England Germany: The Final Solution?

It seems as though England have settled in nicely to the new Wembley stadium, having lost last night to an under - strength Germany team.
We all know by now know the familiar pattern set by previous Anglo – Germanic fixtures.

England started the game the better side by far, keeping possession and dominating the game, not letting the krauts have a look in hardly. With Joe Cole and Frank Lampard controlling the midfield, and the pace ever quickening, it was inevitable that England would soon score. And score they bloody did; young nineteen year old Richards, right back, got passed Panda and another German defender to flick it up for Frank Lampard to blast past Lehman’s near side to make it one nil.

This, however, is every Englishman’s worst fear. We’re very good at taking the lead and initiate in a match, but that’s when it all goes downhill. We loose the motivation to keep attacking, keep dominating and keep making opportunities. That’s when the Germans took advantage and in the second quarter we paid the price for it, and that’s when this author knew we were buggered. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Jerkoffs.

However bad our number one may have been and the lack of opportunistic play being made in the second halve, the most frustrating, yet predictable, part of the match was with our number nine. Alan fucking Smith.

His England record speaks for itself. One goal in eighteen appearances. Now I’m no football expert, but what the fuck is that all about?! That record doesn’t just deserve him being struck of the number nine shirt, but an instant sacking of club football as well, with him being made to repay his total football salary up to now on top. The guy is a total fucking dick head. He had absolutely no chances in the first half, after which he was subbed. His only contribution, as the teams main striker and supposed goal scorer, which the nine shirt brings, was to set up Owen late in the first half. For fucks sake.

What escapes me is how McLaren can give the sacred nine shirt to this bucket of absolute useless monkey spunk, when the likes of Crouch, Defoe and Owen and getting half games, and have far superior scoring records. What escapes me further, however, is that the England boss can justify Smiths continuing presence in the national team.

Obviously Rooney is the managers and nations deserved favourite; he is the only one who can play and feel comfortable operating alone ahead of the pack, but in his absence the clear choice surely must be Owen and Defoe, with Crouch as a reserve / sub. Owens record, when match fit, is excellent, Defoe’s and Crouch’s equally good. The solution, this author believes, is simple; immediate decapitation of Smith. Tosser.

The Catterick Experience

All right, just received my joining instructions for ITC Catterick – that’s more like it! One of the guys at the gym went to Catterick back in 2002, though he left after a month or two, and he takes great delight in telling me a scare story from his time there every time I go to the gym and he’s there. We get on really well, he looks army enough but says he doesn’t regret leaving. He’s only two years older than me but acts a lot older, he’s quite a sound bloke and we gas a lot about the army, Blail Brown and Bush, basically setting the world to rights in general.

He told me also a few funny stories about other lads who joined, but for slightly bizarre reasons. A quick example was one lad who was a good five stone overweight apparently, and he joined solely to get back in shape. Unbelievable. Fat bastard.

A few of his more memorable moments at ITC Catterick include;

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  Being woken up at three in the morning with an ‘army issue’ alarm clock. Machine Gun fire.
  


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  Banging out press ups until his arms physically gave up, then being kicked in the ribs by the PTI for his lack of ‘correct mental attitude’. Nice.
  


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  One of his fellow recruits hanging himself when his father refused to sign his slip stating he’d had enough and wanted to leave (as under 18 have to get parental permission to quit).
  

If it weren’t for the fact that I’m now slightly more use to the sound of rifle fire from my combined five years in the Army Cadet Force (NH Forever!!) and TA than most people, can do said required amount of push ups (I hope) and have been known to take a kicking once or twice in my lifetime, combined with my age being over 18, I’d probably be letting all that get to me a tad.

As it is, the only thing bothering me is this talk of a ‘bottom field’, used to thrash fuck outta recruits who have to run up and down it for hours on end. That thought I don’t particularly relish, especially since yesterday was the first time in a long time that I managed to run further than a mile and a half without passing out.

Ah well, shits and giggles, hey.

Arty Farty

With all this time on my hands waiting, waiting and waiting, it gives me ample time to consider my options, should the army (medical) go tits up and my dreams smashed in a haze of bureaucratically socialist fuelled bullshit drowned in red tape and leaving behind it a broken sole, forever wandering this so called life in limbo.

In another life, I suppose, I would have liked to have been a punk skater, being heavily into the music and fashion but never really got into the whole scene. I would have loved to hang out all day at a skate park, designing my own board and shit. I think there is an artistic side to my personality but just don’t know how to release it.

That’s the one advantage to not being in the army, really, I mean know way would I be able to do half the shit I would like to; beard, drugs, writing and painting during the day, raving during the night. That and not being shot at. Well, unless you’re from Nottingham.

It’s a comfort to realise that I do still have options and cards to play, should I be dealt a crap hand, even if they aren’t aces! I’d love to take up painting as like a hobby but I have know clue at all how to get into it, or even what I want to get out of it. Help! Any artist people out there I need advice haha ah well be kinda cool to see if I get into it, fuck knows how though. Maybe I’ll go on the rob and borrow a few pieces from Tate Modern and pass them off as my own. Yeah, that’ll do.

Write, time to get a ticket to London then . . .

Trials and Tribulations of a Civilian Grunt

Trials and Tribulations of a Civilian Grunt

Read a lot about these blogs recently, and thought it might be kinda neat, and that I’d try it out and maybe kill some time. Time, that’s one thing I sure have had a lot of recently. Well, here I am, a twenty-year-old kid who’s tried for the last four years to make it into the British Army, and finally I’ve made it. Well, almost.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been hooked onto the idea of the Army. Army fucking balmy that’s me all right. You see there’s nothing I have ever wanted to do with my life, no real dreams or aspirations like everybody else. At least most people have paper dreams when they’re young. Astronaut, movie star, fireman, you know the score. Not me though, for me it was always going to be the Army.

I first tried when I was sixteen and still in school, and went for the Royal Marines. I was a kinda weedy little kid, and everyone thought this to be a kinda funny idea. It really hurt at the time I suppose, but that early negativity was to be my source of inner strength. I passed the tests for the Marines but for some reason I decided not to pursue it, and instead thought better of the Army instead. By this time I was doing my A levels, and had decided on my local infantry regiment, the Royal Anglians. I was in the Army Cadet Force and loved every minute of it, leaving with the rank of Corporal I knew that solid infantry work was what I wanted.

However, it wasn’t to be. I failed the eyesight requirement in my medical and was deferred for six months. I was totally broken, and felt that I was utterly doomed into a life of boring medial crap, shit jobs, just an ordinary Joe no one gave a fuck about. I decided to get away from it all, and lived in Thailand for four months studying Muay Thai. I came back in December of last year (2006) to find an Army letter waiting for me. It had been six months and stated I could reapply should I wish to. Too fucking right I wished to! I went back after the New Year and explained my situation and got the ball rolling again. Of course, I was having kittens at the thought of failing my eyesight again, as second time round I’d be stuffed. At this early stage I was totally resigned to the near realisation that I would indeed fail again, after all, what the fuck difference did six months make to my eyesight?

Finally, after four months of shitting my pants waiting for my medical to be over and done with, I got the good news. I was in bed dozing one morning late April, and my phone rang. As I was still half-asleep and badly hungover I thought I’d let it ring and can leave a message. After a minute or so I thought bollocks and answered it. It was my recruitment sergeant, Sgt Crook. I’d passed my medical. I couldn’t believe it! I’d finally done it!! I said thankyou very much that was great and he’d be in touch with interview dates and the next stage. ‘Fucking Yes!!!’ I screamed, and laughed out loud for a good ten minutes before texting everybody in my phone book.

The interviews were a piece of piss and I had to wait until ADSC, or Army Development and Selection Centre, Lichfield, 13th July. This was the final hurdle, and I knew I still had to pass another medical, this one physical and with a whole team of nurses and doctors poking and prodding me for physical and medical weakness. By this time I had moved back up to Hull from Lincoln to live with my dad, to start training for Lichfield. I might fail on my eyesight I figured, and there was nothing I could do about that. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to fail on the physical tests. The half hour waiting to get the medical over and done with was the most nerve racking of my life. When the good doctor passed me I acted non – chalantly, but inside my head was doing somersaults right up the Humber Bridge and back down again for seconds. I was ecstatic. The next thirty six hours was spent doing interviews and physical tests. I managed to come forth or fifth out of forty one in the mile and a half run, coming in at nine minutes twenty nine which I was thrilled about, but knew I could have done a bit better. The final interview with a Major was interesting, him recommending me for officer training (along with virtually every other recruitment officer I’d come across; fuck that) and The Parachute Regiment, which was my second choice after the Poachers (2nd Battalion Royal Anglians).

So, here I am, waiting for my joining date for Catterick, for twenty-six fun filled action weeks of infantry training up in North Yorkshire. The only thing in-between me and twenty-two years soldering is another medical at Catterick, within the first few days. Believe me, I have every single finger and toe doubly crossed. In the mean time, I’m still at the gym everyday training my upper body and working on longer runs with weights. Thirty-eight days to go.

Bring it on.

Rejoice O young man in thy youth... - Ecclesiastes

Guernica

Thought I'd add this in as well. For those of you still living in the dark ages (Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland) this is a copy of Guernica, by Picaso, one of the finest anti war paintings of the twentith centuary.

Quick history lesson for those of you in formentioned underprivileged socities; Guernica is the town in northern Basque Spain that got bombed to shit in 1937 by the Nazis with the express permission from the fascist government of Franco, to test the Lufftwaffes new capabilities. Somthing like sixteen hundred civilians died, and this is the result of Picasos three week work to try and convey the misery and suffering after the raid.

There are thought to be many hidden meanings in the painting, though Picaso, ever the illusionist, has refused to coment on any such hidden meaning behind the painting. However, the large canvas embodies for many the inhumanity, brutality and hopelessness of war.

'Art is not made to decorate rooms. It is an offensive and defensive weapon against the enemy' - Pablo Picaso