Regular readers of this column will remember that I spent my late teens as a member of the Air Cadets. This was a youth group run by the British Royal Air Force, along the lines of the Scouts. Only without that dyb-dyb-dob nonsense or tying things to your woggle. Oh no! This was the real McCoy. They even gave us guns when they thought they could trust us. The fools.
We were stationed in Henley-on-Thames, a beautiful riverside town best known for its annual Regatta and the huge brawls between toffs, tourists and anarchists on Henley Bridge which marked the start of the boat racing. The drill hall was actually the old police station, along with genuine cells you could lock gullible visitors inside, a cafeteria, and a firing range for when the fools trusted us with guns.
Winter times, we would be literally confined to barracks for drill nights. We’d make and fly model planes (you’d be amazed what you can manage indoors), use the radios, march up and down the drill hall, and fire the guns that the fools trusted us with.
On the long summer evenings, things were different. We had the town at our mercy, and we’d get out to play football or build rafts up by the river. We’d march around the back streets and generally had a Good Time. We’d always finish with a big parade outside the front of the building as the Union Flag was solemnly lowered at the end of the day.
This particularly balmy July evening saw us in formation on the parade ground at the front of the building. Neatly lined up in our flights, boots gleaming and trousers neatly pressed, the Commanding Officer inspected his troops. Some forty years previously he’d seen off the Bosch with my grandfather in the deserts of Africa, now he was in charge of the pride of Henley’s youth. He exchanged a few words, read out a few notices and then turned to salute the flag.
A huge pair of jugs
It was then that a couple of the lads noticed we had a specator in one of the old houses opposite the parade ground, just twenty yards away over the road.
It was the lady of the house, standing at the window, towelling herself down after a bath, completely oblivious to the testosterone fuelled turmoil she was about to cause down below. Being a spotty teenager, you only notice two things in these circumstances, and neither of these were her face if you get my meaning. Brought up of a diet of Page Three Stunnas (Busty Dusty gets ‘em out for our Falkands Heroes was one I remember from the time) and furtive school yard porn, we weren’t disappointed.
Let me, dear reader, piece together my scant memories of our spectator’s appearance. She was around forty, certainly no older, slim build that suggested that she worked out, definately a bottle blonde and the biggest pair of top bollocks that any of us had seen on any woman, ever. And that included Darren who was a trainee fireman, and knew about stuff like this.
One by one, squadron members realised what was going on, and the parade became a sea of stupid grins and muffled laughter. From my position at the back, it appeared that the CO was saluting not the flag of our nation, so recently glorious in South Atlantic conflict against the Argie foe, rather a magnificent pair of 40-DD bazongas in an upstairs window. I, for one, on the edge, and it wouldn’t take much to send me over.
It was at that moment she took her towel and gave both mammaries a vigorous, circular rub, ending with her giving both nips a little tweak. They wobbled like blancmanges in an earthquake, and from the looks of things, she seemed to find this most satisfying. That was it - even Mr Tipping, his salute already wavering was now bent double with laughter, and we all followed suit. The entire squadron broke ranks, laughing, clapping and cheering.
Approximately 0.00027 seconds later, the accidental exhibitionist realised that she’d been rumbled by half of Henley-on-Thames. She screamed. She dropped her towel, to reveal a bush that resembled a large, black fluffy poodle nestling in her lap and whipped the curtains shut. See? I told you she wasn’t a natural blonde.
The applause was deafening, and lasted for several minutes, with several passers-by and Greasy Joe from the Chip Shop down the road forming a small crowd for good measure. After we had all calmed down, Mr Simmonds, our erstwhile Warrant Officer, made us all go back and do the parade again to “give the flag the respect it deserves”, and we stood there while we went through a tits-free repeat of the flag-lowering.
Poor old Jez, who’d been on flag duty had missed everything, and had thought that we were laughing at him. He was even more upset when we filled him in with every single sordid detail of the episode at Greasy Joe’s later, with a few extra details “she even winked at me” thrown in for good measure. Every re-telling got more and more lurid, and several weeks later I’m sure I heard a version that involved at least three lesbians, various sex aids illegal in the free world and the Kids from Fame.
The following week we turned up at the Drill Hall to find a “For Sale” sign on the house opposite. Can’t think why. Mystery naked woman, we never knew your name. But thanks for the mammaries.
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