here you can't own a gun unless you get a license, emitted by the police. and they get all your personal data connected to the exact weapon you buy.
and any blade longer than 7 cm also needs approval from the local authorities.
here you can't own a gun unless you get a license, emitted by the police. and they get all your personal data connected to the exact weapon you buy.
and any blade longer than 7 cm also needs approval from the local authorities.
Last edited by Cabalo; 05-19-2009 at 05:32 PM.
Yea shot guns are allowed with a licence and they must be always stored away properly. They usualy give licences so people in the country side can hunt vermin shot some clay pigeons etc.
All automatic guns are banned aswell but that goes without saying.
The only people i know personally who have guns are like farmers and people who live in the country. Its not like the US here cant just go to Tesco and buy gun.
You can own a hand gun in the UK provided...
i) You have a license from the authorities.
ii) You are a member of a gun club.
iii) The gun must never leave the club. You cannot take the gun home with you.
My father used to have quite a collection of firearms, until they changed the law. Now his weapons are stored at the gun club, and that is the only place he can wield them.
Shotguns are a different matter, and many people have licenses to use them.
Shirley they're dangerous in anyone's hands considering they're designed to kill stuff/people.
As long as I've got a face
You've got a place to sit
You need a license here also. I never bothered to check how to get one, but I hear the rules are pretty strict (you have to be a hunter,...)
I'm back. The downside is that I'm also old now.
You would think so; however, my battalion's supply sergeant never qualified with his weapon at the range - the whole time he was in the military (22 years, like).
I used to buy the biggest, fattest, and juiciest joints off his brain damaged wife. She was fecking weird to the max. She would sit on top of their fridge all day long with a glass of iced tea and a bag of doobies.
She was all right, and Sgt was all right too. He let me stay at his house and get away from the barracks on the weekends. He taught me how to be a man. He made me laugh. Sgt was a double hard bastard with a soul.
Sgt was killed in Panama. I watched him die. His eyes were open. He had a fly on his face on the ride back. I hated that fly. I still hate that fly. I hate all flies. They're the first vultures of death.
Peace, Sgt Brother Doobie
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