few years ago, after landing and going through customs I walked round the corner and to my disbelief i found him petting a sniffer dog. He's always been a sandwich short of a picnic, but this was pretty special, even for him. Obviously the customs officials decided we were prime candidates for a strip search and we were dragged  off. They then proceded to go through our luggage with a fine tooth comb. The contents of his hand luggage were equally dumb. First they pulled out a syringe and a blackened spoon, apparently he was doing some tie-dye art project, and hadn't unpacked his bag before we left. the officials had a field day,saying "heroin, heroin?" etc. then out popped a sealy bag full of little paper stars followed by a mirror, by which stage I'm staring at him thinking, fuck, what have you done to me (fucking art students, ay?). Then it dawned on me,  Shit i lent my dealer my jacket last night and he was in a hell of a state when i got it back , fuck knows what could be in my pockets. Luckily it turned out there was nothing but for five minutes i honestly thought i was gonna shit myself. Man, the sweat was literally pouring off me.. Then the we both got led into separate private cubicles and told to strip off, bend over etc.. We were clean so they let us go but it was a pretty humiliating experience to say the least. Cheers, Kev, I love you man.

 2, this one is entirely my own fault, My dad was in the army so I got sent off to boarding school, i was about about fifteen at the time and my friends and I had managed to get a couple of bottle of tequila and sneaked them back to our rooms. I have no recollection of rest of the night...
I woke up at 7am in somebody Else's study, in their bed, butt naked. Ironical, the first thing i saw was that "tequila, have you hugged your toilet? poster hanging on the wall opposite me. How the the fuck did i end up here, I thought to my self and noticed a pool of what i thought was water in the corner of the room, odd, i thought, i must have knocked over a glass during the night. I then proceded to head back to my own room noticing several other pools of 'water' in the corridor on the way. i donned some clothes and headed to my mates room to find out why there was water everywhere and i had woken up in somebody Else's bed. Upon entering his room i found I found him and 2 other friends of mine, one with a black eye, sat on his bed looking rather pissed off. "why is there water spilled all over the place and why the fuck did i wake up in Nico's study?" I asked him. "It's not water, it's piss" he replied, "yours" He then proceded to enlighten me as to exactly what i had done the previous night. Apparently I got up a few hours after we had all crashed, trying to find the toilet and failing miserable I pissed in the corridor before headind back to bed, but i got lost on the way and ended up in somebody Else's study, where I promptly took another piss all over his desk, ruining his coursework in the process. I then noticed that someone was sleeping in 'my' bed so i dragged him out into the corridor and punched him in face a few times. Luckily my friends had been disturbed by the noise and saved me from a beating. My unfortunate victim then slept in my room as I refused to leave his. I woke up an hour later and repeated the whole thing again, inflicting myself upon another one of my friends in the process.
How I'm still friends with them, I'll never know...

[tommytwotone]

Had forgotten how good this thread was...here's my contribution, from last autumn.

Went out with some workmates to the beer festival at the Showroom, was having a very pleasant and surprisingly sedate evening - they were doing a 'book of tokens' thing for getting ales in, and as it was we decided to leave a bit early, as while the beers were pleasant the atmosphere was a bit, well, quiet.

So, off we decamp to the Red Lion up the road for a few more pints and a couple of games of pool. There were a few people round the table and it was 'winner stays on' so I wind up playing this wily Sheff local who as I remember inflicted successive defeats on me and my mate so we gave up while we were ahead and went back to drinking and chatting.

I'm not sure how the subject came up (I'm assuming it was the proximity of the establishment), but I confessed that despite having been on 2 stag dos in the last year, I'm still yet to have been in a strip club. So, given such a 'gentleman's club' is practically next door and the pub was chucking out anyway, off we went.

So, a while later (I'm skimming over the detail here to preserve my dignity, but also as I don't remember a great deal due to Black Sheep levels in my bloodstream...) I'm making a move so I leave, get my stuff from the cloakroom, grab a taxi and get dropped of back at my flat.

Having waved the cab off, I rifled through my pockets and couldn't find find my house keys, but no worries I think, I must have put them in my bag for safe keeping. I haven't.

So, I size up the options - the best one is to call the very-newly-ex-Mrs-TTT (out of whose flat I've pretty much just moved), who has a spare key for my place for such eventualities. I'm sure she'll not be very pleased with me waking her up at 4am on a Saturday, but she's a very understanding person, knows that this is the sort of stupid thing I do and also it's better than spending the night freezing in the corridor or my building. Except I haven't got my phone on me either.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I end up spending a few hours in the (thankfully) 24hr Tescos on Abbeydale Rd where I can buy a thermal vest to warm me up (for some reason I've still got my wallet), and wait until a sociable hour to walk up to the very-newly-ex-Mrs-TTT's flat to acquire my spare key, which I did at about 8am, feeling half drunk / half hungover, freezing cold and obviously looking really rough having not been to bed for the whole night. She was strangely sympathetic, and in fact told me I should have walked up at 4am and woken her up.

After much confusion and retracing of my steps (and having cancelled my phone), I went back to the places I'd been and was told the nowhere had found my stuff.

The week after, I happened to be in the Red Lion again and on the off-chance asked about my stuff again - suddenly she exclaimed "ahhh, so it was you!", and returned all my worldy possesions.

It turns out that I while playing pool I'd been playing a shot where I was stretched over the table, had emptied my pockets onto a nearby table to alleviate the groinal discomfort resulting and had then walked off, leaving all my stuff in the pub.

Safe to say I always check I've got my keys with me before I go anywhere now...

[lagerstarfish]

Fucking hell, TTT.

As I read it, you put a deal of effort into having a good time doing something that you had never done before that might impress your peers, but due to your own stupidity you found yourself stranded in the cold with limited options of how to resolve the situation. You used what little resources you had to get youself through this tricky time and ended up making your way to a person who might well have abandoned you to finally be rescued to tell the tale.
You should write a book and keep the film rights.

You could call it "Avoiding Annoying The Ex" or "Touching The Void" or something?

Some bloke called Simpson made a right packet doing the same thing.

[robertostallioni]

Had a minor issue on Monday.

With a lingering blinder of a headache from a weekends driving/heat visiting the outlaws, I spent the first half of my Monday van driving shift in a terrible mood.
My mood lightened however upon arriving at an lighting firm in Rotherham. As follows.

Pulled into their car park obeying absolutely none of the usual parking procedures. Reception on the left, line of parked cars on the right. As I pulled up as close to the foyer as possible I noticed out of the corner of my eye a figure leaning into a vehicle. I looked in my wing mirror as I ground to a halt and lo, the female form. I picked up my clipboard and opened the  van door for a better look as I step out. The hot receptionist (dressed accordingly) in short skirt was leaning into the rear seats of her car to retrieve god knows what. Mmmmm thinks I as I loiter from a few yards away. Peachy. I turned round, and within a heartbeat, walked nose first into the wingmirror. Pif Paf Poof.

Oh, how I would like this to be the end of the tale.

With what I can only describe as a boundless fury I screamed 2 words. No more, no less. Fucking Cunt. I must have had some degree of self awareness however as I started to spin around as they exited my head. Bad move. She immediately extracted herself from the rear of her vehicle to sight the scumbag. I stared back at her though teary eyes, hand over my nose/mouth. Fucking Cunt. I don't know if  she took it as some sort of request, observation or tourettes as clarifying the point was clearly a no no. Fucking Cunt.


 I go back tomorrow to, err, see what the crack is.

[GCW]

Reminds me of being a Junior Doctor in Paisley.  Anyone that's ever been there may know of the basement corridors.  A friend and I used to go there regularly to head to the yellow walled, thick aired room.
One day I was heading down there and saw my mate away down the corridor behind me.  Ho ho, thought I.  At the bend in the corridor I slipped into a doorway and waited.
Footsteps approached and just as they reached my hiding place I leapt out, arms aloft like some Daddy Longlegs, and shouted "boo" at the top of my lungs.

The first thing I saw was a very scared young nurse staring at me like I was a loon.
The second thing I saw was Alan Cameron a little way down the corridor pissing himself laughing.

Fuck, where's a hole in the ground when you need one?

[SamT]

[Bump]

Just thought I'd re-ignite this.. seems we could all do with cheering up at the moment and this thread has had me metaphorically wetting myself having somehow re-discovered it whilst searching for something else.

Unfortunately, I cant add anything more to it.  But maybe there are newer members of the forums who, a: haven't had the pleasure of this thread and b: might contribute further to it.

[tommytwotone]

God I bet oldmanmatt has enough to keep us going till we've all been vaccinated!

[Oldmanmatt]

God I bet oldmanmatt has enough to keep us going till we've all been vaccinated!

If I said I hadn’t thought about it, I’d be lying.

It’s just, most of (what I think) are my funniest tales are, um, incriminating.

Not like I’ll be able to resist.


Bollocks.

[M1V0]

I can provide a story about being caught on the university roof at midnight with a couple of members of the university mountaineering club, or, the time I broke my friend's nose in the middle of Prague after a night out.

[SA Chris]

I've nearly type a story a here a few times and deleted it as it's too cringeworthy. Desperate times though.

[Oldmanmatt]

Anyway, so, I got deported from Italy.

It was October 1990, and I was on a certain Warship, that shall remain nameless, because it’s not like any of this made the tabloids back home, or anything.
Or caused diplomatic issues with important, at the time, allies preparing for war together.
It all got lost in the whole “Desert Shield” thing.

The Navy had this thing called R&R (pretty sure that stands for “Rum and Riots”, never bothered to check, seems likely, based on experience). We’d been stooging around the Eastern Med, bravely patrolling mere hundreds of Kilometres beyond Sadam’s longest range weapons and we were tired (the air conditioning onboard, just didn’t work properly and the ship was packed to the mast head with officer cadets on training. Very arduous).
So we got packed off for a week in a certain ‘little” Italian town, that didn’t have any roads, but did have lots of canals, one of which was quite big, you could say ‘Grand”.
It is possible that the warship, was the largest destroyer in the Navy, at the time and carried some 475 officers and crew (mixed, already). It might also have been a very old steam ship.
Steam ships are not what you might call “convenient”. You can’t just leap onboard, flick a switch and sail off on a whim. A small crew of Stokers and Tiffs (look it up), the “Steaming Watch” turn too, 24hrs before departure, to fire up and warm through boilers and turbines (we’re talking superheated steam, takes a while to make and you can’t just throw it into a cold turbine without shit getting all “catastrophic” and stuff). This lady did not stop so easily either, what with being a few thousand tons of steel, oil, big things that go bang and thirsty Matelots.
It was deemed to be a big deal, there would be cocktail parties and soirée galore. We were to moor right in that big canal, right next to this big square (nice tower, St Somethings, Mike’s? Forgotten). We couldn’t be right at the end of the square though, because that spot was already taken by the Sultan of Oman’s yacht (this was also, partly, why we were there).
Our Skipper, being the consummate professional, declined to take lines from the attending tugs and bade them standby in case of emergency. Skill would be demonstrated.

By chance, some rather special people, from a large, brash, fellow ally, were also in town. These gentlemen took their name from a certain marine mammal and had some “security” role in the goings on.
They came out to greet us in their little rubber boats, a sort of guard of honour, if you will.

Now that big canal, looks kinda wide, to the untrained eye, but the big a big ship can fit in, really isn’t.
This meant, when one of those little rubber boats stalled, despite our skilful Master’s best effort, we did, in fact steam right over the top of it, causing some damage to the marine mammal driving it. Not serious, but enough to put him out of the coming war.
It also meant that we went quite hard to Starboard, failed to slow down (because of not wanting to lose steerage way). This resulted in our bow, entering the stern cabin of the Sultan’s yacht.

We had this thing called “Procedure Alpha”, where everyone not actually driving, manned the rails and waists in No.1 rig and looked pretty.
I happened to be quite a way Forward, on the Starboard side. The face of the    poor bloody steward, peering out of the new ventilation hole in the Sultan’s cabin, will haunt me forever.

Finally, ropes are over and gathered on the flight deck are the Steaming Watch, who by right and tradition, are first to be granted leave on arrival and usually the first to set foot on foreign soil.
Today, however, they had to wait, as our glorious leader was in a bit of a rush to visit with the Sultan. Looked a bit flustered. A bit pink and sweaty.
Fastest walk I’ve ever seen or heard of a condemned man manage.

Not laughing at all, the twenty or so men of the Steaming Watch, follow him down the brow and head to the first bar in that square, just out of sight from the ship.

I did mention it was quite a big ship, didn’t I? The brow was not just a ramp. The ramp extended to a stage, the switchbacked through two flights of steps to the ground. This will be important later.

Not long after, myself and my particular bunch, left with our boss for a quick bimble in the Dolomites. This is another story, for another day, but I would break my ankle, which did make the rest of the war, um, “fun”.

From this point, until we returned to the watery little town, I have only the word of the entire crew to rely on, when describing the subsequent events.

It seems, those “Marine Mammal” fellows were offended by their comrade’s misfortune and took the, unreasonable, line that it was somehow the fault of our chaps. Upon finding the Steaming Watch, already half cut, in the tourist crowded square, they proceeded to remonstrate, somewhat physically with them. This was not a fair fight, despite the “Marine Mammals” being outnumbered. The Steaming Watch were mainly skilled in lifting pint glasses, eating pies and getting covered in oil. They were only ‘fighting men” in the broadest sense and their combat skills extended as far as those drunken, flailing, wrestling matches that sometimes followed a particularly good night out with uncooperative locals, but no further.
A prudent young Junior Stoker, accurately assessing the relative value of “discretion” vis a vis “valour”, slipped away and ran back to the ship.

Now, the Stoker’s mess aboard that humble War Canoe, housed a meagre compliment of some eighty men.
I understand that most of them decided not to wait for the Officer of the day to grant leave and save him the trouble of piping it, by simply streaming down the brow to join our glorious allies for an impromptu dance...


Some four days later, my bunch stepped off the train in that little town again. I was somewhat hampered by my ankle, which our medic assured me was just sprained (wanker) but was, in fact, broken. However with some pharmaceutical assistance (Oramorph) I could shuffke along with a trekking axe to lean on.

As we moved down the platform, we were intercepted by some serious, heavily armed, Carabinieri types, who didn’t seem inclined to engage in conversation, or even speak any English. They did manage to convey a desire that we should go with them, though, cleverly, with their gun barrels.
Universal language, I suppose.
I can attest, that being frogmarched along uneven paving, cobbles and over innumerable arched bridges, in an immensely circuitous route, with a broken ankle; is not on my “lets do that again” list. I’m pretty sure there’s something in the Geneva Convention about it (bloody well should be).

Arriving back at the ship, we found a somewhat baffling scene. A smart ring of Carabinieri encircled the foot of the brow. A little man in a shiny suit, stood behind a small folding desk. On the brow, two somewhat unsteady matelots , were trying to get a large, black, curly ended, punt type boat; around one of the switchbacks and failing. While we watched, some helpful police types took away the punt and helped the lads up the brow, often managing to use both boots (in defiance of gravity) to encourage them on their way.

The little man at the table politely requested our passports and put a pretty little stamp in them, in red, and asked if we could please not come back.

My father had for many years, a newspaper cutting, from a well known tabloid, that seemed to compare Her Majesty’s Royal Navy sailors with “Football Hooligans”, but it was lost in a house flood, some years ago. I have, half heartedly tried to find it online, but no joy.

Of course, at this point, the war hadn’t even started, so things got better after that.

Or not.

[cheque]

[Oldmanmatt]

Yeah, got that the other day from an old oppo. The 9th of Jan was the 32nd anniversary of our joining.

The fucking realisation was devastating.

Uncle Albert.

Uncle Bloody Albert.

Has more hair than me.

[SA Chris]

So, this is not about me, it's a mate, who got a holiday job during uni days doing some gardening work. He got dropped round someone's leafy Surrey garden, armed with all necessary tools, and while they were hard at work at the office, he would have the job of weeding, pruning etc, and work on his suntan. Boss would come round at lunchtime, check in, go to pub for a bit of lunch etc.

Trouble was mate had had a few beers and a curry the night before, and it wasn't going to wait until the lunchtime pub, so he took the only option available, selected the largest tree in the garden, went behind it, dug the deepest hole he could and did what was required in what he thought was total secrecy, using the wrapper from his morning sandwich as makeshift paper and buried it as best he could.

He emerged from behind the tree, spade under arm, feeling somewhat satisfied, only to look up and see one of the neighbours looking on, somewhat horrified from an upstairs bedroom window.

[Will Hunt]

Not my story and had I heard it from anyone else I would have said it was nonsense. But I heard it, in a tent in the Dolomites, from the very person at its centre.

Some years ago my friend (let's call him John to protect his identity) was signed up to do the Morocco Hitch for RAG week. The idea is to set off from university and hitch-hike to Morocco as fast as you can. John and his mate were doing well and were in France.

The worst thing that can happen in hitch-hiking is to be dropped in the middle of a town centre. All the traffic is local and nobody stops, or even has a place to pull in and stop amidst all the traffic. John and Matey had been dropped in the centre of a French town and it was getting dark. Nobody was stopping to give them a lift so they started walking, hoping to hit the edge of town and get a lift to a motorway. Along the way they entered a kebab shop (or French equivalent. Maybe an all-night boulangerie or something) to ask for directions. As they opened the door, the interior fell silent, as it might in an old western when the gunslinger barges through the saloon doors. The assembled drug dealers glared at them as they asked at the counter for directions. The pair exited again and were walking along the road, perhaps half an hour later, when a van screeched to a halt beside them. The panel door flew open, and weed smoke billowed out. "Get in," called the drug dealers, "we'll give you a lift".

With great trepidation, John and Matey climb in, and the van careers off down the street. When they reach the edge of town, the demands for petrol money start which, somehow, John manages to talk them out of. So here they are, in the night, and they're now at the edge of town on the periphery of what looks like a refinery. So they begin to walk alongside it in search of a motorway. An hour or more passes when a police car pulls up and 3 gendarmes jump out and draw their batons. "Je suis desole! Je suis desole!" they scream. After some negotiation, the police decide they cannot leave the two unfortunates where they are and take them to the motorway where they can be picked up at a service station. John and Matey bed down in the services and sleep for the rest of the night.

In the morning, their luck is in. A nice, smart-looking, late middle-aged gentleman in a BMW says he will give them a lift. He secures their bags in the boot and they climb into the back. Nothing happens. They are waiting for someone. A pretty young lady in her early twenties climbs into the front passenger seat. Ah, they think, his daughter. The car pulls away and they're off.

It isn't long into their trip down the autoroute when the girl reaches out her hand, rests it on the driver's leg, and then starts to rub it up and down. A silent glance is exchanged between our heroes: not his daughter then. The rubbing intensifies. "Très excitant, très excitant!" she gasps. The girl unclips her seatbelt and climbs into the back, sitting herself down between John and Matey, and now she starts to rub their legs! "Très excitant, très excitant!" The driver looks back. "Un préservatif?" he asks. A pair of condoms are tossed into the back of the car.

I will not give an extended description of what then took place. But let us just say that everything took place. Everything. As it was happening, the driver's eyes flicked back and forth between the road ahead and his rear view mirror. When the car drew level with a lorry he would slow to drive alongside the cab for a while, allowing the trucker to enjoy the spectacle as well.

Eventually, the driver said, "There is a toll booth. You will have to put your seatbelt on." The girl climbed into the front seat and they passed the toll. Nothing more was said. The BMW pulled into the next service station and the nice, smart-looking, late middle-aged gentleman took their bags from the boot and handed them to the boys, before climbing back into the car and driving away. John and Matey stood there, the condoms still clinging to their now flaccid members, wondering whether their lives had just passed their zenith. They went into the service station to clean up and it was here that John realised that his phone was in the BMW. He ran outside panic-stricken, and there was the girl. "Silly boy!" she sang, and she twirled around and got back into the car, which drove off and disappeared onto the motorway slip road.

John is still convinced that in the depths of some pr0n website's servers there is a video of him and his friend in the back of that car.

[SamT]

The more I read this thread, the more I've come to realise that while I thought my life had had its fair share of adventure and debauchery, it seems other have had a much bigger share.

[Oldmanmatt]

I really don’t drink much, these days.

I never did and that was, at heart, why it was often problem when I did, because I really shouldn’t, even though I did.

I was prone to impulsive decisions, easily bored and a tendency to volunteer for anything that might break the daily cycle of tedium. Alcohol is something to be avoided, if that sentence describes you.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I’m usually pretty crap at providing evidence, so I’ll make this an illustrated tale.

To set the scene, I was 2 i/c of a five man team, that went (for training purposes, honest) to climb Mt Paget, highest peak on South Georgia. We failed and that is a long story, but not very funny. Pics for context:

Trekking in to advanced base camp, from our main camp at the coast.


In the Col, between Paget and Roots (behind) just before everything went wrong).



Looking back over the many miles to the coast, that we now had to cross, frostbitten and snow blind. Looks pretty doesn’t it. Even though that sun won’t set, night is rapidly approaching and the Katabatics are already building. Soon we’ll be huddling in -50⁰ windchill and gale force winds and driving ice.



One epic later, we were rescued by the RM MLs from the garrison at King Edward Point. It was Xmas eve, 1992.



Since the 1982 war, there has been a garrison on South Georgia, mainly Army with RM Mountain and Arctic cadre support (there was some rivalry between my little team and the Cadre, they did laugh as they rescued us).

The garrison welcomed us in and in true British Army tradition, began our treatment and therapy. Rewarm the frozen bits and get us royally drunk.

I awoke on Christmas morning, in the Seargent’s mess, sprawled on a years supply of toilet rolls, in some store room. I was blind, or at least I couldn’t open my eyes, because the sun burn blisters on my forehead had burst, gunk had run down into my eyes, hardened and sealed them shut.
I was woken by a very jovial Seargent, who bade me a “Merry Crimbo Princess” pressed a mug of “Gunfire” into my mits and helped me sponge my eyes open.
Gunfire is tea and Rum. It bagan.

The garrison CO thought it a wonderful idea that we join the annual Reindeer hunt (long story, it’s a cull because they’re an introduced/invasive species with no natural predators) and despite our shocking state, with a little Dutch courage, we did. My first time firing the then new Arctic Warfare sniper rifle and I was well over the legal driving limit...
Head shot. 300 meters. I’m an engineer not a marksman.

Anyway, by the midday church service in Grytviken I must have been quite sozzled, because I actually set foot in the church and it wasn’t a wedding or a funeral.



Yes, that’s Gunfire in my hand.

So, after church, we decided to pay homage to Shacklton’s grave, a short walk away.



Note that pretty fence. It will save my life.

From the graveyard, we spied quite a large colony of Elephant seal, about two hundred meters along the coast. We were not wildlife experts. We had been told to treat all the local wildlife as dangerous, but the Gunfire was in command. So we went to have a look.
Here is a picture of me demonstrating an activity that is not recommended for those who desire to exist more than a couple of minutes after carrying it out.
He’s only a young bull, not a patch on the Beach Master, deeper in the colony:



Holyfuckingshitcanthesebastardsfuckingmoveonfuckingland!!!

To this day, I do not know how we outran him, especially half cut. I can’t find the scars where the wings appeared, but I’m sure they did. I don’t remember clearing the graveyard fence, but we did. Cowering behind grave stones until the fella calmed down and flubbered back to the colony.

Chastised, were wandered back to the garrison for Xmas lunch, a food fight and quite a lot more alcohol.

Now, I like to think I have an affinity with animals and my fragile ego was dented by that creature’s lack of appreciation of my Dr Dolittle pretensions (aka, I was a twat). After lunch, by now absolutely rat-arsed and burbling, I set out to find some Elephant seals and explain  why they should accept me as one of their own. Still wearing the silly orange crown from my Xmas cracker.



Anyway, I don’t actually remember that bit. I fell asleep, just after the photo was taken. The seals didn’t give a toss that I was there, until I started snoring, apparently, which irritated them so much they flubbered away into the water. That was when my oppos decided it was safe to go in and carry me back to my pit.
Most days, when my memory decides to actually work, I wonder how I’m still here.
I wasn’t very well on Boxing day.

 
 

[SA Chris]

The more I read this thread, the more I've come to realise that while I thought my life had had its fair share of adventure and debauchery, it seems other have had a much bigger share.

To be fair, Will's story does take some beating.

[36chambers]

The more I read this thread, the more I've come to realise that while I thought my life had had its fair share of adventure and debauchery, it seems other have had a much bigger share.

To be fair, Will's story does take some beating.

did you find the video, or are you using your imagination?

[SA Chris]

very good.

"Just finish the f*ucking story!"

(if you know the punchline, you'll know the joke. If you don't it's not repeatable here).