MPA Nights - The musings of a very bored SNCO.

[The Masked Geek]

Bloggs was surprised at the quality of the food, 40 days of slop and rat packs had dulled his taste buds; although he had gotten over the worst of the compo poo pipe blockage. The mess had obviously shipped in a civvy chef especially for the event as no RAF cook had ever passed the trade training course; it was the hardest trade course in the RAF afterall and fully justified their place in the high payband.

Chat during the meal was light and Bloggs was amused by the continuing verbal rape of the young chap next to him and the failing attempts of the young officer trying to dig his way into SoO. She was too busy trying to highlight her own importance and the amazing amount of work she was expected to do; indeed, MPA would fall over without her.

"Pilot Officers must be really important," thought Bloggs, "I have obviously overlooked their prowess."

The meal was over, the port was passed and the boss said his piece; they could now get to the bar. Mr Vice had got off lightly. Bloggs decided that it was his turn to fire into SoO, she was in for a treat.

Twenty minutes in and Bloggs was regretting the move. He was busting for a p1ss but SoO was relentless. Her skill were almost infinite in depth and breadth, she had been to the most exotic places the world has to offer and she had the weight of MPA on her shoulders. He tried desperately to force a pause in her tirade to enable a tactical withdrawal to the bogs but it was a loosing battle. He seriously considered swamping himself, it would have provided a mild distraction. Then he saw his chance, made his excuses and dove out of the function room. Thirty seconds later he was at the urinal, p1ssing like a fire hose.

Bloggs attempted to sneak past SoO on his way back but she threw her claws at him and reeled him in. She had switched tact and started throwing questions at him. The alcohol had taken hold and she was getting flirty; touching Bloggs' arms, fiddling with her hair and other small signs. He realised that he had a chance now and went in for the kill. He leant in closer, matching her body language, and she responded instantly. Rubbing her foot up Bloggs' leg and breathing more heavily, she leant in to expose more of her cleavage and allowed her shawl to fall away.

Bloggs was playing the girl like a much loved saxophone, pressing all her mental buttons and snaking his was around her personal space. She was caught, she was putty in his hands, this girl would be in his bed before she knew it, she was....

....standing up and leaving. On her own.

Bloggs was gutted. What had gone wrong? She was really in to him, she was turned on, she had probably even been moist. Well, that's what Bloggs' alcohol fuelled brain was telling him. According to the rest of the guys, she'd looked pretty damn bored but what did they know. Bloggs decided that it must have been the wrong time of the month; she didn't know what she'd missed.

Afterall, what sort of woman could resist a balding, sweaty sergeant with a small pot belly?

 

[The Masked Geek]

Remember - full story on page 1.

Remember - full story on page 1.

Military Skills Training​

Bloggs had started MST while on Purple Helmet but it had been chopped after the first morning due to the escalating defence state. Bloggs had not been surprised in the slightest and wondered what sort of idiot was running the show. Somebody had suggested it was Army run, which answered the question perfectly. So today, Bloggs had the morning off.

Well, he didn’t really but management were too dumb to check up on him. After a leisurely breakfast and an hour in the gym followed by lunch, he threw on his webbing and helmet and wandered up to the JEC. A massive yellow sign pointed towards the GDF lecture rooms, “Obviously for the benefit of the Army.” thought Bloggs as he followed its direction.

He had already forgotten everything that he had ‘learnt’ on the first day. He had heard it a million times before so paid little attention and he had slept since then; besides, the chance of him using any of that bollocks was effectively zero given his mere two months left in the RAF. He approached the afternoon’s lessons with the enthusiasm of a dead frog.

Map reading was first on the agenda, a subject so easy that you’d have to be brain dead to have any real trouble with it. Bloggs was soon surprised at how many people were actually brain dead. Given an eight figure grid, he had tracked down the required trig point in seconds. The instructor was extremely impressed:

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a techie,” replied Bloggs.

“How come you’re so good at map reading then?”

Bloggs paused for a moment while he imagined slapping the Pongo around the face with a damp fish. “It’s probably because I am clever. It’s not really that difficult is it? Afterall you’re only dividing a square into smaller squares and looking at what’s there. It’s hardly fcuking brain surgery.”

“Some people really struggle with it.”

“Then some people are dumb.” Bloggs really wasn’t in the mood today and he wasn’t pulling any punches.

The Pongo, realising he wasn’t on to a winner, let it go. He wrapped up the lesson and fired straight in to the next fascinating topic; radio voice procedure. Bloggs wished he suffered from narcolepsy as it would have come in handy for the rest of the afternoon. He spent the next half an hour wondering how some people managed the complexities of breathing.

Some of these idiots were incapable of following the most simple of instruction, even the Pongo instructor was starting to give up. He demonstrated the simple task of requesting a radio check and when asked to repeat it, some sat in almost catatonic states, clearly unable to move and think at the same time without sh1tting themselves. Those that did respond were forgetting everything; from their own callsign to the words ‘Radio Check’. Bloggs was starting to wonder what sort of tests were being taken at CIOs nowadays.

The afternoon was wrapped up with a Rules Of Engagement lesson and Bloggs was free to go. Bloggs felt his IQ bounce back to normal levels. He hadn’t experienced the negative IQ drag caused by a large group of retards in a long time and realised that he would have to live through the horror for another day.

 

[shiny_arse]

We are still reading and that is some quality work fella.

Chortling away due to the amount of deja-vu from my last spell there. Only difference is that we managed to set light to the bondu care of some flares = much stamping and beating by course and fire section. 1.5 hours later whhoooosh and same result! Lesson NOT learned.

Keep em coming mate

 

[The Masked Geek]

Cheers bud.

The real version is much more carefully edited and has quite a bit more to it but this thread is the raw text as it comes out of my head.

There's also a prologue which a few people are saying is the best bit but I won't put that up just yet....

 

[Studley dangerfcuk]

Pure fecking genius.

Studley DT_Xtremez_30:DT_Xtremez_30:

 

[The Masked Geek]

Day two started no better; having been told to remember their weapon number, most people forgot. Others hadn't done their weapon handling tests and others had forgotten their slings. Bloggs wasn't feeling hopeful but at least he would get to fire off a few rounds and feel like Rambo for a second or two.

The group finally made it to the twenty five metre range and, after hurrying up to get there on time, waited a good twenty minutes for the instructors to appear. A brief was given, orders were signed and they were off. Bloggs was in detail three and so had to wait a further half an hour, in the brisk force eight gale.

At this point, I think it appropriate to give the reader an idea of the group makeup. Fifteen RAF guys, five navy and a single army guy. The army guy was a complete hero, Bloggs was in awe of his super trooper kit, he had the lot. He even believed that he was said hero and strutted around like a six foot cock....erel. Most of the morning, the range controllers had been instructing the course to remember to check their change levers; the lever which selects between automatic and single round firing.

The group on the range were given the order to fire and off they went. Bloggs suddenly heard a three round burst.

"Oooooooo!" came the chorus.

"I bet it was that army tw@t," quipped Bloggs.

And it was. He finished his shoot and sheepishly left the range. The lads ripped him apart and for all his heroic super soldier kit, he looked about as hard as a moist lettuce leaf. Bloggs had his go on the range, he splattered the target as if he'd been using a shotgun and walked away from the last ever time he would fire an SA80 smiling to himself.

Packed lunches had arrived, or what passes for packed lunches in MPA. Bloggs was just as hungry when he finished as he was at the start. A couple of small, dry sandwiches and an out of date carton of juice. There wasn't even a bag of crisps or a piece of fruit; hardly the sort of fare required by hardened veterans out on the range. Bloggs cleaned his weapon, with minimum effort and awaited the next lesson: firing manoeuvres.

"What are firing manoeuvres?" asked the instructor.

Dumb silence was the only response. Bloggs almost fell over dead, it was getting harder. They were then given a demonstration and asked to have a go themselves. Bloggs' team had no issues, he was given command of the group and possessing an intellect above the amoebic level of the rest of the group, had no problems remembering what to do. Other groups were less than capable, with half of them either falling over or 'shooting their own men' as they ran around like a playground full of five year olds.

They then went on to capturing the enemy and various demonstrations of testosterone fuelled throwing techniques. Bloggs offered himself up as the 'enemy' and was quite happy with the deal as he got to lie on the floor and take a little snooze; he suspected that he wasn't really entering into the spirit of things but he couldn't be bothered.

Bloggs actually enjoyed the following twenty minutes as he got to throw around some of the retards that had annoyed him over the last day or so and being a senior, he declined the offer of swapping roles; afterall, his back was still sore from his treadmill incident.

The last lesson of the day was on sanger duties. People were asked what sort of stuff they thought they should have in a sanger. Various stupid ideas were thrown into the pot and a few good ones. Bloggs suggested an electric heater as it got fcuking cold at night in MPA and the majority of the group agreed. The instructor wasn't quite as enthusiastic and even less so when Bloggs suggested a nice comfy sofa; he told Bloggs to shut up.

They finished the day in the lecture hall, filling in the obligatory course evaluation sheet. Bloggs went with his usual tactic of ticking good for everything and expected to get away quite quick. He was disappointed when several of the brainless ones started asking questions and suggesting 'improvements' to the course. These suggestions included a lesson on putting your webbing together - a task so simple, a four year old girl could complete it with ease – to fitting a sling to the rifle. Bloggs switched off and was woken when he heard his name called out. He collected his green card and walked away from two days of his life that he would never get back.

At least he wouldn't be surrounded by complete morons tomorrow. Well, maybe one or two.

 

[devilish]

Andy

Brilliant......Why are you not as funny in work!!

 

[Ex-Bay]

MG,
I cannot pretend to understand all of the short-hand and other expressions (well after my time), but I think it's damned good.

 

[The Masked Geek]

Brilliant......Why are you not as funny in work!!

Coz you're all wnakers and I refuse to entertain you. DT_Xtremez_14:

 

[The Masked Geek]

MG,
I cannot pretend to understand all of the short-hand and other expressions (well after my time), but I think it's damned good.

The full and edited version will make more sense, I've civvy-ised it a bit. DT_Xtremez_14:


The full version includes text like this: (from A Night of Fine Wine and Food)



Seven o'clock drew near. Bloggs had showered, twice, and was ironing had his best trapping threads; he usually ironed naked for some odd reason and today was no different. There was a sudden knock on the door, Bloggs couldn't remember if he'd locked the door or not so he whipped round to check, iron in hand. Bloggs wasn't hung like a horse but he had more than enough for the centrifugal effect of his spinning to fling his manhood towards the hot iron.

Bloggs hit the floor like a sack of sh1t, crying like a baby. The knocking resumed and rose in frequency with the volume of Bloggs' wailing. He dragged himself over to his hot and cold running toilet and threw his poor member under the cold tap. The relief was heavenly, and he was eventually able to throw a towel around his middle and answer the door.

His Flight Sergeant, Kev, was stood outside. "This better be good," said Bloggs "I've just burnt my cock on my iron and if you hadn't have knocked, I wouldn't have."

Kev fell about laughing, Bloggs shut the door in disgust and ignored any further knocks. Kev finally gave up and wandered off. After a return to the cold tap and some carefully applied cream, Bloggs' had calmed down; the pain reduced to a dull throb.

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.

 

[Grim Reaper]

Fantastic

 

[The Masked Geek]

Cpl Bloggs?​

After the fun that was MST and the frivolities of the dining in night, Bloggs started to take a serious look at the job he was supposed to be doing. He'd pretty much ignored it for the first few weeks and nothing had really jumped out to bite him yet. His basic job was to manage three techies and to ensure that the comms gear was up and running. This consisted of around twenty PCs and a small rack of routing equipment. Hardly a herculean task and one that was well within the capabilities of a first year corporal.

He very soon realised that, having very little to do during the day, he would attract all sorts of sh1t jobs that the management did not want to do. The first of which was his role as the super secret squirrel stuff inventory holder. The job had traditionally been held by the boss but that post had been gapped for a month and Bloggs had been chosen from a cast of one to temporarily hold the inventory.

The new boss was finally posted in and Bloggs offered the SSSS inventory back to its rightful owner. The Officer replied by essentially flipping Bloggs the finger; he couldn't have been any less surprised. The next sh1t duty that Bloggs picked up was unit MT rep. This involved making sure that all unit vehicles were sorted including all mountain site vehicles and those of the outlying sections; liaising with MT Ops was probably the best part of the job as Bloggs had taken quite a shine to the young Pilot Officer.

Unsurprisingly, this duty used to belong to the boss who was more interested in playing with his Playstation or X-box; Bloggs could never remember which. The X-box was a special management aid, supported by the outgoing Warrant Officer. It was an aid to continuous improvement which took up a single sheet of A4 paper and took the boss four weeks to create. Given that this book was written in less than four weeks, you can start to see a picture of how effective the boss was at creating the illusion of actually doing something worthwhile.

The outgoing warrant was an bit of an.....I will use the word 'enigma'. Most days saw him giving a lecture on some electronic principle or another, occasionally he would wander onto other topics of little interest. These topics would range from calculating the energy required to heat the human body to one hundred degrees to a lesson in disarming an armed aggressor. The combat lesson was as good as you would expect; Bloggs offered to be the armed aggressor for the demonstration.

"Right Bloggs, pretend you have a bayonet fitted and lunge at me."

Bloggs smashed his broomstick into the warrant's stomach.

"I wasn't quite ready, can you do it slower?"

"Ok," said Bloggs and hit him in the stomach again.

"Right, this isn't working, can you just stand still with the pole?"

Bloggs complied and the Warrant sprung into action like a rusty spring in a bucket of mud; a bucket of really, really thick mud. More like clay really.

"Ok, I put this hand here and then.......erm......no, I don't, I put this hand here and...."

"You don't know what you're doing do you Sir?"

"Well, I'm a bit rusty."

"I thought you'd been practising Hap Ki Do for the last 25 years?"

"I said I'd been practising Aikido."

"Ah, that makes all the difference then Sir."

The warrant scuttled back into his office and didn't show his face for the rest of the day.

Anyway, we digress.....

Bloggs was looking at his job to see where an SNCO was required and so far he had come up with nothing. He was sat in an office with two engineering flight sergeants so engineering top cover wasn't an issue and all other tasks he had to perform, could easily be done by a corporal.

Apparently, two years before, a Warrant Officer decided that he didn't want to write appraisals on the three SACs and a corporal and had upped the corporal post to a sergeant. Bloggs wasn't happy, he'd almost lost his job in Saudi to come down to this sh1thole and be a glorified corporal; what a bunch of arse. He set himself a challenge; either downrank or disestablish the post before he left. Hopefully by the third month of his tour so he could get home early.

 

[Studley dangerfcuk]

If it's the same job that I think it is, I was the last techie cpl in that slot before it was upgraded to a snec's slot.

StuddleyDT_Xtremez_19:DT_Xtremez_19:DT_Xtremez_06:

 

[Stax]

This needs moving into the "best of" alongside the chronicles of Penguinsuck.

 

[mad_collie]

This needs moving into the "best of" alongside the chronicles of Penguinsuck.

Maybe TMG is PS, he's just remembered how to type properly.

 

[The Masked Geek]

Maybe TMG is PS, he's just remembered how to type properly.

Yous will never know. I can neither confirm, nor deny.

 

[The Masked Geek]

Lecher to Lechee​

Having smashed in the gym for almost a whole month, Bloggs was starting to see real results; even his chest was filling out and given that twelve year old boys have bigger chests, that was something worth celebrating. The hundred pounds he had spent on supplements was well spent and suffering the torment of bad bowels was a small price to pay; others wouldn't agree given that the office regularly smelled like a cross between rotten eggs and a month old bag of pilchards.

Today he was working on shoulders. Forty-five minutes of extreme effort, moving half a metric tonne of steel and rubber with his bare hands; half a pound at a time. He had almost finished the last set. Straining with effort, his shoulders were a writhing mass of knotted steel cables, the veins standing out like garden hoses. His brow was glistening with sweat and as he tracked the movement of the weight with his eyes, he saw her and she was staring right at him. Bloggs now knew what it was like to be the last doughnut in a shop full of fatties.

She was perfection personified; in her own head, which was huge. Her legs were like two of the great pyramids flipped upside down and forced into yards of lycra. Each step she took on the treadmill used enough energy to power a small factory for a thousand years. Her hairy thighs would grate together as they moved, the front leg leaving a huge slab of fat behind the trailing leg, until that leg reached it's zenith and the slab would finally slide free; sending out a massive slap and tearing the very fabric of space-time.

Her stomach resembled an enormous puffball mushroom and her little flappy breasts looked like empty crisp packets. She was a truly monstrous sight, ripped out of the most foul nightmare and made real all she was missing was tentacles. Phileas Fog would have struggled to circumnavigate her in a hundred days, never mind eighty.

Gallons of sweat poured out from between her numerous folds and flaps, enough to irrigate the Sahara. Bloggs was sure that he saw a half eaten pizza fall out from under her armpit and like a striking bullfrog, she whipped out her tongue, speared it and returned it to her cavernous mouth; swallowing it whole.

Bloggs felt sick. Not just queasy sick but sick to the very core of his being. If he hadn't been completely frozen in stark terror, he would have vomited himself inside out. Breaking free from his fear, he dropped the weight and ran back to his room; that was his only blessing, she would never be able to catch him.

 

[shettie]

Who's "Boggs"??? Keep it up - reminds me of my tour! (tiny bits of it... )

 

[The Masked Geek]

Who's "Boggs"???

After 11,000 words (in the full version) I think I'm allowed 1 spelling mistake. DT_Xtremez_14:

 

[Ex-Bay]

After 11,000 words (in the full version) I think I'm allowed 1 spelling mistake. DT_Xtremez_14:

Well, when it's all put together and given a final trim, spelling mistakes will be eliminated, I'm sure.
It's pure magic.
One thing I ask. Please will you make sure that any acronyms, short-hand and jargon is explained somewhere for us blokes so long out that it's a mystery ?
Thank you.