V hospodě v Ostrově u Tisy
Neházejte nam vajgly do pisoáru,
my vám taky nechčijem do popelníku.
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Když tu tak sedím,
na dveře hledím,
tak mně přišlo na mysl,
jak asi sral Přemysl.

(pod tím, jinou tužkou a rukou)

Přemysl, ty vole,
chodil srát na pole.
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Napis na WC, budova ČVUT, Trojanova ulice, Praha, léta 60ta
Studenty z venkova upozorňujeme na splachovací zařízení
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Cedule na čistém záchodě v překrásné galerii U Jakoba v Opavě
Neodhazujte dámské hygienické vložky, kondomy ani jiné tvrdé předměty.
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Jak se mi tu pěkně sere, skoro jako v mlází, vítr fouká do prdele, s čurákem to hází.

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Sperma, které vám po masturbaci zůstane na prstech, utírejte prosím o panty. Strašně nám vržou dveře.
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Praha, restaurace U bubeníčku
Nepijte vodu - prcaj v ní ryby!!
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FEL ČVUT v Praze, katedra počítačů Karlovo Náměstí
Lepší nežli dívčí zrada, teplá prdel kamaráda.
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Pánský záchodek klub 007 na Strahově
Rok, dva jsem čekala,
rok, dva počkám,
jestliže nepřijdeš,
hodím piču kočkám.
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Pánský záchodek v restauraci U vystřeleného voka
Neházejte nedopalky do pisoáru!
Tou rukou, kterou je vybírám, vám točím pivo.
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Na záchodcích v rekreačním středisku Melchiarova Huť
Nechal jsem zde vše, co mi zanechal komunismus.
Vysral jsem zde hovno století.
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Nápis, jak si ho pamatuji ze záchodků z vojny
Sedej rychle, ser jen krátce, hajzl není rekreace.
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Městská knihovna v Praze (Mariánské náměstí)
Ať jsi Cikán neb Žid,
můžeš si ho vyhonit.
Běda však ti ty chlívku,
sáhneš-li na českou dívku.
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Nápis na nouzovém záchodě ještě před válkou na louce v Hodkovičkách
Chceš li sráti podle módy,
vem si s sebou kýbl vody,
k tomu kousek lavičníku,
abys věděl uličníku,
když ten hajzl posereš,
tak ho taky umeješ.
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Záchodek v restauraci Deja vu v Oděse
Nad pisoarem, který je umísten ve výšce 1,3 m nad zemi, je nápis ve volném překladu :

Žití je těžké pro lidi malého vzrůstu.


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Asi před 20 lety jsem na záchodku ve vlaku pod obligátním: "Záchodu se nesmí používat, pokud je vlak ve stanici" viděl toto
Lepší hovno ve stanici než ve vlastní nohavici.
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Vlastenecká
Chceš-li býti správným Čechem,
utírej si prdel mechem.
Není-li mech k dostání,
šoupej prdel po strání.

Nápis, jak si ho pamatuji ze záchodků z vojny
Sedej rychle, ser jen krátce, hajzl není rekreace.
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Městská knihovna v Praze (Mariánské náměstí)
Ať jsi Cikán neb Žid,
můžeš si ho vyhonit.
Běda však ti ty chlívku,
sáhneš-li na českou dívku.
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Nápis na nouzovém záchodě ještě před válkou na louce v Hodkovičkách
Chceš li sráti podle módy,
vem si s sebou kýbl vody,
k tomu kousek lavičníku,
abys věděl uličníku,
když ten hajzl posereš,
tak ho taky umeješ.
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Záchodek v restauraci Deja vu v Oděse
Nad pisoarem, který je umísten ve výšce 1,3 m nad zemi, je nápis ve volném překladu :

Žití je těžké pro lidi malého vzrůstu.


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Asi před 20 lety jsem na záchodku ve vlaku pod obligátním: "Záchodu se nesmí používat, pokud je vlak ve stanici" viděl toto
Lepší hovno ve stanici než ve vlastní nohavici.
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Vlastenecká
Chceš-li býti správným Čechem,
utírej si prdel mechem.
Není-li mech k dostání,
šoupej prdel po strání.

Nápis na dveřích z období totality
Kdo půl směny neprofláká, ten pracuje na Husáka.

Dveře vysazeny za účelem odstranění nápisu. Okamžitě se objevil nový nápis na zdi:

KSČ nám nevěří, proto serem bez dveří.

Nápis na zdi WC v parlamentu ČR - Sněmovní ulice
Kdo oprcal Šárku, ať udělá čárku!

Nejmenovaná restaurace na Smíchově
Neplatíme nájem, peněz máme bečku, chlast tu teče proudem, dík soudruhu Křečku !

V době současné lze nalézt v hospodě "Na stráži" na Žižkově v Praze 3 toto oznámení
"MILUJU DENISU, PROTOŽE SE VĚNUJE MÉMU PENISU"

Nápisy na záchodech

Nápis na naší skříňce od elektroměřičů v družstevním domě na Hlavní třídě v Ostravě Porubě
Všem tady mohutně smrdí nohy!
Když říkám všem, tak všem!
I mně!
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V Českých Budějovicích - Boršově, v jedné vodácké hospodě
Neházejte vložky z oken, dusí se nám kachny.
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Na panském záchodku budovy elektrotechnické fakulty ČVUT na Karlově náměstí je nápis
Z = R * U

(pro laiky [zrovna seru]) :o)
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Děkujeme vám, že třídíte odpady


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Zachody Ministerstva obrany SR
Kto bol, pochopil.
Kto nebol, nepochopil.
Kto bol a nepochopil, podpisal.
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Na panskám záchodě v Jazz Clubu v Havířově bylo jednu dobu napsáno
Veroniko miluji tě

a u toho jinou tužkou

Tak tady ti asi Veronika neodpoví
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Ser mezku,
rychlosti blesku,
dbej lesku,
neposer desku!
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toaleta hlavního nádraží v Bratislavě
Ženská je zbytočná okrasa okolo piči

I felt sick as we climbed back topside, the captain explaining that we weren't to talk about this, not to anyone. It was all top secret. In other words, a cover-up was in force. We were to forget the girl, forget the homing device - none of it had ever happened. But I couldn't get the image of her spread-eagled against that bulkhead out of my mind.

Tom and Doug were waiting on deck. The ops officer told us to get our kit together before our regimental helicopter flew us back to rejoin the unit.

That was when all hell broke loose.

By this time they had brought a couple of seamen down and told them to get the kit off her. These boys set to work grinning. The prisoner fought and kicked, but it didn't do her any good. In a trice she was shackled to a bulkhead and every shred of clothing was ripped away. It was freezing cold down below decks, but in the overhead light her olive skin was beaded with sweat. Front on, she looked pathetically young and emaciated. I felt no anger now, only pity and disgust. I wondered what they were going to do with her. This was war, and in war spies are shot. I knew the procedure. I'd been through it myself on an escape-and-evasion exercise during the SAS initiation test in the Brecon Beacons before the war. Next she'd have the full treatment: the body cavity searches, the physical and verbal abuse, the threats, the hooding, and banging on the walls and door to induce disorientation. I could have told them they were wasting their time; she was never going to talk - but it wouldn't have done any good.

The two seamen stayed in attendance to see that she didn't kill herself. Though God knows how she was going to manage that, the way they had her trussed up.

After that,

everything started to go ratshit. The ship's captain and the ops officer took one look at the girl - still spitting and snarling - and the kit she had with her, and told Andy and me that on no account should we talk to anyone. I described to them the scene in the back of the truck, how I'd guessed she had a homing device - which was what it seemed the thing was - and there were long faces as the officers tried to figure out how an enemy agent had managed to breach their 'impenetrable' security cordon. No one knew how she had got on, or whether it was at Portsmouth or Ascension Island where the ship had stopped en route. Small wonder we had been taking such losses to air attack.

And it hit me. Jesus, I thought, the bitch is a spy. She's down here vectoring the bombers in on us.

That moment she flew at me again.

I called Andy over. Even against the two of us she continued to put up a fight; she could kick and punch like a bantamweight. My teeth were aching and Andy took a poke in the eye that left him gasping, but eventually we got her tied down with some straps off a vehicle, and Andy told me to watch her while he went off to find the ship's ops officer.

'Bastardo!'

A girl, I was thinking. How she had got here I couldn't imagine - unless maybe she was some crab's bit of fluff smuggled aboard at Portsmouth. I hadn't seen a girl in six weeks. We'd heard rumours that a few were serving on the Canberra, but we'd never got near enough to find out. Or could she be a journalist stowed away on board to get a scoop on the campaign . . .?

Then it dawned on me that she'd spoken in Spanish. I ran my gaze around the nest in which she had been lying up, taking in the items I'd found - the camera, the tape recorder, the radio-type device.

My cabin boy was a girl.

I let go her hands and sat up. The torch was lying nearby and I snapped it on - definitely a girl. The dark hair was ragged and plastered to her grimy face, she was unkempt and pale - but the dishevelled appearance and dirt could not disguise the fineness of the features or burning intensity of the eyes. A bit younger than me; seventeen or eighteen at a guess.

There was a reddening mark on one cheek where I had hit her. I reached down to touch the place. Her eyes flashed hatred. A hand swept out of the gloom, fingers curled like talons to rake my face, but I knocked the hand aside. 'I didn't mean to hit you!' Well, I hadn't - I'd thought she was a bloke. 'What are you doing down here anyway?'

'What's your name then, arsehole?'

His response was to spit in my face. I cuffed him a couple of times across the mouth to teach him manners, and he shut up. His wrists were so thin I could hold them together one-handed while I searched his tunic for ID.

It was while I was patting him down that I realised something was wrong - and not in the way I had been thinking before. In addition to a combat jacket several sizes too large, he had on a roll-neck sweater with a T-shirt underneath. Ignoring his squirmings I pulled these up - to reveal a narrow ribcage and a flesh-coloured sports bra hiding a pair of adolescent tits.

The little bastard

struggled violently and tried to knee me in the groin, unsuccessfully. I figured he had to be some kind of cabin boy, someone from the crew - probably scared to death by the bombing, hiding down here when he should be topsides.

He twisted like a snake, diving under my arm to reach the roof flap. I was ready for him, though. Flinging myself after, I dragged him back, rolling him over and pinning him down. He fought and squirmed; it was a while since I'd fought with a kid his size, and it didn't feel right somehow. I was worrying I'd break a bone or something. Eventually, though, I got him pinned down by sheer weight. I straddled him between my knees and laced his hands across his chest so he couldn't move, though he continued to snarl and wriggle like a wildcat.

Right, I'll have you, I thought, and launched myself across the piled stores. There was a frantic scuffling as a body tried to get away. I got a hand around a limb in the darkness - arm or leg I couldn't tell.

'Come on, get the fuck out of there,' I said, heaving.

A foot came out of the blackness and connected with my face with a force that rocked my head back against the steel frame of the roof. The torch went flying and the crack I'd taken felt as if it had broken my jaw. My head was singing and I could taste blood in my mouth. I was angry now.

OK, I said to myself, if that's how you want to play it, fine. I let fly a punch with all my twelve stone behind it. My fist connected with something solid. There was a gasp and a whimper and the struggles ceased. This was better.

Locating a foot, I dragged my opponent into the half-light near the truck tail to take a look at him. The guy was wearing army combat fatigues. I'd been expecting a crab or a sailor - maybe he'd nicked the gear too. He was so slight he looked more like a boy than a man. 'Who the fuck are you?' I demanded.

V tu chvíli jsem cítil s dávným Britem, který putoval oblečen do zvířecích kůží, až došel do císařského Říma, srdce impéria. Jak musel žasnout před heroickými sochami, obrovskými chrámy, vysokými sloupy a občany krásně oděnými v hedvábí, zdobenými šperky.
Najednou jsem si vzpomněl na svůj ostrovní domov. Venkovský zapadákov s křivolakými uličkami, po kterých jezdí vozy tažené koňmi. Pestrá směs malebných vesnic obývaných ospalými venkovskými balíky. Ve srovnání s tímto vypadal uboze.
Zanedlouho auto zastavilo před vysokou budovou.
„To je váš hotel,“ řekla Kerris. Pak se usmála, zřejmě mému zmatenému výrazu. „Nedělejte si starosti, Davide. Očekávají vás. Měl byste tam najít taky nové šaty – odtelegrafovala jsem vaše míry předem. Ale vhodnější boty vám teprve budeme muset sehnat… v námořnických botách nemůžete chodit po Manhattanu.“
Byl jsem jako dítě o Vánocích, které má oči vytřeštěné vzrušením a pobíhá od jednoho překvapení k druhému. Přesto mne trápil pocit neloajality vůči svému domovu na tom klidném ostrově, vzdáleném tisíce kilometrů. Pro rodinu Masenových to bylo bezpečné útočiště. Jídlo a šaty mi poskytlo to, co rostlo a páslo se v jeho bujně zelené krajině. Jeho společnost udělala maximum pro to, aby mi poskytla vzdělání a zábavu. Jenže tato pulzující metropole nabízela mnohem víc.
„Co je to?“ zeptal jsem se barmana v hotelovém baru. Zahrnul mě širokým úsměvem. „To je televize, pane.“

Feeling around among the bundles, I turned up a camera and a miniature tape recorder, quality-looking items both. Along with them was a piece of electronic kit I didn't recognise, a flat grey plastic box around six inches long by two-and-a-half wide, with an extendable aerial like a transistor radio but no tuning dial, only a tiny red button that glowed to show it was switched on. I was about to go back and show Andy what I'd found when there was a rustling noise from the front of the truck. A rat after the remains of the food? But it seemed like too much noise for a rat. A man - and whoever had been living here was still around, by the sound of it.

I made out

four of the squadron's trucks among a fleet of BV lightweight tracked vehicles - the kind that can go across the ice cap if you need to. The first contained bivvy bags and groundsheets, as listed. I counted the bundles as best I could in the semi-dark. The canvas flap at the back of the second truck was partly unsecured, and I squirmed underneath to take a dekko inside. Jesus, I thought disgustedly as I played the torch around. The neat packs of arctic clothing and spare sleeping bags had been hollowed out in the middle to make a hiding place, and some pisser was kipping down in there. I pulled the canvas back for a better look. Whoever it was had dug out a sleeping bag and there was a torch ready to hand, an army-issue water bottle and the remains of a meal from a ration pack. Fucking crabs, I thought, they get better fed than we do, and still they nick our grub.

Andy returned

with torches, and we set to work. As we moved along the lines I was quizzing him about the forthcoming mission. Rumour had it the squadron was to send a patrol into the Argentine mainland. If true, it would be a major escalation of the war. I knew Andy was bothered by it because it was a four-man patrol, and I was listed number six in reserve - which meant I was unlikely to be picked, a fact that was pissing me off a lot.

We clattered down into the bowels of the ship. The lower deck was shadowy, crammed with long lines of all-terrain vehicles, Land Rovers and eight-ton medium trucks packed to the roof with stores and chained to the deck by their axles.

'Take fucking hours to search this lot,' Andy said. 'We'll need more light. Hang on here, Mark, while I go back for a couple of torches. And keep your eyes open for anything worth nicking - if the crabs haven't got there first, that is.'

Hampered by my bulky life vest, I squeezed past a rank of bucket loaders belonging to the Royal Engineers and a grim contingent of battlefield ambulances. From up above came the sounds of a Tannoy blaring: probably another aircraft warning - the Argies were throwing their full weight against the landings.

As we searched for a stairwell we met a couple of airmen coming forward. 'How do we get down from here?' Andy asked. One of the men jerked a thumb over his shoulder and hurried on without stopping.

'Fucking crab,' Andy grunted. 'Shitting himself in case the Argy planes come back.'

You couldn't exactly blame him, though. It was bad enough being on a troop ship, but with holds full of fuel and ammunition these guys were sitting on a bomb - literally.

The war at this point was becoming very real. I had seen enemy aircraft blown out of the sky over the anchorage, and ships burning from missile hits.

The squadron was scheduled to undertake a major operation in the next couple of days, and now we were hunting for a 1.missing container of stores. Some clerk in Portsmouth had screwed up on the cargo manifest and our vital laser target designators had ended up on the wrong ship. I was twenty years old, and the operation would be my first time under fire in a real war; so I was quite nervous about how I would perform in a major action.

A stench of diesel and avgas. The cavernous main hold was jammed with giant helicopters and massive crates holding spare engines for Harrier jump jets. Teams of RAF technicians - 'crabs' in our language - were labouring to bolt the rotors into place on a twin-engine Chinook. Andy sent Tom and Doug forward, and took me aft with him to check the lower vehicle deck. He purposely wanted to keep me apart from Tom - when the order to leave for the Falklands came through, Tom and I had been out drinking. We had ended up pissed in some stinker's house and missed the flight out to Ascension Island with the rest of the squadron, and had to catch a later plane - Andy hadn't forgiven me yet. A veteran of the Oman campaign, he sported the droopy tash and long hair of a seasoned SAS operator, and took no nonsense from anyone, officer or ranker.

l of fire

CHAPTER ONE 'Air raid warning red!'

Autumn in the South Atlantic. 3.32pm on 25 May, a bright, cold afternoon in the narrow inlet of San Carlos Water, East Falkland. The alarm call sent a shiver through the British fleet - and my war turned bloody.

This was Argentina's national day. In enemy sorties before lunch, missiles from HMS Coventry had shot down two A4 Skyhawk bombers over the sound, with a third destroyed by small-arms fire. But an hour later the bombers had returned to exact revenge, damaging Broadsword and hitting Coventry with three bombs, capsizing her and killing nineteen men.

Now the bombers were back again.

This new message meant that the long-range radar of a ship on the forward picket line had detected hostile aircraft in descent towards the island on a strike mission profile.

Minutes earlier a Sea King helicopter from HMS Invincible had set me down on the main deck of the SS Northland, a 15,000- ton roll-on roll-off container ship. There were four of us there from D Squadron SAS, under the orders of my brother, Troop Sergeant Andy Black. The other two were Tom - one of my great mates, a huge and unflappable Fijian corporal - and Doug Easton, the troop troublemaker, who had just made selection. Doug was a bullet-headed tearaway from east London, violently aggressive and forever forcing his opinions on people. He and I had never hit it off.

§8
UKONČENÍ PRACOVNÍ DOBY
(1) V 17 hod. je slavnostní odchod z práce. Hraje hudba a vedoucí pracovník podniku se s každým pracovníkem rozloučí podáním ruky a poděkováním za odvedenou práci.
(2) Vrátný každému prohledá tašku. Jestliže pracovník nemá nic ukradeno, vrátí ho, aby si něco vzal. Starším a těhotným se ukradené věci odváží služebním vozidlem.

§9
DODATKY
(2) Jestliže se pracovníkovi zdá o práci, má, nárok na noční příplatek.
(3) V případě svatby pracovníka jsou v podniku dva dny pracovního volna.V případě svatby vedoucího pracov-níka je to týden pracovního volna.

§10
ÚČINNOST
Tato vyhláška nabývá účinnosti 1. ledna 2000.

§6

NÁVŠTĚVY
(1) Jestliže za pracovnicí přijde pánská návštěva, nesmí být pár rušený. Za tím účelem je zaměstnavatel povinen zařídit zvláštní místnost s občerstvením. Pracovnice, které tímto způsobem stráví část pracovní doby, mají nárok na náhradní volno.

§7
OBČERSTVENÍ
(1) V 16 hod. se podává občerstvení, jako např. obložené chlebíčky, káva, víno, likéry, pivo a ovoce dle přání.