Drawers Cellular. Mens. Olive Green

Chatty's picture

Take 1 J.Cloth, use vigorously for 2 weeks, dye a subtle shade of Olive Green. That's the cloth prepared. Give the cloth to Quasimodo's tailor with the instructions to produce something that could make a suicidal person laugh, what do you have? "Drawers Cellular, Mans, Olive Green" for the use of. What an imaginative item of clothing. Worn by all military personnel at some time during their careers. Not only was this item designed to prevent chaffing one's more delicate regions, it also served as a very effective method of birth control. Picture the scenario. A night out with the lads. Few pints, chat up the local talent. Things progress. "Guess what? I've struck it lucky". A common phrase used by an intoxicated lothario. Dark alley, local cemetery, doorway, all favourite locations for an evenings entertainment. Grope, grope, snog, SCREAM. "What the bloody hell are those?" Peels of uncontrollable laughter, a pointing finger, "Not my fault love, that's what they gave me" Too late, that's it. You couldn't if you wanted to. She's off to tell her mates what a plonker she picked. You can never use that pub again, in fact you're only at Borden for a fortnight, so you may as well stay out of sight. Drawers Cellular have claimed another innocent victim. Obviously a military ploy to save on Penicillin, you've got to do it to catch it. And you'll never do it if you have "Drawers Cellular, Mans, O.G." Borden, the birthplace of Bull. 14 days of incessant spit, polish, fold, press and Blanco. Kit layouts, inspections by power mad zombies posing as Senior NCO's. If we'd had a war now we'd have won if they'd gone to the front line. The walking dead would have prevailed. "That bed box h'aint square h'enuff". "My dad's boots was cleaner than them, he was a miner". "That's not a bloody beret, you've nicked a Bedford canopy". What wonderful and quaint use of the English language. If any of those lot went for a brain transplant, it would have rejected all of them. I won't say that the 14 days flew by, they didn't. Put the brain in neutral, grit the teeth, stoke the pot belly burner, say cheerio to Alan and Dave. Lucky sods. They're off to the sun, Alan and I, back to West Moors for another year.