» Airport Stories

Dimwit brother
A few years ago my brother and I had to fly to the US to resolve my fathers estate following his death.

After going through all his belongings and sorting out what should be kept and what we could palm off on his friends as momentos of him, my brother announced that he'd kept a few things back that he wanted.
A cavalry sabre, a couple of huge bowie knives, and a few other smaller blades which you concealed in a wrist sheath. Bugger!

I phoned the US airport, and they confirmed that if all the weapons were secure and handed in with our luggage there would be no problem, I omitted to mention the slightly illegal ones that were making the trip with us.
To disguise the smaller knives he taped them to the larger ones so that if they were x-rayed the smaller blades wouldn't show up (hopefully).

My brother is a frequent flier due to belonging to a re-enactment group and has appeared in re-enactments all over europe, so despite my telling him that there was a duty free limit when returning from the US, went to town in the DF shop and bought way over the limit to bring back. I decided that I would as well, realising we were going to have to go through the goods to declare line on landing.

We collect our baggage and off we go, without thinking my brother went into autopilot and follwed the rest of the herd into "Nothing to declare". Since he is deaf in one ear, he didn't hear the customs officer asking him to step over, and just before he was about to be leapt upon by several of her majesty's employees I had another officer call him back saying that he didn't realise that my stuff was on the trolley and I had to declare some of it.

We wander into the declare section and look around for someone, apparently very few people go into the declare line so it's often unmanned, or the guy is sat in the office drinking coffee and reading. Just as we were about to walk off, this guy sticks his head out and asks what we have to declare.
I go for sympathy and start with "The remains of our fathers estate...", cunningly slipping the sword and knives into the list first and hoping he'd forget them as I added my new watch, clothes, several bottle of booze and cigarettes over the limit, but no, the first thing he asks is
"Are the sword and knives the genuine article?"
"No, replicas" say I,
"Don't worry about it then. On your way lads".
And that was how my brother became the proud owner of what we later discovered was a genuine American Civil War cavalry sabre, and narrowly avoided the invasion of his anal cavity by a customs officer.

Later, speaking to a friend who is a customs officer, I was told that since you were willing to declare it they really can't be bothered, and nine times out of ten you'll get told to carry on without even being checked.

Apologies for length, but it was a sword.

*Pop*
(Wed 8th Mar 2006, 20:34, More)

» Sporting Woe

Killer
Killer was your basic adolescent ball game for breaks.
Stand in a circle, one person throws the ball in the air and whoever caught it threw it at their preferred victim.
You could either leg it and run for your life or join the fracas to be the first person with the ball.
Once the ball was in play the game continued until the end of the break. We used a tennis ball, and for a (very) brief period a cricket ball (one day - 3 trips to hospital and one to the dentist - told by the head of year to lose the cricket ball. At least he was a realist and knew we weren't going to stop playing).

I learned early on that the key strategy was ALWAYS know where the ball was, zig-zagging didn't always work, stutter-stepping or just plain coming to a dead stop were the best tactics for ending the day without a dead leg or a serious bruise.

One day we were playing and some unremembered bastard passed, not threw at, passed the ball to the one person you did not want to be on receiving end of his throw.
Arms like a post spinach Popeye and accuracy of a qualified sniper.
I see the ball leave his hand and zip toward me at warp factor ten and accelerating to speeds Mr Hawking tell us are not possible.
It starts as a grey white dot and just gets bigger, no deviation in course.
This baby is going to spang me right between the eyes.
I was stood still.
In a split second of clarity I realise I have zero seconds to take evasive action and did not even have the time to step to one side to evade even a glancing hit.
I let my knees go, I drop the necessary three to four inches for the ball to pass over my head with an audible whoosh.
A narrow escape.
Unfortunately the boy stood behind me, looking in the same direction did not have the luxury of time to evade said tennis ball.

Our first ever knockout with a tennis ball.
Sorry Alan, but that would have HURT.
Oh, yes it did, didn't it.
Our reaction, we left him there until some girls got a teacher.
The staffs reaction, a lot of laughter and we were told not to aim for the head.

Length, 40 to 60 feet, but incredibly quickly. Sound effects were amazing.
(Tue 24th Apr 2012, 0:30, More)

» I hurt my rude bits

Not so much self inflicted.
Not self inflicted, but a biological product of that evil bitch Mother Nature.
Apparently we contract virus's all the time but the bulk of them don't affect us.
On ocassion though, one will cause a side effect.
Epididymitis anyone?

"Epididymitis causes swelling of the scrotum, pain in the testicles" the medical encyclopedia tells me.

Oh bloody really! That would explain why, when I stood up that it felt like someone had nailed my plums to the chair.

Length, girth? I should coco.
(Wed 19th Jul 2006, 17:16, More)

» Missing body parts

Explosives are dangerous kids.
Not me, my brother again.

First and second degree burns from playing with gunpowder. Also the loss of all facial hair and a Brother Cadfeal haircut.
Result? He had a very startled expression on his face until all the hair grew back, similar to Beaker of the Muppets.
His hair did grow back, which was unfortunate, since he's ginger.

I went to see him in hospital and nearly pissed myself laughing.

Length/girth? Enough to keep me happy.
(Sun 4th Jun 2006, 17:36, More)

» Worst Nicknames Ever

The navy can, indeed be cruel with nicknames.
Cess Pitt.
Silica Gell.
Swish Curtin (the noise it makes as you pull the curtains back).

There were two Nobby Clarke's in my mess.
Nobby the stoker.
Wobbly Nobby, as a result of a limp gained due to a spinal injury.

I was Wobbly Nobby. Which didn't really bother me. At least it was unique.

At least I wasn't "That fat cnut Hicks".
(Sun 21st May 2006, 23:24, More)