Scatalogical Manouevres in the Dark
I was in the Air Cadets. We were as hard as nails, or so we thought - we could give those bastards in the sea cadets a right kicking whenever we wanted, on account of their flared trousers. It all went a bit shit-faced, however, when one of our number pissed on our fireworks by taking a pot-shot at the Queen with a starting pistol and got sent down for treason. After that, for some reason, the powers-that-be thought we were all homicidal nutters and banned us from carrying real guns in public.
Instead, we spent long hours working in the squadron's workshop knocking out guns out of scrap wood (I made a stunningly accurate Uzi sub-machine gun that would probably get me shot in the street these days), which we would then charge around the local woods with shouting "NanaNANANANA!" like Private Pike from Dad's Army.
Up the woods we went, then, all wooden Tommy Guns and combat uniforms for some silly-bugger war games which basically involved tramping about in the dark and a big fight where those of us with wooden Uzis would charge out of the trees shouting "NanaNANANANA!" like Private Pike.
The future of Western civilisation depended entirely on balanced individuals such as ourselves graduating from the cadet corps to the full-time armed services. The Red Army must have been shitting themselves. Brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it?
"Time to black up, lads", said the CO.
For those of us who took the whole charging about with wooden Tommy Guns thing very seriously, this was the time to break out the green and brown face creams to make up their faces like a bunch of military divas. The rest of us used nature's make-up - a big big dollop of mud smeared all over exposed skin to make us look like a cut-price Black and White Minstrel troupe.
Now here comes the crucial bit...
Unfortunately, I hadn't quite got my night-sight, and in the pitch black of night, it was difficult to make out that my big dollop of mud wasn't entirely mud.
You see, the woods above Henley are popular amongst dog walkers, and my handful of Mother Nature's face-pack contained 100 per cent pure dog shit. And I didn't notice until it was far, far too late.
...and the whole fucking issue was covered in shit.
I think the politest comment I got that evening came from the CO's wife, a nurse who worked in the local casualty unit who had seen more or less everything that can be inserted into the human body*: "Fucking hell Scary, you smell like shit."
Happily, my comrades took pity on me, and helped me clean it off before we returned to base that evening. The River Thames at Henley isn't really that deep, you know. But as the Sea Cadets fished me out in their little jolly boat, I promised never to take the piss out of their bell-bottomed trousers ever again. For at least a week.
* Two stories for the price of one, courtesy of Mrs CO:
I was working on a day shift when this incredibly posh woman staggered in, demanding to be seen in a hurry. We weren't that busy, and we didn't want to create a scene, so we took her straight to a cubicle where she explained her dilemma.
"I was dusting the pelmet with no knickers on, when I slipped and landed on a statuette of Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson. Please don't tell my husband."
She let us have a look. Lord Nelson was stuck fast, right up to the hilt. It took three of us working in shifts and gallons of KY Jelly to get him out. She was more worried about her husband arriving home and finding no dinner on the table than the fact that she was walking like John Wayne.
You'll be pleased to hear that we followed hospital procedure to the letter by not laughing in front of the patient, even when the words "Try to relax a little. Think of the sea" were met with a volley of gutter-mouthed abuse you wouldn't have thought possible from a person of that breeding.
"How did you get here?" I asked.
"In a taxi."
The speed bumps must have been hell.
I admit defeat. The Wanking Nightmare [Achtung! Page contains gross-out images] story on this page just made me crap myself with laughter. Geniarse.