Porky Watson
There now follows a collection? of stories sent in by Ex members. Please take them as they are meant to be, just a bit of fun. Any comments on the stories or bite backs will be posted, so come on get writing!
COME ON THIS IS THE IDEAL OPPORTUNITY TO SHARE YOUR MEMORIES AND LAUGHS. GET YOUR STORIES INTO US AND WE'LL INCLUDE THEM ON THIS PAGE.
THIS FROM PORKY WATSON
Many ex Kirkee and Maiwander’s
circa the 60’s & 70’s will recall with
affection Brummie Longman from the Regiments Boxing team. As we all know the
team dominated the Far East Land Forces taking the championship in 1969.
Also remembered will be the Regimental Pop Group. Named the Fugitives. All
the group members plus a number of significant others gathered in on the 9th
of Feb. 06 to surprise and celebrate the 60th birthday of Paul at a Chinese
restaurant in the village of Guadamar del Segura. This is on the Costa
Blanca just south of Alicante. The brain child of Norman ‘Snowy’ Harris and
the Longman family, Brummie was conned into taking a trip, seemingly for
shopping, to Birmingham and was mightily surprised when he got onto an
aircraft heading for Spain!!
Previously that day other members of the group had travelled from UK to be
present. They included Derek Barsey, Paddy Paul, Chris McPherson & Norman
Harris. Jimmy Younger, also a member of the victorious Boxing team had
joined Tony Watson at his Costa Blanca home in preparation for the evening’s
festivities. Jimmy & Tony, being tone deaf, were never members of the group
and thank god some would say! However they are ex members of 145 and managed
to keep the end up against all the Kirkee-ers there, in the best possible
way of course!
Brummies sister–in-law Diane also lives on the Costa Blanca and with the
help of an old friend Audrey Norseworthy had planned and booked the venue
giving invaluable help to Snowy seeing as his ministrations were being made
from a certain chip shop in Ivybridge! God only knows how Brummies wife and
son managed to keep the surprise a secret from him but from the expression
on his face when he arrived at the restaurant they certainly had. It was a
cold February evening when he arrived and the guests were playing hide and
seek outside the restaurant in order to enhance the surprise. Fortunately
Brummies wife, Chantel, had slipped him inside into the warmth and the
surprise was complete. Not only the 29 guys but family and friends as well
brought tears to the eyes of an overcome guest as each one came out of the
woodwork to greet him.
Brummie has always been the kindest of men and it was clear that there was a
lot of respect and affection for him as the night went on. Chris McPherson
also in wheel chair was the life and soul of the evening never afraid to
laugh at himself and any other memory arising. Aided and abetted by Paddy
Paul who never looks any older, I’m sure he’s Peter Pan really. Derek Barsey
too was instantly recognisable as is Snowy of course. There were many
compliments paid that night to Brummie and well deserved too, but the
greatest compliment of the evening lay in the hands of the man himself. He
brought a lump to the throat of all gathered in when he thanked them for
being there and said ‘I could never sit down to toast men like these and
the company hear present tonight’ Despite his suffering with MS and being in
a wheelchair he insited with great effort on standing to reply. Many in the
restaurant who were not guests of the celebration felt moved by this also.
Once the inevitable cake arrived the mood lightened up somewhat, much
singing of happy birthday followed. Plenty of wine and beer was shifted and
great night was completed.
Finally though, we were all thoroughly sick of the happy birthday anthem!
You know the Chinese restaurant owner will always do what you ask and even
as the last two people left, Jimmy & Tony, the bloody thing started up
again. Paddy Paul was no where to be seen!
Compliments to all for attending, but special thanks to those that travelled
from UK to be with him. Snowy Harris, Jimmy Younger, Paddy Paul, Derek
Barsey and Chris McPherson from the Regiment and of course many close
members of his family. It was a great mini re-union as well as an extremely
satisfying birthday celebration made better by meeting old friends after
such a long time. Who’s next! Please find attached some photos to muse over-
spot that face!
Any ex 29/95 travelling to the Alicante area are welcome to contact me via
my email address as I would always like meet in order to bring back a few
good memories over a beer or two
Yours aye
Porky Watson
1981 We got a new chef, Cpl Wilkinson ( Wilky ). He was to take over from Chalky White, who had been 8 Btys Chef for some time. This was to take place during an exercise at Larkhill. As is the custom, the Bty would say goodbye to one, then welcome the other into the Bty. And this is not just a pat on the back and shake of the hand.
no! no! no! no! no!.( I say shaking my head from side to side )
At that time I was slim Sam the store man, the Qs little helper. On the last night we had cleaned the Guns and other equipment, packed, prepped and inspected everything ready for the move out back to Plymouth. Once this was done Pete Tarling ( The BSM ) gave the order to build a bonfire, Pete just loved to burn things. Everyone set about grabbing anything and everything that would burn, and slinging it into a heap in the centre of the gun position ( with some Don 10 which is another story, is it not so plastic Pete ). As per End Ex, where ever we go the BK buggers off to get the beer, and this BK being no exception did so.
"Where's Chalky".
Now I must add that the boys had asked me to keep a eye on Chalky and Wilky and to let them know If they were going to F**k off, also Chalky had asked me to warn him of the boys coming to get him. Now in all fairness there is 85 lads out there, so I had to decide, do I look after my good mate Chalky and save him from the mob or face the mob myself. Hmmmm hard decision.
I still hurt from vile things that Chalky shouted at me as they dragged him out kicking and screaming, there was all this confetti floating about. I thought that's a nice touch from the lads, but on closer examination I found it to be what was left of his cook whites. So, they have him bollock naked spread eagled on the deck while four 18" steel tent pegs are hammered into the ground to which they secure him. I turn to Wilky and said " well did you see that ". Except that I only got as far as "well", and there's Wilky behind a six foot table with a big cooks knife saying "F**K off".
"Wilky" "F**K off"
"Look" "F**K off"
"Wilky mate" "just F**K off"
It was at this point I realised the conversation was going nowhere, from out side came Paddy Boyds voice " where's that Crap hat chef" I turn to see a hand lifting the 12+12 flap at the front and turn back in time to see the other flap falling to the sound of pounding feet disappearing into the night. Paddy and I walked to the back of the tent, step out to hear "F**k off". As we look into the night, we can just make out Wilkys silhouette on the sky line ( I new it was him that knife glinted in the dark ) "Christ he can shift even though he is a hat!" Said Paddy.
"I take it he don't wont to play"
"No, I think not"
"F**K off" Came the cry from the dark.
So we did.
Well by the time Paddy and I had joined the rest of the Bty who were all looking after Chalky, ( who started to scream vile things at me again ) this consisted mainly of Chalky naming loads of objects he was going to ram up my arse, and to be honest I don't think the QE2 would fit. The boys had done him proud, they had covered him in most of the contents of the galley, what the cows had left behind in the field, then added the contents of their bladders to bring the mixture to the correct consistency, when this was achieved the Bty went on the piss. Every now and then Chalky would get a drink. Poured from standing height into his gob, I was glad when he had a drink at least then I would not have to listen to how the QE2 was going to be berthed in my backside. And every now and then you would here from somewhere out in the dark,
"F**K OFF I MEAN IT"
Latter in the evening the BC Major G came out had a beer or two the starts talking to Chalky, who is still staked out and covered in all kinds of crap.
"Cpl White"
"Sir"
"I think breakfast should be at 05.45"
"Yes Sir"
"And finished at 06.15, as I want the first road party on the road by 06.45"
"Yes Sir, 05.45 to 06.15"
"Right.... Thank you, have a good night.....Good night BM"
"Night Sir"
Now all that was as if nothing was amiss, so a few more hours passed and quite a few more bladders emptied on Chalky. When it was decided to take Chalky for a shower, so a guns 12+10 was produced. Chalky thrown on it wrapped up an chucked into the back of a one tonne, which then sped off to Tilshead camp.
"F**K OFF"
Randy "He still out there" "F**K OFF" "Yea guess he is"" where you sleeping tonight" "with you mate" he gives me a funny look so I add "same tent different bag" "Yea well you keep your snout pointing away from me, I don't want to hear you grunting in my ear all night."
Paddy comes over "shall I go get that muppet in" I add "Paddy he has a big knife" "Yea good point, f**k im, night." On and off Wilky was with us for another 15 years and he was never more two strides from his well honed carving knife. As you can guess he never got staked out either, but that could be because he never trusted me. Would I ever Wilky, you bet I would.
Thanks for that Sam, keeping the tone up as usual!
This ones from Father Baker????
Hi Guys, I served with the regiment from about 1961 as a member of 79 Bty and then as a member of Black eight. When my time was up as it where, I left the army in 1982, and you can well imagine my wife and family had travelled the world with me so I thought I would strike out on my own for a change. As both the kids had grown up and had their own lives to live it left me wondering what I could do to make life as comfortable as possible for the wife. I was able to get her put into a home for the bewildered and so off I set off for the big smoke.
At first life in London was quite hard, but then I met a lovely couple called Jeffery and Mary, they where a very nice couple and it was not long before Jeffery invited me to stay at their lovely home. Jeffery seemed very well connected; I think he had a job with the home office, something to do with prison reform if I remember rightly. I wasn't over keen on Mary as she wore this awful perfume and as she went about her housework it seemed it permutated into every nook and cranny of the house. After a while I got a bit fed up with the high life, not to mention the Champagne and all that Shepherd's pie that seemed to be on the menu every day, anyway I decided that I needed to move on.
I found myself at the travel agents, and on looking through their brochures, I opted for a ticket to Phnom Penh the capital of Cambodia. After a long and tiring flight I thought that I would go and grab a bite, and then a bit of a relaxing time in one of the many bath parlours that are in the capital. It was here that I met a famous (or so he told me) rock star. His name was Garry Critter and I think his band was called "The Paedophiles". Garry was great company and was always up for a laugh that is until one night when he tripped and fell on the hotel escalator and his wig went one way and he the other. Of course I thought this was very funny, but poor old Garry was not amused as they say. I had also met a German friend called Gunter who had bought a surplus U-Boat on the second hand market and he and a group of his friends where on a sort of a world cruise if you could call it that as they only surfaced at night to charge the batteries. Anyway I thought I would take up Gunter's offer of a trip to the Italian capital of Rome. As I had been getting a bit bored with Garry, he always seemed to prefer the company of younger people especially girls, I sat sail for Rome.
The trip was quite uneventful until we entered the straits of Gibraltar and we had to dive when the look out said he had sighted a British frigate. We arrived in a small cove about 20 miles south of Rome and Gunter kindly had an inflatable lowered and I was put ashore.
I made my way to Rome and spent the next 6 months living there. I took a job as bar tender and it was here that I met one of the Popes guards, Mario. Mario used to stop by for a few Chianti's on his way home from work and kindly arranged for me to have an audience with his eminence. I met the great man, he even let me kiss his ring, and this was the meeting that would change my life forever. The Pope told me that I had had a lot to offer, and suggested that I might take up some sort of charity/voluntary work.
I now run a small home here in the South Hams for reforming alcoholics. We work in a very liberal regime; in fact the bar opens at eight till late. Of course we have no government support and we rely heavily on donations made by the public so if you are ever in the Ivybridge area, I and some of my out patients can be found in the Ivybridge Constitutional Club most Saturdays and any monetary help would be gratefully accepted.
You might also like to know that after I returned to Devon that my wife and I had reconciliation. When she first went into the home she befriended a Somali goat herder, apparently things where fine at first but after a while he treated her very badly and made her stand naked at the top of the stairs while he practiced his spear throwing skills.
Kind Regards
Father Baker
Summer? 1975, this was to be the only time I was to see 29 Cdo Regt RA as a whole Regt. because as we know two years later we lost 145 Bty sadly for all time, as well as 79 Bty for a two year period.
So that's 7,8,79,145 and as it was then 95. REME and all other attached services.
The venue was at Otterburn camp, 8 Bty had come from Malta half of the Bty were put into the camp chapel, the rest into the bar because the Bty was comprised of god squad and alcoholics. Mind you they were stationed on an island full of catholics and bars.In the U.K. at that time you could get nine pints to the pound but in Malta you could almost triple that, those lucky! lucky! bastards. Anyway the NAAFI Bar was just across from the chapel. Which was handy for the god squad, as they could sing and chant at their heathen other half getting shit faced in the NAAFI. "god bless em" or maybe not but I guess they didn't give shit either way.
145 were released and brought down from their exile in the frozen north, though most were left chained to the ground with face masks that Hannibal Lector himself would be proud to wear, in later years these men (I use that word very loosely) would be spread to the other Btys and quietly drag the rest of us down with them. Yes I know we went willingly, anyway if you didn't do as they said you disappeared along with a barrel of chianti. well, red plonk. And how did this lot get on. put in jail?, no, they mainly joined the police force!
79 had been given leave from Larkhill, as we spent more time there digging holes to shit in, sit in, stand in, lie in, sleep in (yea good one) and stick a f**king gun in, rather than take over from 7 sunshine Bty still what goes round comes round, guess who is in the frozen north now, yep good old 7 sunshine Bty, they are now stuck up where the sun don't shine, aint justice sweet. Anyway 7 Bty had just come off some run in the med, or a states trip or something. I guess some ex 7 Bty out there could bring this up to date.
Now 95 bty, old Harry Dukes he just pops up out of some hole then he says "We're here, right I`ll do beer boson" Sneaky f**kers those 95, they would drink your beer through the bottom of your glass, they call them 148 Bty now... still a sneaky bunch of f**kers as ever you have seen.
Phil Ravoco did a somersault through a window, it would've been perfect if the window had been open the acrobatics put Olga Corbut to shame, pity about the landing though we had to mark him down for that! By this time we had been sitting in a circle for hours in the pissing rain, when the shout went up "piggyback fight!". What a bloody good idea says everyone, yeah right! after seven hours on the piss. Well I did say earlier, nearly the end of practice camp. So off we go, the first down is Uncle Greg, with a broken leg then Ivor Jones does his neck in, the lads were falling like flies. Then my wrist made this lovely loud crack, and from then on pointed the wrong way, the ambulances started to turn up. So as they are loading Greg I thought I had better go too, but dustbin decides my wrist is fine and to prove it, he gives my arm a good old shake, well I pissed myself. No! funny as it my seem, not with loads laughter. So that just leaves the warm wet type. I said to dustbin, "Ow that hurt" he said " shut the f**k up and have a beer or I'll drop you." Like everyone else. I know a good invite when I get threatened with one
Well calling him a doc`s a bit posh, we had naval medic's who were good at squeezing puss out of one end
and shoving a needle into the other, but when they ask you to bend over,
you have a good look at what they are about to stick in.
Here I met the rest of the piggyback club and got deafened in the right ear by the RSM
before we all had a day out to go to Newcastle general hospital.
This is where I met Hattie Jacques. To this day I don't under stand why a broken
arm requires an internal examination, all I said was, "Hi Hattie I've seen all your carry on films." She smiled a knowing smile and pulled on some rubber gloves!
Then POW! talk about watering eyes. I could never watch another carry on film after that.
When I finally got to see the doc he said. "I thought we'd seen all of the injured from last night, must of been some riot over there", the lights came on in my alcohol and pain filled head. He thought we had been flown in from Ireland after a bad riot " No! No!" I said " It was just a piggyback fight" I had a good idea I'd said the wrong thing, when I watched him reach for the rubber gloves.
Around 45 men had to go to hospital, and practice camp was nearly called off, everyone was pissed off that it wasn't, except for that night which was the dogs bollocks. Even though I spent the whole camp washing dishes in the stripeys mess and having to get my plaster replaced every two days (well it kept dissolving in the dishwater). they never could keep the bits plaster out of the beer mugs.
There's more to this, but they are your versions this is just mine ever so slightly s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d in places.
The following tale's not for the squeamish which means all you lot will happily read it!
To set the stage this tale started during a rather important block inspection. You know the type when every man and his dog has a look before the main man MGRM.
As usual we had been bumpering and scrubbing for about a week to get it right, the day before the big one the BC decided to do his walk about, but first the TC's had to do their little bit.
You know the kind, young subaltern straight from Sandhurst trying to impress all with their new found knowledge and power. Ours happened to be greener than most which was ideal for the surprise we had lined up for him.
In he comes expecting all to jump to attention and obey his every command and look on him as some young star in the making (yep your right no bugger took much notice). Straight for the tops of cupboards he heads hoping to get a hint of dust on his hand, alas we were too canny for him to be caught on that one. So he then heads for the old gas heaters which all rooms in the Citadel had at the time, and proceeds to try and find something he can hold aloft to all to proclaim the wealth of experience he has gained from his few weeks service. Again he is too slow for us, after half an hour per room finding little or no faults he proceeds to the heads
Now a man of his standing shouldn't be asked to frequent these sort of places but he must put duty first and enter the inner sanctum of the OR's toilets! On entering he has a cursory look at the urinal then carries on to the cubicles where he finds all but one lid up. "Sergeant." "Yes sir" replies Sarge. "Why is this lid down?" Immediately the Sergeant turns on the Bombardier and repeats the question. "I don't f**king know." Replies Bomb and lifts the lid. Much to our young officers glee there's a skid mark which wouldn't look out of place on an F1 Starting grid. "Sergeant" he scream's in excitement "what on earth is that!" To which the wily old Sgt replies ............"LOOKS LIKE SHIT SIR."
The young lad is beside himself with joy at actually finding something and sternly says "Are you sure Sgt" Old Sarge needs no further prompting and straight away bends downs scoops abit onto his finger sticks it in his mouth, looks at the horrified young fellows face and confirms "YES, IT'S DEFINITELY SHIT SIR." Our young officer turns green at this sight and stammers "Sergeant what on earth are you doing." After a long enough pause to let our subaltern's bile rise, both Sgt & Bdr begin to chuckle and explain it's an old trick often used by the OR's on each other & not often seen by Ruperts. The "shit" was in fact half melted chocolate.Fortunately the officer see's the funny side and both the NCO's get him to agree to leave it on so the young officer can pull the same trick and impress the BC when he does his rounds.
Within the hour the BC arrives and goes through much the same routine as the young officer before him, we could see the excitement mounting in the young lad as we approached the heads. In we go BC falling for the same bait asking why the lid was down, the TC as already rehearsed goes through the actions of being surprised and gets the Bombardier to lift the lid. "What the f**k is that!" Wails the BC. All around him begin looking very sheepish so the luey takes his cue and steps forward. "LOOKS LIKE SHIT SIR." Bends down and gets a nice dollop on his pinkie and sticks it in his mouth.
At this point I have to tell you the old swithceroo has been done in the 2nd lieutenants absence and the chocolate has been swapped for the real thing!
Straight into the smiling officers mouth goes the heavily laden finger, then stark reality begins to dawn on our young fellows face. Not wanting to show any kind of emotion and let the BC know he'd been stiched up was almost impossible for the young lad, but he did his best and uttered the words "it is shit sir" very meekly, and lets out a small but unconvincing laugh. Unlike the two NCOs who were almost in cardiac arrest.
The poor lad had several more rooms and toilets to endure before the end of rounds. We never did find out what the TCs explanation was to his boss for his gross act. But we believe the BC having been around a trite longer than his fellow officer had a good inkling what had happened but let the young lad suffer for his brashness. No doubt the tale was retold with a chortle in the officers mess. It has to be said that practical joke left a very nasty taste in the mouth!
This is a photo of the outside of Old Park Police Station Belfast. To the bottom right hand corner was a sanger, now as you can plainly see there is not.
Theres a bit of a story about this, and to save any embarrassment to Wes Nicolson we will use the code name Rat.
One day in Ireland in 1975 while on sanger duty, the Rat was blown up...........................or was he?
Make your selves comfortable and I will explain all. Now as sanger duties go this was a particularly boring sanger to be in, in fact all you could see was an alleyway and half a dozen houses. But the plus side was that the Galley was ten steps from the sanger, so if you wanted a brew or a bite to eat you could nip in and do it yourself. Do see where this is going.
Well Wes, OOP's! sorry Rat was in there one day and starts to feel a bit thirsty, so he pops in to the Galley for a brew then decides B*****ks I'll have a snack. So quickly he makes a little bit to eat, to go with his brew as he doesn't want to be away from his post to long. So one pint of tea, two bacon sarnies and an egg banjo later, then another tea to go back on duty with.
KA BOOM,....... O s**t say's Rat who runs back to the sanger, well a fast walk as he doesn't want to spill his brew does he. And guess what, yep no sanger, just a f*****g great hole. At this point, the whole f*****g world and his dog are locking and loading for bear. Running out of the Galley door ( with out stopping for a brew, or egg banjo, or a bacon butty unlike someone we know ).
S**T! s**t says Rat, as he looks for some where to put his brew, ( the evidence ) as there is now no table no shelf, just one big F*****G whole, so he throws his mug right across the cul-de-sac into a back garden. Then starts to throw s**t dust rubble, what ever he could find over his self. At this point the whole F*****G world and his dog turn up.
In the centre of this crater, surrounded by dust smoke covered in s**t is the Rat. But not in the s**t.
The stripie in charge looks at Rat, looks at the hole. You can see it in his face, how the f**k,
well now you know the truth of........ RATS GREAT ESCAPE.
He goes by the name of Tink
and likes to be covered in Tate & Lyle
golden syrup then thrown out into temperatures reaching -20
when drunk, by a bar full of his so called mates
left for twenty minutes to harden
then brought back in by said mates.
Who then proceed to peel off the hardened syrup
along with most of his body hair!
A BRAZILIAN WAX IS FOR PUSSYS
YOU CANNOT BEAT THE TINK & LYLE HAIR REMOVAL SYSTEM
It had been a hard week, well it could've been a week or we might have just have got there. But anyway we were there in the wagon lines (NAAFI Bar), quite a few in at the time it was a push to get served (but not for long). Bill got the first round. No Bill wouldn't have done that, as you would've have to carry him screaming to the bar with a gun to his head, it was most probably Taff he dosen't like arguing the toss. "I'll get it, you three sort your s**t out."
Because the bar was so crowded we bought two rounds at a time as is written on page 12 paragraph 8 line 4 of the piss head guide, sadly we still drank them in the time it takes to drink one pint. Sooooo after a full round we had quaffed eight pints or one imperial gallon of Australia's best 4x, Randy gets up "right you f**ks same again" the answer being of course yes. Now after this amount of ale something has to give and those of you who know me....... (Oh did I mention Randy had a new jumper for Christmas, this was a loving present given by Mo his Wife.) Like I said those of you who know me, yes I erupted with a fountain of tomato peel, carrots, eight pints of 4X and these strands of black sticky stuff which we all had a close look at but still have know idea what it was.
Oh yes, all over Randy ( only about the tenth time I've thrown up on him, till then, but a lot more since. He's like a magnet to contents of my innards ) and his new jumper, now this jumper was like the ones your mums used to make you wear as a kid. Thick white woolly jumper with a lambs head on it ( which reminds me I have a story which in involves Rat, Greg, Blodger and another plus one lamb and a load of spuds ) but this didn't have the lambs head, but it was white was white sadly I changed all that.
He looked down at himself then at me "better" he says " yea much thanks " I reply. "Right still 4x " says Randy. three voices say yes in unison. So of he slides to the recently vacated crowded bar, which now had a swimming pool of my stomach contents and most importantly a two meter gap in the crowd of which we made good use of for the next three to four hours on the piss.
So me and Randy take our beers to the s**t house with us while we wash his jumper in a pussers hand basin pissed as rats trying to push the bits down the plug hole without much luck, so the only thing big enough to wash his jumper in the s**t house was the f**king throne its self. So with Randy dunking and me flushing we got most of the bits off, we had a drink of beer, like one pint, then got into drying mode. Pussers standard one man each end twisting in different directions, this does two things to woolly pulleys one it gets most of the water out and two it stretches the jumper up three sizes.
Randy puts it on. "It looks like a f**king dress" he says. "Oh f**k it that will do", so we down the second pint while taking a slash ( don't want to waste valuable drinking time do we ) then head back to the bar. Gap still in place but eight pints waiting for us, Bill and Taff still in two pint mode, and I am fine with that emptied stomach on floor and my bladder in s**t house "sound" as they say.
As we sat down Taff says. "Eight," " what?" "Eight" he says again, "Bill what's up with Taff", "eight" says Bill. Randy said "it must be a game", "eight's a game what game do you know called eight" I say. "F**k knows". So I ask Taff " hey Taff" "eight" says Taff I look at Bill "eight " he says with out me asking a thing.
At this point a crap hat with a pint in each hand walks into my lake, his legs start going like the road runner on acid then he is sliding round like Torvel and Dean. Then down he goes like a sack of s**t, but give him his due he only lost half a pint from one and a gob full or two from the other. Taff gets up and take the beers off the hat while he gets up, gives him his beers then sits down.
Taff looks at Bill "nine" Bill nods his head.
Just the guy you need to liven up a good night out. He even got us banned from the Dolphin one night due to his intestinal manoeuvres! But that's another story.
This goes back to Otterburn, probably to last time we fired the pack howitzers but I may be wrong.
Anyway let me set the scene 79 Bty reforming, lots of new boys, Rooster, Kev Sweeney, Carl Clifford and of course our subject Craig (Horse Head) Summers.
It was quite a nice morning, firing hadn't started and it was decided by some of the more senior members Jock Ross, Greg and others that one of us young ones had to much to say. With that in mind a large number of us were sent around the gun position to collect cow pats. About half an hour had gone by and we had amassed quite a large pile of pats by now, some runnier than others, this was easily overcome, out came a jerry can of water and a good mix was finally made a few yards away from the CP. At this stage no-one, well none of us sprogs were quite sure who this was for, then they pounced and the prey was caught. Poor Horse Head, Not really, thank f**k it wasn't any of us.
Anyway he was bound, his hands tied behind his back, his ankles tied and then he was forcefully put in the kneeling position, I am not sure but I think that his hands and ankles where then tied together. I am sure by now that you have guessed, for those who don't know, what was about to happen. The victim was kneeling just in front of this giant cow pat, that great big cow pat that he himself had help construct. The look of "I am really p****d off about this" on his face was a picture. Needless to say there was cow s**t everywhere, in his eyes. up his nose, in his ears, he had to move his head around so that he could breathe.
Once he was suitably coated it was time to lift him out and wash him off with a couple of jerry cans of water. It was fun at the time, the biggest concern for all the sprogs though was who was next on the hit list, on this occasion none of us. I hasten to add though that we all did get initiated at some stage, in those days it was the norm.
Nice one Benny, I take it you all went out that night and got shit faced!
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