Archive for March, 2012

You got to have rules

There were rules. One of them was that before you kicked someone’s door down you had to knock and say “It’s the British army, we’ve come to search your house.” We had to do that three times before we kicked the door in.

We rolled up outside, as quietly as we could, tapped as lightly as is possible on his door, whispered “Its  the British army, we’ve come to search your house.” as softly as you can imagine. Three times. We had to stifle our giggles. We took the door off its hinges with a baton round and stormed up the stairs.

He slept with a nine millimetre Browning under his pillow, his finger on the trigger. We startled him so much that his finger slipped and he shot his wife in the face. She made this horrendous gurgling sound and I was almost sick. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be alive with that much of their head missing. He was in shock and Cuddles had to bash him round the head with his rifle butt to get him to listen to us. We tried to get him to open the safe but he was too shaken, we had to take it back to the barracks and blow it open. It was full of drugs and explosives and detonators and money. He got 25 years. His wife died before we could get her to hospital. Her name was Caroline. I don’t remember what his name was.


All the time

I fantasise about you all the time,
And all the filthy things I would do to you,
But what I dream of most
Is simply kissing you.


We have never

We have never met,
Never held hands,
Never walked along the beach
And pressed our toes in the sand.

We have only words
And occasionally skype,
But I feel your love
In every word you type.

I love you to death,
And I love you to bits.
It would be so sweet though
To come on your tits.

I want you right now,
I’m fed up with waiting,
Because internet love
Is just masturbating.

 


The troubles

In Northern Ireland you never asked someone what religion they were, whether they were Catholic or Protestant, it was just rude. You asked people what football team they supported and if it was Rangers, you knew they were Protestant, if it was Celtic you knew they were Catholic. If it was Liverpool or Man U, you knew you were being told to fuck off and to stop asking personal questions.

We called it ‘the troubles’. We never called it a civil war but that is what it was.

We used to pass this sweet,  little old lady’s house every time we went on patrol. It was a corner terrace. She had a Rangers flag in the window. “God bless you lads.” she would say from her doorstep. It was good to meet people who liked having us there, good not to be spat at and called names, good not to have things thrown at us.

One day we were locked down by a fire-fight further down the road, and I was crouched in her doorway in the rain, waiting for the ‘all clear’ “Would you like a sandwich dear?” she asked me.
“Thank you Ma’am,” I said, “that would be lovely. We may be here for some time.” The rain soaked through me, through my combats, through my soul, I hated Belfast. The sandwich was thick and bulging and the smell of ripe cheddar and pickle warmed me.

My corporal came screaming across the road and bashed it from my hand, just as I was about to take a bite, called me a fucking idiot and bitch slapped me. I watched the sandwich land in a puddle and spill open, watched the little blue pellets of rat poison roll from it into the gutter.


Being four

max: look! a police car!
me: i don’t think it is
max: but it was going so fast
me: i don’t think it was
max: it had its sirens on
me: i don’t think it did
max: woo woo woo *runs round like a police car*


Olympic blow job

Has anyone else noticed how the London 2012 Olympics logo looks like Lisa Simpson giving someone a blow job?

Thanks to my mate Wobsy for pointing this out.


Trace

So there’s this writer cunt, OK? Kyle sumffin’, an’ ‘e’s been saying shit abaht me an’ Micky on the fuckin’ internet, on his gay-arsed blog, the cunt. Obviously this can’t be allowed to stand, you know what I mean?

So, I bells Mickey an’ ‘e’s fuckin’ fumin’, right, gettin’ ‘is tools togevver, chargin’ up ‘is nail gun an’ that, so’s we can go rahnd there and teach the cunt a lesson. Then ‘e says, “‘ang on, why don’t we send the girls in?” Now, that’s a right cuntish suggestion, coz our women are way fuckin’ crueller than we are. I mean, I like to jump up and down on a cunt’s face like the best of ’em, but I like to get in an’ out, quick like, do the damage an’ get back down the pub, less chance of gettin’ nicked that way too, know what I mean?

Any’ow Mickey’s gotta point, this writer cunt needs needs shit explaining to ‘im carefully, an’ ‘oo better to do that than the girls? Likeisay, much meaner than us they are. My Trace fuckin’ revels in it, spend fuckin’ hours working on a cunt, that girl can. Once right, she come ‘ome wiv this bloke’s dick in ‘er bag an’ fed it to the dog. Fuckin’ ‘ell, ‘ow we laughed. Sometimes I fink she gets some kinda sexual kick aht of it, an’ I don’t blame ‘er. I mean, I ain’t ‘ad an ‘ard-on for eight years, not since the ‘eart attack an’ them puttin’ me on these beta blockers like. Well, you can’t blame a girl for wantin’ to get ‘er rocks off nah and then can yer, know what I mean?

So I gives ‘er the writer’s address an’ tells ‘er to take her time but to leave the cunt breavin’. She gets ‘er little blow torch ready and some pliers and some fuse wire an’ bells Shaz, Mickey’s bird. Before she ‘eads off I say “‘Ang on, why dontcha take little Whitney wiv yer?” She’s eleven now and it would be good for ‘er to see ‘ow we do business. I mean, I’m a parent, it would be irresponsible not to take an interest in me kid’s education, know what I mean?

*

Hang on a sec, I will finish this post in a minute. There are people at the door, two women and a young girl.

BRB…

more in this series


Our day never came

I still keep missing her. I think I always will.

I’ve never had a “type” but if I did, I think it would have been Amy.


The shower

She watches him through a thin crack in the curtains, watches him undress, testing the water with his hand, before stepping under the steaming shower. Her hand slips down into the black satin of her panties feeling her own warmth and wetness, her eyes glued to the sight of his strong hands lathering up his magnificent body, her clit tingling as he caresses himself, water and bubbles running down his naked body, outlining each delicious curve. She plays with herself gently, not wanting to come too soon, not wanting to miss a second with him, brushing her hard, hot clit softly and slowly, feeling little rushes of pleasure spread outwards through her.

Sometimes they would bump into each other in the store on the corner and chat. She derived guilty delight knowing she had seen him naked. Naked and more, because the other night he had masturbated in the shower. He had taken his time too. stroked his chest and belly with the other hand, eyes closed, pleasure etched on his face. She had watched transfixed as he brought himself to climax, biting her lip at the sight of his cum running down his length and through his fingers, drowning in his open mouth, feeling his excitement, watching through misted eyes as his body shuddered and rocked. They came together.

She starts to come as he steps out of the shower and begins to dry himself, her orgasm like a million tiny electric storms ravishing her whole body, hot heavy gasps erupt from her chest, her pussy exploding with sensation. For a second she thinks he is looking at her, but reasons that he can’t possibly see her through the tiny gap in the curtain. She doesn’t realise that her feet are poking out from under it.

After he is gone and she has had a quick shower herself, she switches on her notebook and Googles video cameras, thinking she could record him and watch him any time she wants. There is a knock at the door, she slips on her red silk dressing gown and answers it. Its him, wearing nothing but a towel and a smile.


Shooting butterflies

There were these big blue butterflies in the jungle, as big as your head. My mate Cuddles would try to shoot them, but you can’t shoot butterflies, its the air pressure the round creates, it just sends them into a spin. Cuddles used to wonder if you could take one out with a grenade but that seemed like overkill to me, to grenade a butterfly.

The corporal was pissed with me because I hadn’t taken a dump that morning and said if I stopped now then I would just have to catch up with them. I hated shitting in the jungle, the smell would attract all kinds of creepy crawlies, scorpions and big hairy spiders and the like. I felt vulnerable squatting with my pants down, afraid of getting my butt or nuts bitten. I jogged to catch up with them and realised I was lost when the trail faded out. It is not smart to get lost in the jungle, and I was relived to hear the gunfire, I assumed it was Cuddles having another pop at a butterfly, I didn’t realise that they were under attack.

You can stand very close to someone in the jungle and not be seen, and I was only a few feet from him. I could make out the shouts of the boys off to my left, in between the bursts of his automatic. He couldn’t see them and was firing wildly, spraying rounds in their general direction. If he had turned his head to the left he would have seen me.

I fired three rounds into his arm and chest. Those ArmaLites were puny, we used them because they could handle  the high humidity, his body barely rocked. He stopped firing and looked down at his boots, puzzled by the blood dripping onto them and then he collapsed.

His name was Paulo. He was 17. In one of  his pockets was a picture of his sweetheart, she was absolutely gorgeous. Cuddles wanted the picture to jack off to. I told him he was sick but it didn’t stop him.