painted stag
We crept low through the dried leaves and branches, they were out there moving to towards us, and we toward them… Frank looked over, ‘move left, I’ll flank them to the right’ he whispered. I nodded and checked back for movement ahead.
Nothing.
‘Good luck’ I hissed as he rose to move, as he darted away I sensed something wasn’t right. I saw the scrub shudder before he did but by that time it was too late, a plethora of shots erupted yonder accompanied by a groan a few metres away, Frank had been hit.
Nothing I can do for him now. I think of his mother at home looking out of the kitchen window anxious for news of her boy. Jesus…
As the broken leaves and twigs settled onto the canopy floor there was more movement ahead, and to my horror, something to my left. I have to go, now… I rose slightly bringing my weapon up to my shoulder, a shot is fired at 9 o clock, I spin to face an enemy and take immediate action, he’s hit… move… adrenalin rushes into my blood, a clumsy lurch causes me to lift myself up higher than I intended, I hear the shots before I’m hit 4 times, 3 in the chest and 1 in my already injured leg. Christ, no. I’ve been hit, I’m all fucking covered in yellow paint…
Being hit by a paint ball hurts, though it’s random, the ones that catch you on the side of the back sting like fuckery, I still have bruises from Saturday.
The day had begun early, I met Frank at 7am and we took the train to Chiswick where we were picked up by Sim and taken to a paintballing place near Slough to meet up with some friends, and, of course, the stag. There were other lads there too, borstal boys, all prison tats and shaved heads with a few of gangsta types thrown in for balance and it was with this crowd we would be spending the morning. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so conspicuously middle class in my life.
We were split into 2 random teams, the upshot being that I was expected to actually work with some of these yobbos, bizarrely once the masks are down you can’t tell who is who, one is either yellow or red and that’s that. There is obviously something deeply significant about this of course with regard to us as human beings and the nature of warfare perhaps… but I can’t be pissed to make a big deal out of it.
I found myself working well with these strangers, or friends, due to the camo gear and motocross masks I could only identify Frank and the stag (well he was wearing a pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers) and that was it. In one game I even managed to capture the enemy flag while my crew kept me covered under fire, I even high fived someone, I don’t do high fives, I’m not a high fiver, it was ridiculously exciting -a bunch of thirtysomethings reduced to 8 year old boys playing war. By the time we left all of us were exhausted, sweating, filthy and grinning from, ear to ear, the yobbos and gangsters were now comrades, they all said goodbye as we exited the site.
Next stop was a waterpark so some if the chaps could indulge in wakeboarding. Frank and I sat this one out, my back had already had a jolly good workout and I didn’t fancy pushing it, I’m glad I didn’t too, it’s not great today. We spent a lazy afternoon by the water watching the remaining stag party going round and round, the stag was still sporting a pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers…I took some shots of them on the water and smoked cigarettes in the hot afternoon sun.
We left at 5 to go back to London and were dropped in a bustling Camden to begin the evening’s entertainment. By now the eight strong group had bonded into a fully operational drinking machine, after a few in a pub we went to eat Tapas and drink Sangria, mountains of food was served and demolished in minutes, I don’t think any of us appreciated how hungry were. Another bar featured, this time outside on the street drinking Sol before a final few in The Underworld with the stag still grimly bearing his tattered pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers. A smashing day closed and the tube rolled Frank and I back to south London in measured oblivion.
Last night I arrived in Hackney at 7 to meet IC; we hooked up with Swineshead and his missus to enjoy a few beers in the twilight. It seems that the whole of London has slipped easily into the clement weather; there is a palpable mood of contentment despite the city being governed by a fucking idiot. My journey back from Hackney this morning featured a sea of short-sleeved shirts and summer dresses, the suit seems to have been obliterated from society, it’s rather nice actually –long may it last.
May 13, 2008 at 10:04 am
I went paintballing with a group of mentally-unhinged friends. It was the most violent, blood-fuelled day I’ve ever spent. The bruises never healed. I still get flashbacks. You’ve brought back painful memories. I hate you.
May 13, 2008 at 10:37 am
You? Mentally unhinged friends?
NO SHITZ SHERRLOK
Morning
May 13, 2008 at 10:46 am
Morning.
Yes, I have a large collection of mentally-unhinged friends. It wasn’t long before a ‘fun’ day’s paintballing descended into a nightmarish Platoon clone. I managed to debag one fucker and fire a paintball at his exposed anus. Later I was de-goggled, held down and shot point-blank in the face. The horror! THE HORROR! I couldn’t speak properly for a week, and you could see the bruise from space.
Happy days.
May 13, 2008 at 10:54 am
Were you really shot in the face? One of my lot copped a shot right in the fucking throat and he couldn’t breathe for about 30 seconds.
The fat cunt running the day told us ‘paintballing is an extreme sport’ when we arrived causing me to laugh into his flabby face. It’s not an ‘extreme sport’ being shot in the fucking ribs is just that and nothing else. Having said that by this time I’d stopped laughing.
May 13, 2008 at 11:33 am
I was indeed. My face blew up like a balloon and I couldn’t speak or eat solid food. It was like beig punched in the face by Giant Haystacks – fucking agony on a scale I’d not encountered up until that point. Medieval torturers would have killed for a punishment like that. The friend that was shot up the arse had to go to the doctors and wouldn’t speak to any of us for months.
May 13, 2008 at 11:43 am
Fucking hell, you godamn foolz
You were lucky not to lose and eye and your ‘mate’ will probably wind up with a bag on his side with all shit in it
When I was a nurse this old dear had the shitz, such was the force of the shitz that she blew her bag off spraying an arc of slurry all over the walls and over another patients legs as she ate her tea. The recipient of this offal mucilage didn’t bat an eyelid
It was one of many times that I gagged before getting a fucking bonk-on
May 13, 2008 at 11:46 am
Beautiful story. You should work these up into a David Niven-style book of medical anecdotes.
I was lucky, you’re right. The thing is, I was only 22 or 23 when we decided to restage Hamburger Hill. You’re not the sharpest tool in the box at that age.
May 13, 2008 at 11:59 am
Plenty more where that came from
I fainted once when an old lady’s calf came away in my hand one afternoon, you couldn’t make it up, really. I kept that memory fresh for months…
Yes, I’ll give you that, some of the stuff I got up to at that age (mainly involving drugs and vehicles) it’s a miracle I made it to, erm, 32
May 13, 2008 at 12:00 pm
Or 39, to be more accurate.
I’m still waiting for a story to beat sicking up shits.
May 13, 2008 at 12:02 pm
URRR NO WAY, WOT DA HOLE FING? DAT’S SICK (BAD SICK NOT GOOD SICK) M8.
May 13, 2008 at 12:08 pm
HAV U GOT PICHURS?
May 13, 2008 at 12:13 pm
“LOL”, as they say on the internet. look, i found this hilarious cartoon: http://ebergen.net/images/lolcopter.gif
it really made me laugh. or should i say, “LOL”, haha!
May 13, 2008 at 12:16 pm
I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my entire life.
May 13, 2008 at 12:22 pm
Me too, my sides have literally opened up and I can see all my tummy and the poo I’ve yet to bear.
Speaking of which, the old lady hockling up a trog was a milestone in horror but the calf episode was considerably worse, the flesh was green rotten, I’ve never smelt anything so utterly vile in my life and hopefully will not again
*eats sandwich*
*pops off for another wank*
May 13, 2008 at 12:26 pm
I used to wash pots in a nursing home, and all I had to put up with was a wanking old man. Christ, could that man wank.
May 13, 2008 at 12:48 pm
I started off in the kitchen…
You’ve opened a can of worms now
I caught an old lady whacking off with a hairbrush, she looked up and me and coquettishly asked me ‘what my wife would think’ (I was 17) prior to wiping her clout snot on my trousers.
I only nursed one bloke, he was in a hospital in the Eastend bejewelled with blue sailor-themed tattoos and despite being 90, built like a brick privvy and madder than a rabid brown bear with torn scrote.
I was an agency nurse at the time so subject to piss-taking instructions from regulars who didn’t want to undertake certain tasks, such as cleaning the feta from under granddads lid. I contested their request to thoroughly clean Horatio Hornblowers sullen member with a ‘why should I do that?’ The reply of ‘You’re a man’ went down like a cup of vein-laced spunk. ‘How does that work?’ I contested, ‘just because I’ve got one of my own it doesn’t mean I’m Mr. Au fait with someone else’s, you’ve clearly handled more cocks than I have…’ which didn’t go down well… so off I went to undertake my duty.
After trying to explain to this wrinkly meathead that I was in charge of cleaning his fucking tool I donned gloves, held my breath and went in.
He smacked me so hard in my kidneys I was sent home.
May 13, 2008 at 12:54 pm
“You’ve clearly handled more cocks than I have …”
Brilliant.
May 13, 2008 at 12:56 pm
seriously, these stories have got to be bullshit, please tell me they’re bullshit.
May 13, 2008 at 1:01 pm
Having worked in a nursing home (if only in a washing-up capacity), i wouldn’t be so sure of your scepticism, JonR. The old are another country – they do things differently there.
May 13, 2008 at 1:02 pm
Nope, they are all horrifically true, as said, you couldn’t make this shit up
May 13, 2008 at 1:08 pm
Let’s have another!
May 13, 2008 at 1:17 pm
Yeah, I’m not quite spent yet.
*frots*
May 13, 2008 at 1:21 pm
One old dear died whilst I was spoon-feeding her, she was mid mouthful. She just leant forward and let out a protracted breath and stop moving. I couldn’t actually believe what had happened so, in a complete reversal of roles, it was me screaming out NURSE looking petrified
I helped lay her out (packing orifices, tying her toes, crossing her arms) as rigueur mortis set in. Unfortunately the staff nurse had forgotten to put her teeth back in after we’d cleaned her gob so her face began to collapse on itself. By the time she’d realised that she’d forgotten the teeth the old dears jaw was as rigid as my fucking cock.
Without warning the staff nurse put a meaty paw on her chin and another on her forehead and broke the jaw with a crack, popped the teeth back in and closed her mouth.
Really, I nearly bust a knacker knocking myself out about that incident.
May 13, 2008 at 1:21 pm
I just did.
May 13, 2008 at 1:27 pm
See Dean Martin was talking bollocks when he said romance was that of which sweet sweet memories are made. It’s wanking off over dead, broken-faced grannies what does it.
Sadly I don’t have any comparable stories. Although my grandad’s colostomy bag did once leak while he was sitting next to the queen. I shit you not.
May 13, 2008 at 1:29 pm
The Queen waved at me once. No shit changed hands.
May 13, 2008 at 1:35 pm
Did she just fling it at you then?
May 13, 2008 at 1:44 pm
No, she rode past in a car with her Nazi husband. I was the only man on the pavement, gave her a wave, she waved back. He didn’t, of course. The old Nazi racist.
May 13, 2008 at 1:49 pm
You were the only man were you? Were you surrounded by hoards of screaming teenage girls?
You didn’t tell me you were Micky Dolenz
Phwoar, eh?
May 13, 2008 at 2:02 pm
that’s me grandad wiv da red robe.
May 13, 2008 at 2:03 pm
Can’t see the shit stain
May 13, 2008 at 2:03 pm
oh link isn’t working
May 13, 2008 at 2:04 pm
http://img98.imageshack.us/img98/8420/3247553bg7.jpg
May 13, 2008 at 2:06 pm
I wish I had been surrounded by screaming teenage girls (in a non-sexual capacity, of course). Sadly, it was just me on my own on an empty pavement with the Queen and Herr Phillip driving by. Still, something uninteresting to tell the grandkids. AND THEN I’LL SHIT-UP ON ‘EM.
May 13, 2008 at 2:08 pm
Your grandad was a Lord Lieutenant? Ain’t we the la-de-da type, eh? Silver spoon in his mouth, poshed-up, never done a day’s work in ‘is ‘ole life, rich bastard.
May 13, 2008 at 2:11 pm
The Right Honourable, The Lord Mayor, Commander (insert name here) Bt. GBE (insert bullshit here).
Yep I’m dead posh me. Not that he lost all his money and I’m just a waif now.
Still, he practically shat on the Queen and of that I’m proud.
May 13, 2008 at 2:14 pm
It’s gone all bleedin’ Royal in ‘ere
Who’d have thought that the UK’s most disrespected blogger would also become the numero uno purveyor of Royal chat…
If only the Queen of Hearts were alive to enjoy this auspicious realisation
May 13, 2008 at 2:17 pm
FUCKIN’ A!
Now, more sexy granny scat stories purleez.
May 13, 2008 at 2:20 pm
Diana? A lovely woman. Queen of candles and a rose in the wind. She did more for land-mines than anyone else. Now, thanks to her selflessnessness, we can all buy land-mines at affordable prices. GAWD BLESS ‘ER.
May 13, 2008 at 2:21 pm
I’ve seeded my front lawn with them to keep darkies and the pope out.
May 13, 2008 at 2:23 pm
The little woman’s just made me some soup. See yiz later, yiz dorrty feckin’ bastards.
May 13, 2008 at 2:27 pm
Yes, everytime I think of her I burst in helpless fits of cry’s for at least 2 days.
I’m typing this through bitter salt tears streaming all over the fucking place.
I’d gladly hand over my severed yet still pulsing manhood just for a split second glimpse of her wonderful warm smile.
I think I can speak for England when I say goodbye Norma’s English Jeans, may you rest with your beau Dildi 4evrersz
May 13, 2008 at 2:29 pm
IYAM STIL CRIING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
Goodbye sweet Prince, gudboi
May 13, 2008 at 2:34 pm
The only other time I was as upset as when the Heart of Peoples’ Candles died was when Boy George beat Jill Dando to death with a big dildo.
May 13, 2008 at 2:47 pm
Everyone knows he done it, that hairlip is a dead give away. All disableds are wronguns if you ask me, send ‘em back I say
May 13, 2008 at 2:50 pm
I have to agree. A crouchback crossed my path the other day, and I had to dash into a church quick-smart to avoid his evil curse. And don’t get me started on Stephen Hawking …
… who’s a spazmoid instrument of Satan. With his voice.
May 13, 2008 at 2:54 pm
I happen to be friends with a Hungarian, Jewish, short, gay hair-lipped guy. So yes, it is a curse.
May 13, 2008 at 2:57 pm
Is he a crookback? They’re not good for you, you know? They bring bad luck.
Actually, all Handicappeds do. They’re as bad as black cats. That’s what a woman in our village says, anyway.
May 13, 2008 at 2:58 pm
Black cats crossing your path is good luck in some places. Foreign places, mind. Where they’re all cripples, retards and wizards.
May 13, 2008 at 3:01 pm
I knew a retarded kid at school. He had something called ‘Dyslexia’, but us kids knew that was a fancy word for advanced retardation of the mind. Luckily he was hit by a car and killed afore he could spread his disease to the other kids.
I’d chain ‘em all to walls. WALLS.
May 13, 2008 at 3:06 pm
The other day I saw some of the London Marathon on TV, some disableds were in fucking chairs, with wheels!
What lazy cheats
May 13, 2008 at 3:13 pm
See if put wheels on my chair people would be all ‘mou’re so damn lazy’ but if you’ve got The AIDS or are all disabled up they’re like ‘no that’s fine.’
It’s ridiculous. That’s why I like to throw stuff at them disableds. But then suddenly I’M in the wrong! BOLLOCKS, I say!
May 13, 2008 at 3:14 pm
I meant to say ‘if I put’ but due to anger and retardifaction I didn’t.
May 13, 2008 at 3:16 pm
and ‘you’re’ as well?
May 13, 2008 at 3:18 pm
Reading the first part of todays ‘enlightment’ I found myself reminded of last nights, ‘Waking the Dead’ I have no idea why though the image of a bunch of males chasing each other around woodland or where ever it was, was firmiliar. You didn’t stumble upon Detective Boyd by any case. He’s a handsome chap with a ackward habit of shouting a lot – you can’t miss him…
May 13, 2008 at 3:24 pm
I’ve never seen waking the dead, nor have I woken any deads either
May 13, 2008 at 3:27 pm
It’s a messy business but very rewarding.
May 13, 2008 at 4:38 pm
Yes I did mean you’re. As in ‘You’re a dick, Piqued.’ Like that.
May 13, 2008 at 4:38 pm
I’m well hardcore.