Don't mess with the pretty boy!!!!!

Thank you all for the wonderful comments, hearts and thoughts on our anniversary. Here, 50 years on the Garden Fairy has gone off the boil and takes her well earned break from looking after me. Off to meet the Trick Cyclists at the memory clinic soon, to see if I am wandering into the land of the lost and bewildered.  

When I joined the Royal Marines I was in a world I wanted, Elaine supported me. I was at Deal, Kent, the Depot for Marine trainees. Here the unkempt civvy was reduced to the basics they wanted, then gradually raised to the man they really wanted. Six weeks into training we were marched over to the gym where the Physical Training Instructors (PTIs) would utter warming words of encouragement in our ears, while beating the hell out of us with their exercises. This particular day was like any other in the gym, until the main PTI brought out a few pairs of boxing gloves, we were going “Milling.” Having formed a circle two of us were pointed at and told to go at it. This “Go at it” entailed trying to thump the living daylights out of our newest friends. When my turn came I faced Jock Coyle, a Glaswegian. Alarm bells should have been going off but Jock was a quiet, self-effacing lad. Suddenly he hit me, hard. Sod this, he can’t do that, so I hit him back and that’s when it all went blurry. The PTIs separated us, by now we were both snarling mad. They wanted to see if we had “It!” The ferocity needed for our lives ahead.

That weekend there was an inter-squad boxing tournament. I was selected to represent our squad at middleweight. My opponent was John Parry. The watching maniacs were chanting “Parry - Parry - Parry.” This made me chuckle, much to my PTIs annoyance. We boxed three rounds and John won on points. I received a Silver medal for style, my hair was neater. Two weeks later and after some intensive instruction a dozen of us went to Portsmouth, Eastney Barracks, where we were to fight in the Royal Marine Championships. In the semi final I beat a Marine who had been flown home from Singapore, just for the occasion. In the final I was paired with a lad who was in the final weeks of Commando training. It took him all of 1 minute 32 seconds to belt me silly. Later I phoned the boss. “Why do you sound strange?” “I’ve been bokkshing!” “WHAT!!!”

The train journey back to Deal was a hoot, we had been smart and shiny on the way to London then Portsmouth, now we were still smart but sported cuts, black eyes and occasional nose bleeds. Many people entered the carriage then backed out with a fearful look. The same on the underground and the Deal train. That experience brought a bunch of us closer together and told those who might think the prissy bloke with the Home Counties accent was an easy touch to leave well alone.