Sings

Oh Happy Days
Oh Happy Days

First thing first. Hand in the green boiler suit but get to keep the PT vest, shorts and plimsolls. Up at sparrows as normal, big breakfast and pick up your "Death Pack". This is army slang used for a packed lunch. That is what the cook called it. Doesn't auger well and when I finally get to eat it I know why.

On to the big green trucks and off to the railway station. Mirror image of our arrival really, just a lot less hair. Train journey was well, a train journey really. Boring and long.

Late afternoon and Richmond Station appears. North Yorkshire, home of some of the most beautiful scenery in the country and Catterick Camp. Off the train and straight onto more big green trucks. Trundling along on the short journey I actually started to feel excited about the weeks to come. Several training regiments were visited by the trucks before 8 or 10 of us get off at 11 Signal Regiment ( 11 Penal Regiment as I found out it was loving called by those inside).

Now I thought that the staff at Sutton Colfield could shout and bawl but they were no match to the lot at Catterick. We were formed up into two ranks and doubled (running to you) away. Straight to the Quartermasters Department. There we received everything that we would need, uniforms,boots,underwear,towels, knife fork and spoon, white pot mug, and all of your bedding - a full set. Sign here, here and here and piss off out of my sight. And he was a civilian storeman. Nice.

Ouside and off to our billets. Loaded down like yaks. Every time anybody dropped anything, down on the floor give me 10 push-ups. I reckon in the half mile from the QM's to the accommodation block we did about 200 of them.

Finally got to our accommodation. Not a bad building. In we went allocated a bedspace in an 8 man room. Dump your bleeding gear and get fell in outside. If you don't make the cookhouse in 5 minutes you will be to bleeding late. Food. God I am starving. Get downstairs to receive our first bollocking of what would be many over the next 16 weeks. Our crime? Nobody had their knife fork and spoon or white pot mug with them. Much shouting about how the f* do you think you are going to eat you bleeding grub etc.

Finally made it by the skin of our teeth. One choice left Pie and Chips. My introduction to army humour arrived. "What's in the pie chef" asks dim-git from Skegness. "I dont know I'm a fing chef not a f**ing detective" was the reply.

10 minutes later, grub downed, large mug of tea gulped, kfs and white pot mug spotlessly clean back to the billet. Doubling just for a change. Not pleasant when you have just put enough grub down your neck to keep king-kong on the go for a couple of days.

Back to the accommodation block (known as the block - strange that). A huge Corporal introduces himself as our troop corporal and tells us he is the nearest thing to a mother we are going to get for a while. Shows us how to make a bed "in a proper manner". Gives us a photgraph of a locker full of equipment and tells us that tomorrow morning 5.30 outside in PT kit and I am in charge for the rest of the week and I am in the sh*t if anybody cocks up. It will be my fault if all the lockers in the room don't look just like the bleeding photo.

Great. Most of us are still there at midnight trying to get sorted. Finally fall into bed and kip.

Funny. There were only 8 or 10 of us on the transport that arrived. I am in a room with 7 other blokes only 1 I know. Not a clue where the other 6 came from. I am intensely worried by the smooth looking bloke in the corner who seems to do things by magic. His kit doesn't look brand new like ours or smell of moth balls. Falling asleep wondering who he is. Sweet dreams. See you all tomorrow.

Irish

Next episode - Civvies to Squaddies

Just to put this into perspective.

I am 51 years of age. I am 6 foot 1 (dont do new money) and I weigh, you guessed it 200 pounds. And I am unfit at the moment due to my much publicised achilles operation.

This child must be in danger of dying.

Good morning all.

A proper game with goals, tackles and physical endeavour. No throwing oneself to the floor if somebody was within 5 yards of you and no feigning injury.

Two clubs I can think of that could learn a lot from that. Perhaps that is a forlorn hope though as that type of behaviour is too entrenched in them.
Can't believe both Arsenal and Chelsea appealed against red cards. Pathetic.

And so it began. PT kit and black plimsolls on and off we went for a trot. Really pleased. I was the fittest one there and that included the sleep disturbing corporal above.

Back in, cold shower and breakfast. Never felt so hungry in my life and the grub wasn't bad. Just had time to slurp down my tea before we are off at the trot to the Education Centre.

Normality at last. No shouting and bawling just clever looking teacher like blokes in uniform.

40 of us sit in a classroom. Desks in line. Facing front. Important looking bloke in front of us tells us we are going to get test papers that will tell the army what we are going to be good for. "Shouldn't take long, as most people have always told me I'm good for nothing".  Hey ho so on with the tests.

English followed by maths. Joining up dots came after that and then a paper full of weird questions like:
"Have you ever thought about killing you mother?"
Sometimes
Often
Never.

Weird. Enjoyed it anyway. At least we weren't getting shouted at and chased round all over the place.

Head was itching like crazy. Skin not got used to being exposed to the outside world. Some bloody haircut this is.

Finished all the tests. Now for a film show. All about the world and where you can go. Barbados followed by somewhere that looked like Barbados and then somewhere even nicer. All full of bonny women. Not so bad after all. Not a shot being fired at anyone.

Rest of the day was a bit boring, no very boring. Lectures about how great everything is in the army, filling in forms asking all sorts of things. What do you want to do. Obviously hadn't talked to the recruiting sergeant at Lincoln. Answered CHEF.

End of the day came early. Same metal bedstead, blanket made of glass and concrete pillow.

Lights out. Last thought. Hadn't been to the pub for two days. World record since I was 15.

Day 3. Same start just a different corporal. He was a lot fitter, but I still ran the legs off him. Called me a skinny smart harsed little git. Filed away in memory banks - don't be fitter than the corporal.

Later lined up outside the EdCen (getting the lingo already see). Big bloke with really shiney boots came to tell us that we were going to get individual interviews with the Education Officers. Made it sound like they were doing us a favour.

Stood around for two hours until it was my turn. Went in, bloke asked me to confirm my name. Told me that they had looked at my results and I was going to be a Data Telegraphist in the Royal Corps of Signals. I asked him if that was the army term for a Chef. He looked at me as if he had just deposited me into his handkerchief after a hefty blow.
You are not going to be a chef you are going to be a data telegraphist. Next important piece of information to store. Don't argue with the Education Officer.

Funny how they could tell that you were going to be something that you had never heard of just because you had never thought of killing your mother.

Run over to the HQ building. Lined up, we did a lot of that early on. Called in to a large office. Sign here said this great fat heap in a uniform which I was later to recognise as Pay Corps. What is it I ask. Read it and find out. Opened the envelope. 3 days pay in a small brown packet and a rail warrant.

Where the hell and what the hell is Catterick Camp? Boy was I about to find out.

Next episode - Catterick - Hell On Earth.

Copyright Irish-Le-Feaux

Me old mum isn't too happy but she backs me anyway. Let the Recruiting Office know and it's off to Lincoln to sign up. Short ceremony called Attestation, given the bible I swore on. All over in half an hour and I am a squaddy!!!

Finally the big day arrives. Been sent my reporting orders and a travel warrant so it's off to the first exotic location of my army career. This one doesn't look much like Barbados and not a good looking woman to be seen. Where is it? Sutton Colfield. Get off the train, completely bewildered, along with 30 or 40 other likely lads. We all stood around (must have looked a bit like Lads Army for those of you who have seen it) looking at each other wondering what to do and in a lot of cases what the hell we were doing there.

All hell let loose. Two big blokes in uniform start shouting and bawling at us. Somehow we all end up in the back of a couple of lorries and we trundle of to the camp.

First thing first. Get your uniform. This turns out to be a green boiler suit, a pair of black plimsolls, a red pt vest and a pair of baggy blue shorts.

Then it is off to - wait for it - A HAIRCUT. Now my hair is half way down my back at this time. I tried to explain that really I was only there to be assessed for a career in the army and for the necessary physical etc. to see if I was okay. First and last time I argued with a 6foot 4 inch training corporal I can tell you.

 Hair cut? Down to the bone. It seems that the longer the hair when they started the shorter it was when they finished. God my head felt cold. It was better for me than the scouser who had already decided he had had enough and wanted out. They let him go but before he went they were kind enough to let him have a free hair cut just for old times sake.

Why did you have to run everywhere? Why did you have to be shouted at? Why was the food awful and the tea like dishwater. Why had I ever signed up?

Now this place was the Army Selection Centre. This is where you went to carry out all of the tests that allowed them to place you into  a relevant job and to assess you both physically and mentally. It should have been a place of calm but it was anything but.

Next standing in line, stark bollock naked awaiting the physical. Look in your ears, look in your eyes, look in your mouth, quick cough with your goolies in the doctors hand and you were fit to fight. Just like that. 

End of day 1. Iron bedstead, mattress with cover, one blanket made of broken glass and a pillow of concrete. Lights out. See you in the morning ladies. That was it. Longest night of my life.

Next episode - Day Two of Selection.

I bet you can't wait.

Long way away from the old marathon man me.

Never mind. I won't get too despondent.

So it looks like March is going to start badly weather-wise. This brings to mind the old adage about the month "In like a lion and out like a lamb".

Hope so as cricket season starts early April so let's get all the bad weather out of the way first.

For those of you that saw it, welcome to my world. If you didn't get the chance to see it then I would recommend you catch it as a repeat whenever it is on.

The Professor with the blackboard just about summed it all up. I could have drawn a few more lines linking the different organisations. Confusion? Absolutely.

The saddest part of the whole thing? Patricia Hewitt being in denial as to the complete balls up that Labour are making of it.

The biggest worry? As was said many times. The NHS in crisis that we have at the moment is the NHS with the most money it is ever going to have. God only knows what will happen when the funding slows down.

NHS IT and computer systems? A complete joke if it wasn't for the 12 billion being poured down the drain.

Several dead-end jobs later and it's April 1972.

Beer and football? Jumped on the train to Lincoln, going to watch the Mighty Imps in a home game. Had to get an early train so we arrive in the city because the early train is the only one that will get us to the game on time.

Well what do you do. Over 3 hours to kill before kick off. We went to the pub. We decided after a few pints to head down to the ground early, stand around see what was going on. On the way we passed the Army Recruiting office. On the spur of the moment I decided to nip in and have a look. My mate carried on down to the ground.

A smooth talking infantry sergeant soon got his hooks into me. What would you like to do son? Like to be a chef. Great the Army really needs chefs son especially in hot places where its like you are on holiday all the time. Here take this literature and I'll just write your details down just in case. Do you play sport? Yeah, football and cricket. Great son plenty of sport in the army. Play and pay we call it. Great life son.

So there you have it. Toddled off to the game. Long haired young bloke in loon pants, full of beer, carrying a plastic bag full of propoganda.

Funny how all the places you get the chance to go look like Barbados and all the women are stunning. I will have a serious think about this. Looks alright, can't do any harm to have a look. Could do a couple of years and then come out. Yeah I'll think about that.

(What have you started Naters?)

Next episode. The dotted line and a hair cut.

Irish

Copyright Irish-Le-Feaux 2007

Firstly;

It is our aim to keep these toilets clean. We hope that your aim is as good.

And then:

Please do not put cigarette ends in our urinals or we will come and piss in your ashtrays.

Ending with my favourite:

Because of rising costs it has become necessary to charge for the use of these conveniences. Please put 20 pence in the slot and turn the handle.

Somebody had written underneath:

NHS Zero Tolerance of Violence and Abuse Poster.
Working well then!!!!!

Doesn't just happen in hospitals though. Le tme recount a particulary exciting incident in my surgery.

We had a patient who was demanding inappropriate treatment and appointments. in the end he verbally abused the young ladies on my reception desk and stated that he wasn't leaving the surgery until he got what he wanted. This is the point where it is not good to be the only male member of staff!!! Please come and sort him out, was the request. So girded up me loins set me shoulders back and went downstairs.

Manage to talk the fellah out of the waiting room and into the interview room. He was still being very aggressive but not violent. Spent about 45 minutes trying to talk him down but to no avail so in the end I offered him the opportunity to leave the surgery. At this he really kicked off. So we called the police. Guy barricaded himself into the interview room and decided to await the police.

When they arrived they tried to talk him out but he wasn't having any of it. He had by now armed himself with a large oxygen cylinder. Finally the police went in heavy. Broke open the door and the fellah attacked them with the oxygen cylinder. They finished up having to spray him with CS gas and using their batons before carrying him bodily out of the surgery.

Result. A bruised practice manager - me! Two very bruised policemen. An extremely bruised and gassed patient. A broken door. A hole in the wall and some broken office furniture.

And what was this all about? The patient was refused a third appointment on the day as all the surgeries were full.

As they say. You can't satisfy all of the people all of the time.

Extract from a letter to an insurance company:

Reality is a long way away for some people.

"I think Sir Paul McCartney should try to put his current predicament into perspective. In olden days, if you were unfortunate to be robbed by an omniped, it would almost certainly be a pirate. At least he's going to come out of this alive".

And .......

"According to the BBC website, Heather Mills has blamed the breakdown of her marriage to Sir Paul McCartney on 'constant intrusion' into the couple's private life. It seems a shame that Heather objects so much to the public taking an interest in her personal business. If only she had mentioned it in one of her two published autobiographies, A Single Step and Out On A Limb, or the 'About Heather' section of her website .heathermillsmccartney .com, or perhaps when she sold her life story to the News of the World in 1993.
Perhaps then the public would have got the message and left her to live her life out of the constant glare of publicity".

Ah well ..... bless them.

One of the main gripes appears to be that banks are providing less and less services for free. Sorry but I don't understand this at all. Banks are a business. If they provide a service which the customer wants then they will and really should charge for it.

If the customer doesn't like being charged then perhaps they should vote with their feet and move banks. That is of course if they can find a cheaper one, or one which better meets their expectations.

Same goes for credit card charges. If a bank charges you just for having a credit card and you don't like it, move to another card. There are plenty out there.

The daftist thing that I have heard is the complaints by those people who exceed their overdraft limit and then complain when they are penalised for doing so. They are using other peoples money to finance their own lifestyle for God's sake, and without permission. How on earth can you expect not to pay for that?

I think what it boils down to is; If you don't like the service provided then go somewhere else. If all banks provide roughly the same service for roughly the same price, then maybe our expectations are wrong.

Yes I know that banks make a lot of money, but then again they have a huge customer base and if they didn't they wouldn't be providing a fair return for their share-holders. Share-holder is not a dirty word by the way.

The cheating, disingenuous behaviour and feigning injury disgusts me. Players throwing themselves on the floor, trying to con referees are cheating themselves, their fellow professionals and most of all the supporters.  Feigning injury stops the game. Also puts pressure on referees. Rolling around on the floor as if they have been shot with a gun. It is a mans game for Gods sake.

I am afraid that the influx of foreign players has dragged our game down from a physical spectacle full of passion and commitment to a soulless game, with very little physical contact and even less honesty.

The final scenes were disgusting. Problem is that the players get so wound up by each other behaving as described that it is all going to blow up eventually. What a time for it to happen.

All the players involved have let our game down badly.

The managers backing their players in this type of behaviour is sickening. Both of them will say that they didn't actually see what happened. Yeah right!!!!!

Give me real football in the lower divisions every time. All teams in the top flight suffer from the type of behaviour that should never be seen on a football pitch but Chelsea and Arsenal lead the way.

The saddest question is why do the players behave this way? They are more skillful nowadays and fitter than at any time in the past. Leaves me in despair.

I am sorry if these views are offensive to some of you. But unlike the game of football they are honest and I believe accurate.

Got some nice redcurrant jelly that I will put on to the lamb for the last half and hour and turn the heat up to caramelise it.

I think that lamb is probably my favourite roast meat.

I could never be a vegetarian, not for all the tea in china.

Then he saw an envelope propped up prominently on the pillow. It was addressed, "Dad". With the worst premonition, he opened the envelope and read the letter with trembling hands:

Dear Dad,

It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with you and Mom.

I've been finding real passion with Joan and she is so nice. I knew you would not approve of her because of all her piercings, tattoos, her tight motorcycle clothes and because she is so much older than I am but it's not only the passion, Dad, she's pregnant.

Joan says that we are going to be very happy. She owns a trailer in the woods and has a stack of firewood, enough for the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children.

Joan has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it and trading it with the other people in the commune for all the cocaine and ecstasy we want.

In t