Category Archives: military stories

My new Hobby

Needing a new wrist strap for my small Fujifilm camera came across a Paracord strap for 5 quid so I looked at it and said I could make that. Ordering green 4mm 7 Strand 550 paracord I watched a video on how to make a simple bracelet

I am now working with many beautiful colours, beads, silver and wood, making my own designs all manner of paracord gifts for all ages. I think its very important to explain how why and I do something, and the short history behind how the Paracord originated.

My Smock with 2 White Paracord

The White Paracord held the Parachute together it was something you collected if you had time after hitting the Drop Zone. They still hang on my smock from my military parachute jump.

Continue reading My new Hobby

Funny or Not.

The life expectancy if you fell into the sea off Port Stanley was 2 minutes. The Helicopter lands a lad gets off the metal frame and he is back on land again. He wears a Pack on his back his big Arctic coat adds more weight to his body. The first port of call is a little Green door he just fits through. He makes his way to the counter, rough scratches and bearing hand prints of times gone by.

Elephant beer Blackie 🍺 yes its like Rocket Fuel just what the doctor ordered. Are you taking your pack off your back. No I’m comfy like this, down in one someone shouts. Another 🍺 🍻 🍺 🍻 🍺. The boat leaves soon Blackie. Give me one more 🍺.

Wear is that bloody Jetti, over here you pisshead. OK you alright climbing down the ladder, no problem mate. One runner down then 2. Blackout splash God thats Cold, Man overboard I hear, get him out he will die of hyperthermia. A huge Metal Hook grabbs me by my pack and I’m pulled aboard. Hospital for you Blackie.

Anther fine mess you got me into. 🍺

Military Humour

I kept a diary of my service in the army not anything special just things I found funny. So I thought I would share with you some sayings or just what my mate said on a normal day.

2 Soldiers on a road in the middle of nowhere.

Are your feet hurting mate.

Who’s mine.

2 men in the barrack room.

Can I borrow your Iron mate.

What For.

2 Lads at a military funeral.

The Curtain Closes on the Coffin.

One lad says come on we need to go round the back and collect him.

Waiting for the start of a Half Marathon. My mate turned up.

Are you feeling ok.

Yes had Six Pints and a 12 inch Pizza last night for my supper.

Another Half Marathon.

Done enough training for this mate.

Yes went out last night with Fatty Curly and got Shitfaced.

Elliman’s Rub

There once was a bottle, a bottle brown in colour, no label, with a white plastic top.

It came out on cold winter days, when my PT hurts were very small with gaps up the side. Red, green, yellow with legs hanging down like legs from a nest.

Legs that got me a nickname Knots On Cotton. Legs that would run four Marathons, play football, win medals doing the 400 metres in 50 seconds in 1985.

Cross Country in Germany in minus 6 degrees, the Brown Bottle would appear, get passed around from man to man, slippery and covered in clear pungent smelling liquid.

Off we would go like a glowing ember running into the distance, faster than you ever ran before because of the heat eating into your white, pale British body.

The changing room windows open, releasing odours that travel to the maintenance man cutting the grass for the next game of football. Sitting on his Mountfield lawn mower, he gets close to the small building where he can hear men chatting about how good they are, all the time the smell of Elliman’s Rub being sucked in as he breathes the fumes in. The mower speeds up as he gets high on it, the blade dropping and cutting shorter than a Bowling green.

The game is on – meet you there at 2. Make sure you tell someone to bring the Elliman’s.

Stripping off, the men talk; I put my blue football shorts on all faded, worn by not just me, frayed edges with nice gaps for the air to blow up. What position will I play today I wonder? I can play anywhere as I am a good footballer, one that could play on either wing. A player who was taught by my Dad to use both feet.

A player who would win the final day’s football match between two school teams. 80 mins gone, the score 1.1, he ran, just standing back from the centre spot. The brown leather football weighing as much as a bag of spuds would come sailing through the air, the small skinny lad leaping headfirst, connecting with ball and heading past the goalkeeper to win the match. Nine players run to him, hugging, and spreading the Elliman’s all over him.

Number Seven was his shirt, and the number would mean so much to him as he grew older. Blue was his favourite colour, and would also play a big part later in his life.

You’re on the wing Blackie OK? No problem – pass the Elliman’s.

Excitement building up to the game, he tips the rub into his hands, most of it missing and running down his skinny legs. He massages it into his thighs up high, just short of the Crystal Balls.

Someone shouts “Did you see that film last night with Demi Moore in?”. She appears in his head, beautiful, hair cut short, a face he dreams of waking up to.

Slowly his hands move inside his blue shorts, rubbing the C B…s. She fades from his mind as an intense heat flows into the groin area.

The door flies open. Wives and children watch as a tall 6ft man with a thick moustache runs like Johnny Weissmuller in a black and white Tarzan movie speeded up five times, like Benny Hill weaving back and forth, heat eating into his todger.

A scream of laughter echoes around the pitch. “Why is he running so fast?” a little boy asks.

It’s the Good Old Elliman’s Rub.

This is how it came