Caution

I’ve had some pretty random dreams in my time. One of the most horrific was when I was Macy Gray, but luckily that was just a quick nap, but long enough to wake up frantic to find a mirror to check I still had the handsome good looks of a dog...

Recently I dreamt I was in the British army and I was in a tank. It’s a sealed environment in there and there’s more chance you’ll die inside than out coz the air’s so rank after a while. I estimate after 3hrs it’s 5% oxygen, 25% adrenalin, 25% testosterone and 45% farts: more deadly than any missile: you’d know if you’d had NAAFI food: the emphasis is on the naff. Then there’s the risk of any added flavouring those sickos who cook it sometimes add: make them your friends – the cooks, not the lumps of phlegm/turdy nuggets, whatever the “plat du jour” happens to be.

Anyway we were on patrol and after firing our gun, the mechanism inside had recoiled and crushed my finger. Okay later I remembered I shouldn’t put my hand there, but that’s about as useful as a condom in a convent. So my poor nose-picker was somewhat mashed and when I pulled my glove off I was half a finger short of a good handjob.

The glove was trashed so I had to get a new pair, but you had to surrender your old pair and that’s when the supplies guys found my damaged digit, tucked well away in the dark like a saturated tampon. They laughed, they chucked it around, they picked each others’ noses with it and eventually they nailed it to the door, apparently giving the bird to all who entered. Once it started to stink and shrivel they gave it to a particularly thick squaddie and told him it was a local delicacy, so he ate it. He shat soup for days!

Over the weeks my forefinger slowly healed – hang on, should that be twofinger since I’d lost half of it... but the end was like Streisand’s nose (ok I exaggerate, maybe just a midget’s fist) and too thick to pick, so my head filled with bogies and exploded – that’s when I woke up with a fly in my nostril.

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I have another tail...go fetch.

Toddy’s favourite army joke (courtesy of Spike Milligan):
A squaddie in an OP sees a shape moving towards him through the bush so he opens fire and is relieved to hear a smack as his shot takes down the intruder. Going forward to investigate he comes across his platoon sergeant; on his back, groaning loudly and badly wounded. Seriously concerned the Tom gets onto his mobile to report the incident. ( More defence cuts – no radio.)
Getting through to HQ he makes the following call.
‘Christ!’ he yells in a panic, ‘My platoon sergeant is dead. What can I do?’
A calm voice at the other end replies, ‘Take it easy. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.’ There is a silence, and then a shot is heard.
The Tom comes back on the phone: ‘OK, now what?’