• Welcome to the E-Goat :: The Totally Unofficial RAF Rumour Network.

    You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community you will have access to post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), respond to polls, upload content and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free so please, join our community today!

    If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact us.

MPA Nights - The musings of a very bored SNCO.



If'n'ee carry on wiv all this roitin' loik tha' , they'll make him an Orificer.


Warrant Officer
Seriously....have you considered publishing this? I've just read Chapter 2 at my desk and I don't know what made me laugh more - the description of the post-compo download, or the fact that one of my colleagues read it and found it "offensive"...(yep - he's a civvy)


he was.........flying off the back of the treadmill, landing in an undignified heap at the foot of an exercise bike.

Classic! That single phrase just cost me a laptop clean session due to the gobfull of coffee now running down the screen!

More I say, your public demands more of these musings.....
Last edited:


This thread brings back so many memories, although I cannot remember any of the purple helmet stuff, as the last couple of times I was down @ butlins MPA, we just put the were not playing sign and opened the bar.

The Masked Geek

There's a full prologue to the tale but I won't release the full story until after I'm out of the RAF.

I've done a lot of tidying up and introduced a few more characters; such as SAC Cretin and his lightsabre.

I'll delete a few of the older posts I've made to reduce the thread size and I'll get the story so far posted up.....Minus the Prologue.

RAF Vale

Funniest thing I have read in ages, it is doing the rounds at work. Most of the SNCO’s can empathise with it, even the navy lads. Keep it coming, I will take a copy with me to MPA for xmas. :S

The Masked Geek

Things will slow down now, I'd rather wait for some real amusing events than just make sh1t up. Mind you, I have 3 months left down here so there's bound to be plenty going on.

We have a beercall on Thursday so Bloggs will no doubt get up to mischief.
Last edited:


Master of my destiny
Things will slow down now, I'd rather wait for some real amusing events than just make sh1t up. Mind you, I have 3 months left down here so there's bound to be plenty going on.

We have a beercall on Thursday so Bloggs will no doubt get up to mischief.

Is there a need for beercalls at MPA?:pDT_Xtremez_14:

The Masked Geek

Sgt's Mess or Crèche?

Bloggs was confused. The anteroom was supposed to be a space for quiet reflection after a hard day's work. A den of tranquillity, filled with newspapers and comfortable chairs to fall asleep in; Bloggs thought commodes would be a good idea but didn't think it would happen; some members would never move. And there were no papers, they'd have been several weeks out of date anyway.

Saturdays on MPA are a little different to the average UK Saturday. Saturdays here are half days off. We finish at 11:30 and the bar opens not long after that.

This particular Saturday was even more different. The dulcet tones of Kajagoogoo wafted through the dining room like a bad smell. Flight Sergeants passed stern glances, Sergeants tutted and one old Warrant fainted dead. Some tw@t had fired up the music laptop in the bar at full blast and left the dining room door open. At fcuking lunch time! The CMC, stood at the servery, dropped his plate and marched over to the door. He slammed the door with a Chuck Norris level of fury and returned to his plate, deftly avoiding the falling masonry.

Most people assumed that it was the trolley dollies from Air Italia and forgot the incident; afterall, what would a bunch of civvy wnakers know about mess rules?

Bloggs and his crew finished up their meals and retired to the anteroom. The sight that welcomed them can only be described as sacrilege.

Bloggs was offended to the very depths of his soul.

A short, fat forty-ish SNCO sat on a bar stool in the middle of the anteroom. There were no Air Italia personnel in sight. This short, fat, red faced man, also had a Mohican.

A Mohican.

On a SNCO.

Bloggs' flabber was well and truly ghasted. But this wasn't what offended Bloggs. This wasn't the sight that made him want to remove his eyes with a spoon and fill the sockets with caustic soda. This wasn't the sight that had him retching for days afterwards. Oh no, this was a glimpse of the divine compared to the true horror of the scene.

As Hot Chocolate blasted out of the music system at seven million decibles, Bloggs tried to run away but sheer terror fixed him to his seat. What can only be described as a grandmother, dressed in jeans and an old jumper was 'performing' to the music. The geriatric lap dancer was as horrible as she was beautiful; beautiful like a turd covered glass to the face.

She staggered around poor Mohican man like a wounded wildebeest, mewling like a crazed crone as she stroked his face and body. She attempted to arch her spine, which cracked and popped, and her jumper rode up her gunt exposing far more than Bloggs had ever feared to see. Varicose veins like a map of the Nile Delta covered her flab and Bloggs could swear that he saw faces moving under her grey flaccid skin.

What offended Bloggs' senses the most was the fact that Mohican man and his posse seemed to be enjoying the 'performance'. Whooping and hollering, encouraging her into more outrageous stunts as she twirled around like a dead pigeon falling from the sky, gyrating her false hips and licking her thin hairy lips.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, it was over. The octogenarian, poison ballerina returned to her seat and Mohican man turned back to the football.

Bloggs felt violated, he prayed to be able to unsee what he had just seen but knew it to be a futile request. The trauma of that day would last an entire lifetime.
Last edited:

The Masked Geek

the full story is on Page 1 of the thread.

the full story is on Page 1 of the thread.

Badminton Masterclass

Bloggs was feeling confident, he was off to play badminton for an hour and he was playing against a bunch of young officers and a few ageing Flight Sergeants. He was going to run them ragged.

Setting off early, Bloggs arrived in good time to get a bit of a warm up on the treadmill. He'd been doing the gym for a few weeks now and was quite capable of a mile or two without falling off; even during periods of extreme female induced distraction. He climbed off the tredder (he'd adopted a very annoying name) and threw out a few stretches; he didn't want to lose a game to a wrinkly due to a pulled muscle afterall.

They had arrived; his opponents didn't know what they were letting themselves in for. It was going to be a rout, complete humiliation for them. Bloggs seemed to have a habit of allowing fantasy to take over when in the gym. The nets were set up in short thrift, games were planned and off they went.

Bloggs was drawn against one of the young Ops Officers and had a bad start, the court was obviously smaller than he was used to and the bats were the wrong size, but he stuck with it and managed a heroic loss of ten to twenty-one.

"Beginners luck," thought Bloggs, "I'll have you this time, young'n."

Game two was even worse. Bloggs was thrashed three to twenty-one but the youngster agreed that the court was obviously too small and that the shuttlec0cks were wonky; Bloggs was somewhat placated.

It was time to change opponents. He was now facing a Den; a flight sergeant of indeterminate age. Bloggs suspected at least seventy.

"Need a warm up Den?" Asked Bloggs.

"Nah, I'll be fine, let's just get straight to it."

"You sure? I don't want you popping your false hip out or slipping on some of that dribble."

Bloggs didn't know what hit him. The first three points were smashed past him faster than he could comprehend and he didn't even realise he'd lost points until Den called out "Four love." He managed to claw back a couple of points towards the end but the net was set too high for him and he started to get angry. His anger carried him to a two to twenty-one drubbing in the second game and Bloggs had had enough.

"Thus endeth the lesson." Exclaimed Den with a mocking grin on his face.

"Next time we'll get the courts measured and make sure we use the right kit. I'm not very good when I'm not using the right gear."

"Yeah, sure." replied Den but Bloggs didn't notice the sarcasm.

He wandered off for a shower and just to make sure he felt completely sh1t, his Y-fronts started to chafe.
Last edited:

The Masked Geek

A Night of Fine Wine and Food

Bloggs needed cheering up. His reaming at the hands of both younger and older men was sitting heavily on his mind. He needed something to help him forget. He needed a bottle of Cockburn's.

As luck would have it, it was the squadron dining in night and Bloggs was well up for it. After a month and a half of eating slop, some good food would go down a storm. They'd secured the presence of a few ladies from around the unit and a BFBS DJ. Bloggs' was hoping that at least one of them was UK fit; he wouldn't be disappointed.

Seven o'clock drew near. Bloggs had showered, twice, and had his best trapping threads ironed and laid out on his bed. His 'chiselled' physique had improved somewhat over the last month and he was starting to take the odd peek at the mirror, pumping his arms and inflating his almost concave chest. He had some of his favourite music on – mid-90's Trance – and was bopping away as he cleaned his teeth.

Finally clean all over, he carefully put on his shirt and tie, trousers and his favourite Oliver Sweeney shoes. Applying a drop of aftershave, he examined himself in the mirror on final time.

"You're a stud Bloggs," he thought, and posed like a nineteen eighty's porn star. "Those girls are in for a treat."

Maybe his fantasy thoughts weren't quite confined to the gym.

Bloggs entered the function room and headed to the bar, the girls hadn't appeared yet so the lads were chatting amongst themselves. After a couple of beers, he had the obligatory chat with the OC's wife. She was attractive, gray-haired, had the look of a free spirit and the airs and graces of a good upbringing. She talked to Bloggs for just the right amount of time and with just the right level of interest, then off she went; the boss in tow.

The door to the function room burst open, the youngsters had arrived and had the girls in tow. Miss BFBS was taller than Bloggs and at six foot two, that was impressive. She was also blonde and cute so that was a bonus. OC Somewhere or Other (SoO) wasn't quite as tall but she was a cute brunette and complimented the blonde Amazonian from BFBS quite nicely. There were a few others but these two were the only targets on Bloggs' radar.

Dinner was served. Mr Vice gave the obligatory and amusing grace and they sat. Bloggs was pleasantly surprised to find himself perched between SoO and Miss BFBS; there was actually a young officer between Bloggs and BFBS but he found that his memories had omitted that small detail. Apart from during the meal when said officer was trying his best to talk to BFBS but she was smashing him over the head with the sarcasm hammer, his complete ignorance of her tongue lashings had greatly amused Bloggs and he chuckled for a good time after. Bloggs was under no illusions as to his own chances but at least he wasn't the only one who would fail. Mind you, he always had SoO to turn to once the annoying chap to her right left her alone.
Last edited: