Back in the early 80’s I spent 18 months in Northern Ireland.    As postings go. it was great! .. we had so many pubs on camp that you could spend a whole week drinking in a different one each night.

Like many of the WRAC in those days I did partake (often) in a wee drink or twelve… and like most drunks ended up starving at 1am!

The cookhouse was open 24 hours in those days, there were so many different shift patterns and patrols coming and going that it was possible to get food at anytime (although you weren’t really meant to use it when you were drunk as a skunk!).

One night, after a really good NAAFI disco (were they ever really good .. or was I just really drunk), a group of us ended up in the cookhouse and due to the fact that one of my friends was working behind the counter, we didn’t get kicked out and managed to help ourselves to a plate of burger and chips each.

There was a pudding on offer .. Rice Pudding.    but it was a congealed mess and none of us (even in our very drunken state!) liked the look of it.

It was the Rice Pudding that started it.   It was, really.    One of my friends suggested to me that the Rice was more like plaster of paris and wouldn’t it be funny if I stuck my boobs in it.

Well.. I did… to much hilarity and cheering … so much so that my cook friend came out to see what was going on .. (by this time I had pulled my shirt back down) .. checked her hot plates and stirred the rice pudding (which I had left with two very large holes in it).

We were still laughing when a group of RMP’s came in … and one of them helped himself to the Rice Pudding .. did we tell him .. did we hell …