I was going to call this story
I HATE YOU, JASON
because Jason Toddman reminded me of the occurrences in an exchange of PMs
I HATE YOU, JASON
because Jason Toddman reminded me of the occurrences in an exchange of PMs
It was a fairly normal Scout Camp in the early seventies. We were camped on a farmer’s field. You know: a tap some distance from the site. We had to dig a latrine; that wasn’t unusual but sharing the field with the farmer’s herd of cows while they were running with the bull was, to say the least, a bit unusual. Also, never having tried to herd sheep before, I didn’t realise that one false move and I’d be surrounded by the woolly bastards.
It was one of those years of drought and we had to put up with it. The main problem was that the young bull (Don’t worry abewt ‘im, just talk to ‘im sternly loik ‘e were a choil. Then give ‘im a good whack on the backsoide.) must have had the only ugly herd of cows in the South of England. (I’d better not say where, even after all this time). He’d bay across the canal to the cows on the other side whilst standing in the wreckage that he’d just created from our bog screen.
OK having set the scene, Paul was a good kid, he just found himself on the other side of my sympathy one afternoon. He kept interfering with what I was doing in the mess tent. Chris Sparrow quickly slung a rope over the branch of a tree and poor Paul, who was already bare-chested due to the incredible temperature, found his wrists bound above his head.
Once I had finished what I was doing, I took the opportunity of tormenting the prisoner.
“Are you going to untie me?”
“Not yet.”
Chris had found himself with a lot of spare rope so I just lifted his right leg and tied it into the rope.
Paul could do a perfect impression of Blakey from “On the Buses”.
I was becoming used to hearing, “I hate you, Butler” in a very wheezy London accent.
The rest of the Troop, obviously, would not dream of being left out. They hammered four fairly hefty tent pegs into the ground.
Paul saw this happening and started to guess what was about to ensue.
“I hate you, Butler” he affirmed but it didn’t make much difference. The troop showed their usual solidarity with their suffering fellow Scout and helped Chris release him from the rope - before removing his trousers and footwear. They then tied him, spread-eagled, not vey tightly, between the tent pegs.
Sharing the field with cattle had certain advantages at this stage. The Troop went around with bowls collecting the “advantages”.
Really good, sloppy cattle droppings were collected and dropped on Paul’s belly and chest. His best friend, Spike, lifted up the front of his bright blue swimming briefs (Seriously, I believe that some boys stayed in their swimming costumes all week!) while someone slipped a generous helping onto his belly and helped it slip down into place. Spike released the waistband and Paul’s swimming trunks snapped (if that is the right word in the circumstances) sharply into place.
Probably the most popular move was when two prize-winning piles of crap were positioned just beside his armpits. Spike and Tom then untied Paul’s wrists and pulled his arms forcibly against his body with a very satisfying result! The acclamation as the dung was forced up between Paul’s arms and his torso was resonant!
Even Paul himself was laughing uncontrollably. He was then allowed to free his ankles and jumped into the canal.
Aaaaah! Those were the days!
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Thanks Jason! I could have been doing something better at two o'clock in the morning! Like going to bed!
But . . .