The Gas Regulator

Today I was lucky enough to be joined at my coffee shop table by an American called John Nutall.

As we queued for our coffee, we both eyed the one remaining table and wondered who would get there first and claim sovereignty.

As it happened we both turned away from the counter with our Latte's at the same time, so an unspoken agreement was reached and we shared that table.

We bandied one or two comments back and forth about crowded coffee shops and people in general before John told me that this was his first visit to the UK since he had been in the Army back in the 70's and 80's.

"Oh yes" he drawled (isn't that how you described an American talking?). "I was stationed in aplace near Aldershot.  Dunno what the hell it was called, but I was there for six months before shipping out to Frankfurt, Germany".

"Aldershot is near where I did my basic training" I told him.  "After that I was posted to Detmold in Germany".

You see the difference there already?  They get "Stationed" and we get "Posted".

We had something in common so, for at least fifty minutes ... maybe an hour, we exchanged 'war' stories and, low and behold, it turns out we both took part in Crusader 80 (a big military manoeuvre in Germany back in 1980.  See Another "First Encounter" with Americans, When The Jock Hits The Shit and No Jocks, No Americans, Just Crusader 80 (Part Three) )

We were apparently located fairly close to each other during that exercise. Probably no more than a mileor two apart.  We may even have met!

We reminisced and swapped tales for a while and then the subject changed to this ...

L1A1 SLR
(The gas regulator is just behind the foresight)

... which was the standard personal weapon in service with the British (and other) Army.  It was quite a heavy  rifle, but when used correctly had a stopping power second to none.

"Jeez!" moaned John.  "I ne'er un'erstood how you guy's could fire that thing an' survah've".

That is how he spoke.  Honest!  He missed out letters in most words with two or more syllables and kept sticking in unnecessary H's.

"That SOB had a kick like a mule.  Damn near took my shoul'er off'f me when I fired it" he continued,rubbing his long since healed sore shoulder.

"Brits are bastards!" I told him. "There's a gas regulator on those rifles. If it's wide open then the rifle won't re-cock itself.  If it's closed all the way, it'll kick harder than any mule you've ever come across".

A few well known expletives were muttered by John after I told him that it was standard practice back then to  close the gas regulator before anyone form our 'allies' fired the weapon.  

Shock and Awe tactics!

For over twenty years John has lived in awe of Brit squaddies and their abilities to cope with such brutal kick-back.

Now he knows the truth and, I have to admit, I took great pleasure in telling him.

German For Runaways

The title is, of course, a pun which maybe only Germans will understand.

It refers to the German phrase "Deutsch für Fortgeschrittene" which means 'German for advanced students', but 'fortgeschrittene' could also mean someone who has run off, hence German for runaways.

Now that has been explained (it has little to do with this tale, but I thought it was worth a mention as I have at least one German reader), I shall tell you of mornings encounter with two German students that we (my client and I) bumped into as we left the cafe after our morning ritualistic latte.

"Excuse me" said a thickly accented voice. "Do you know where I find Charles Street please?"

I recognised the accent as being German straight away.

"Yeah", I replied. "Follow this road all the way to the third traffic light then turn right. At the next set of lights, turn left. Go straight over the following set of traffic lights and it will be the next right after that."

Easy.


He 'sanked' me very much and turned to go, whereupon his colleague said "Was hat der blödmann gesagt?"*


This rattled my cage big time!

As they started to walk away I shouted "Moment mal!"*

They both turned towards me. The student that had asked for directions was grinning. His friend looked decidedly shell shocked, as if he'd just been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

" 'Der blödman' ist gar nicht so doof wie du denskst, mein fruend. Du solltest etwas vorsichtiger sein. Jetzt verpiss dich, aber schnell".*

I don't have very many opportunities to use my German and, over time it's become a little rusty, but I really enjoyed that moment and the look on that guy's face.

* Translations


Was hat der blödmann gesagt?            =  what did the idiot say?
Moment mal                                             =  Just a moment
Der blödman' ist gar nicht so doof 
wie du denskst, mein fruend.                =  The idiot isn't as stupid as you think,  my friend 
Du solltest etwas vorsichtiger sein.     =  You should be a bit more careful.
Jetzt verpiss dich, aber schnell.            =  Now Fu%& off very quickly.

Why Do People Fart When I'm around?

At 08.45 hrs this morning, we (my client and I) infiltrated the coffee shop at the corner of Albany and Alfred Roads.

We nipped in under enemy travel agents radar and slunk our way to the counter.

An female enemy sentry was ordering coffee directly ahead of us ... we watched and listened ... awaiting our moment to strike.

"Can I help you?" asked the young man behind the counter.

"Oh! Ya! Lartay and a scOne, if you would be so kind" replied the enemy.

We noted the mispronunciation of the word "latte" and the over emphasised sound of the 'O' in "scone".

This was, we agreed (due to the snotty manner of speech), obviously no regular enemy travel agent.  This was enemy 'top brass'.

As the patrol moved off, my client moved in for the kill.

KAPLOWEEEEEEEEEE!

The result was devastation!  Coffee all over the floor and a scone left rolling towards the door and then forlornly spinning, like the proverbial wagon wheel, to a halt.

Our little game of soldiers came to an end at that point and the woman graciously accepted responsibility for the little 'incident', which was just as well, because we only had enough loose change for our own coffee's.

Anyway, that is not what I intended to write about.  That was pure and unadulterated 'digression' for which I half-heartedly apologise for.

My point, and indeed the subject of this post, is why do people fart when they sit next, or close, to me in that particular cafe?

On Monday, it was my client who dropped an SBD (silent but deadly) fart that almost caused a mass exodus of customers.

On Tuesday Pete, the local 'bag man', who occasionally sweeps up in exchange for a morning coffee and a bun, let rip with real belter that caused me and my Latte to experience a 'Jurassic Park' moment.  I watched as ripples formed on the surface of my latte, just prior to being engulfed in the most disgustingly foul odour that can only be described as a 'brussel sprout' cloud.

This morning, after our little 'incident',  it was the turn of some guy in a suit.  We sat on one of the low sofa's that they have around the fire place (not lit). Directly behind us and facing the other way was an identical sofa which backed onto ours.

When the guy behind us let rip, it was muffled by the sofa's cushions, so we heard nothing.  But both Wullie (name changed so he doesn't get into trouble) and myself felt the stuttering vibrations of his 'expulsion' like a mini-earthquake through the frame of our sofa.

Being polite, I said nothing and awaited the pong that was sure to come.  Wullie on the other hand, being less     than adept in the politeness stakes, turned immediately to the guy behind us and asked "Have you farted?".

He didn't answer, but supped his coffee very quickly and left.   As he stood up, the gas we were anticipating was released and hit us, causing eyes to water and noses to automatically try to block themselves.  It was so bad that I reckon the it contravened  nearly ALL of the Geneva Convention laws on the use of chemicals in warfare.

It was so bad that we had to move to the rear of the cafe and await rescue.

Wullie was not content with letting him leave without some form of retribution.

As the man reached for the door to leave, Wullie pointed at him and shouted.

"That man did it! Not me!"

This comment seemed to alleviate everyone's suffering somewhat and raised more than few chuckles.