If you catch crabs in Iraq you really catch crabs, these fuckers itch like Hell doon yer trousers, they are known as Camel toe spiders.Its official, its been 8 months since I started this piece of shit otherwise known as a Blog. We've had hard times, sad times and times you have just wanted to slap me but we've made it through. I still have no idea why you read but I see you on my shite meter and I say welcome, read what you want and then fuck off until next time.
Another landmark is reaching and passing 20,000 visitors, well actually my meter is 100 behind but I like to see the pretty numbers, so just like crossing the Equator I follow the tradition of drinking a bottle of Rum and spilling some onto my keyboard for the Gods of Blogging, well that didn't work out too well but I had a spare keyboard from the time Alan used to live here, that's the guy I left for dead in the potting shed, a lovely family the kids call me Uncle and always send me shortbread at Christmas.
Due to all the attention the 15 detainees from the Navy and Marines have been getting I would just like to remind people of my story. I was a prisoner of war and though I have a hard time talking about it I feel like you lot are my friends and know you won't judge or condemn me, well MJ might, and Kav, Kieran and that cunt Niolk, oh and not to mention Foot Eater, Eddie, Sam problem-child-bride, that primal sneeze fucker and all those ever superior Yanks , apart from that I should be ok, well not really people go out of their way to annoy me it seems.
Here is my story.
In the closing years of my 'official' military service I was a member of 21 SAS. I was old and tired and had 2 weeks to my retirement, then Saddam Hussein decided to teach me a lesson. He had been sending me nasty letters and making crank calls at my home saying that I had an extra week on my contract of training his troops how to handle chemical weapons. I'd worked week-ends so he could go and fuck off. He said he'd teach me a lesson and a day later he was invading Kuwait for slant drilling oil across the Iraqi border what a fucker, he knew they would call me in.
Lieutenant General Sir Peter Edgar de la Couer de la Billière called me himself they needed the old 'Storm bringer' no one else could do it, sure my ego was inflated, he always knew how to rope me in.
I'd be on my own (as nobody would work with me) getting dropped in by helicopter into Iraqi territory to sabotage their Scud missiles, a piece of piss in and out.
I was flown in under the cover of darkness and dropped at the wrong fucking place, bloody fly boys all hopped up on caffeine tablets. I found myself in Scud Alley and 35 kilometres to the south of my target.
Lieutenant General Sir Peter Edgar de la Couer de la Billière called me himself they needed the old 'Storm bringer' no one else could do it, sure my ego was inflated, he always knew how to rope me in.
I'd be on my own (as nobody would work with me) getting dropped in by helicopter into Iraqi territory to sabotage their Scud missiles, a piece of piss in and out.
I was flown in under the cover of darkness and dropped at the wrong fucking place, bloody fly boys all hopped up on caffeine tablets. I found myself in Scud Alley and 35 kilometres to the south of my target.
I tightened my 210 pound backpack and proceeded to walk. 12 kilometres into the yomp I needed a dump (even heroes have to shit) in line with special farce procedures I shat into a bag which I would carry with me for fear of detection, you don't leave a trace that you were ever there.
While I was bearing doon on my load awaiting the turtle's head a young boy herding goats appeared, we froze for a second which seemed like forever staring then he turned and ran, I was discovered.
Since then many have asked me "why didn't you just didn't kill the boy?" and I've always said some noble rubbish about how I couldn't face myself if I killed him but really I was in the middle of a KA and I only managed to get 2 shots off which missed.
I packed up my shit and continued on, soon the Sandsavages were onto me like a swarm of bees. I killed at least 150 by my left hand and 200 by my right, my blood was up and the rage was on then they pulled a fast one, they got 2 beautiful naked weemen (must of been Iranian) which lured me into a bath of cold water which then cooled my thirst for slaughter and they were able to capture me.
At some base they interrogated me for hours flicking my neck and measuring me with a tape but I wasn't going to talk, all they got from me was my name, rank , mumber, how I took me tea and my views on what the fuck was wrong with the middle east and how Muslim men all have penis issues. That didn't go doon too well and several of my interrogators ran out crying, poor lads.
When I had ran out of officers to question me they threw me into a cell and played at full blast a CD called, 'that's what I call shite music now' . What seemed like years of listening to Vogue, The Love Shack and worse of all Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini as sung by Bombalurina headed by Timmy Mallet, did you know that Andrew Lloyd Webber produced that shit? no wonder I hate the pair of them.
In the middle of Milli Vanilli's 'Blame it on the rain' it got turned off and in walked Iraqi secret police otherwise known as the 'White Socks'.
Interrogation turned more aggressive, I was slapped and given chinese burns on my wrists, at one stage they forced me to clean the toilets and eat the feces, well as its rude to talk with my mouth full they had to wait until I was done eating.
I must confess that I cracked, when they refused to let me clean the toilets anymore I told them everything, from the time I was separated from my mummy in a market to the time I had came home from school to find my parents had moved hoose. I offered to go on TV and confess about the Aberdeen genital wart epidemic of 82 but the bastards refused, for fucks sake I just wanted to get onto the telly.
They did mock executions to break me further, well it was more like performance art, being a former member of the RSC (Royal Shakespeare Company) I gave them tips and called them darling a lot.
While I was bearing doon on my load awaiting the turtle's head a young boy herding goats appeared, we froze for a second which seemed like forever staring then he turned and ran, I was discovered.
Since then many have asked me "why didn't you just didn't kill the boy?" and I've always said some noble rubbish about how I couldn't face myself if I killed him but really I was in the middle of a KA and I only managed to get 2 shots off which missed.
I packed up my shit and continued on, soon the Sandsavages were onto me like a swarm of bees. I killed at least 150 by my left hand and 200 by my right, my blood was up and the rage was on then they pulled a fast one, they got 2 beautiful naked weemen (must of been Iranian) which lured me into a bath of cold water which then cooled my thirst for slaughter and they were able to capture me.
At some base they interrogated me for hours flicking my neck and measuring me with a tape but I wasn't going to talk, all they got from me was my name, rank , mumber, how I took me tea and my views on what the fuck was wrong with the middle east and how Muslim men all have penis issues. That didn't go doon too well and several of my interrogators ran out crying, poor lads.
When I had ran out of officers to question me they threw me into a cell and played at full blast a CD called, 'that's what I call shite music now' . What seemed like years of listening to Vogue, The Love Shack and worse of all Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini as sung by Bombalurina headed by Timmy Mallet, did you know that Andrew Lloyd Webber produced that shit? no wonder I hate the pair of them.
In the middle of Milli Vanilli's 'Blame it on the rain' it got turned off and in walked Iraqi secret police otherwise known as the 'White Socks'.
Interrogation turned more aggressive, I was slapped and given chinese burns on my wrists, at one stage they forced me to clean the toilets and eat the feces, well as its rude to talk with my mouth full they had to wait until I was done eating.
I must confess that I cracked, when they refused to let me clean the toilets anymore I told them everything, from the time I was separated from my mummy in a market to the time I had came home from school to find my parents had moved hoose. I offered to go on TV and confess about the Aberdeen genital wart epidemic of 82 but the bastards refused, for fucks sake I just wanted to get onto the telly.
They did mock executions to break me further, well it was more like performance art, being a former member of the RSC (Royal Shakespeare Company) I gave them tips and called them darling a lot.
It seems they were in a hurry to get me back to coalition forces but they had a hard time finding someone to drive me, only the most suicidal of the bombers could handle the 5 hour drive.
Poor suicidal bombers, those lads are really depressed in fact my one was crying by the end of the journey and kept saying "whats the point?" and I thought I had reached him, he blew himself up after dropping me off and shouting, "thank fuck, peace at last" I guess some folks just don't like conversation.
I got back and was debriefed and then got counciling for my abandonment issues, those fucking Ragheads never called me once.
I only really got closure recently when I was flown in to hang Saddam.
I got back and was debriefed and then got counciling for my abandonment issues, those fucking Ragheads never called me once.
I only really got closure recently when I was flown in to hang Saddam.
