T
The Masked Geek
Guest
The Journey
Sergeant Bloggs stood at RAF Coningsby's main gate, awaiting his transport to Brize Norton for his flight to MPA. The minibus pulled up on time and he was on his way.
First port of call - Corporal Lazy Bollocks' house, a Corporal who couldn't be arsed to walk the twenty yards to the main gate for pickup. Once again, they were on their way. Or they would have been if Lazy Bollocks hadn't forgotten his ID card. Five minutes down the road and they were already on their way back. This was going to be an interesting journey.
They finally arrived at Brize Norton at 2000 just in time for check-in. Bloggs was amazed to discover that he had been bumped up into first class on the Air Seychelles' 767. Things were turning out better than he thought and that should have started alarm bells ringing but Bloggs was too busy bragging about his first class bed.
At 2200 there was an announcement that an engine seal had broken on the jet and that they would have a two hour delay while it was fixed. An hour later and the seal was fixed; however, there was still a warning light in the cockpit and the pilot refused to fly. By 0400 the following morning, they had decided to replace the whole engine and that meant an 1100 takeoff. They weren’t going anywhere so they were sent off for some sleep.
Bloggs arrived in the five star luxury hotel: Gateway House. Mr I'm fcuking Important started arguing that he had standards and couldn't possibly stop in the Gateway. He was soon put in his place by the Warrant Officer who told him he was about as important as the dust on his shoe.
Sharing a room with SAC Smith, Bloggs managed to get a few hours sleep before the 0900 brief. The aircraft was now serviceable and he was on his way back to the terminal. At 1100 they were called back into the departure lounge, the flight had slipped to 1400.
1300 came and went and Bloggs realised that they weren't getting away on time. At 1400 a Warrant Officer gave them the good news that the crew had gone missing and they didn't know where they were. Guesses ranged from Gatwick to Scotland. At 1500 Air Seychelles reported that the crew would be out of hours even if they were anywhere to be found and that the flight wouldn't be leaving until 2300 that night.
So, back to Gateway House the intrepid adventurers went. Later that night they were again called up to the terminal. Bloggs had no hope of a departure but was pleasantly surprised to find both a serviceable jet and a fully present crew. At 0100 and a mere twenty six hours late, they were finally on their way.
After a pleasant flight in the sleeper pod at the front of the aircraft, Bloggs arrived in MPA surprisingly refreshed and quite amazed at the glorious sunshine that greeted him on departure from the plane.
He collected his bags in record time and headed out into the wild unknown. After fifteen minutes, he started to wonder if anyone had turned up to collect him so he started asking around. Eventually he came upon a tall bloke with a sign that had been turned the wrong way round; he had found his transport.
He entered the room that was to be his home for the next four months and was immediately gutted.
“Why the fcuk can’t the RAF buy beds with six footers in mind? We’re not all fcuking midgets.”
“Och, wait until you see the shoowers,” was the broad Scottish reply, “the heed barely reaches me shouldas.”
This was going to be a long four months.
Despite his misgivings, Bloggs managed a decent night’s sleep and once showered and fed, headed out into the world.
The next few weeks were a blur of new information, arrivals briefings and the usual bollocks one expects when arriving in theatre; culminating in the Exercise Purple Helmet safety brief. The main point that Bloggs took away from this was: Don't fcuk the police dogs. He was a little unsure as to whether he had got the correct meaning but he went with it anyway as it seemed like a sensible precaution.
Two days later, Purple Helmet had begun.
Purple Helmet
Bloggs watched as his breath steamed out into the crisp early morning air. His world was still, neither sound nor motion spoilt the serene silence of the dawn. The aches caused by the last few hours of intense action were trying to make themselves known but he hardly noticed the soft whispers of pain. The slow creep of cold was starting to bite into his legs and hands as he lay in the shadow of a giant antenna mast, alert for the merest hint of enemy movement. As he flexed his fingers in a futile attempt to restore them to life, a dread feeling washed over him like the soft caress of a succubus; teasing his senses while poised to deliver the fatal blow.
"What the fcuk am I doing here," he thought, "a thirty-six year old bloke playing at soldiers, lying in a sh1tty field and watching for some imaginary enemy that will never appear. An enemy that cannot appear because we're on Pausex." A wry smile crossed his face, "Fcuk me, which idiot came up with the word Pausex?" his smile turning to a frown, "and which fcuking retard turned off the hot water system for maintenance in the middle of a Purple fcuking Helmet exercise?"
His cynical mind went into overdrive, a cynicism honed into a blade of almost impossible keenness after two decades in one of the world's finest fighting forces; the Royal Air Force. Before he could conjure up any amusing images from the past, his thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sudden realisation that the biscuits brown he ate earlier were about to unleash Armageddon in his freezing cold pants.
Sleeping birds took flight, hares tore away at break neck speed and sheep fell over stone dead as an almighty fart ripped through the deathly silence.
"Fcuk me," he thought, "I better check my Y-fronts for spots when I get back in".
It was the most interesting thing that had happened all night but at least his arse was warm.
After a fitful day's sleep, Sgt Bloggs boiled his kettle for the third time. He had no interest in a cold shower and the morning's guff bomb had left an overly stubborn residue that needed boiling water and brillo pads to remove. Cillit Bang would have done the job had there been any available but he was in MPA, not downtown Coningsby.
He wiped down his cold and cold running toilet, once again cursing the idiot who planned the boiler maintenance and then, taking full advantage of his blurred vision, he admired his seemingly chiselled physique in the mirror. Hands on hips and standing resplendent in a fresh pair Y-fronts he was ready for anything the day could throw at him; he had even packed a few clean pairs.
The night passed in a grey blur of low tempo mediocrity and once again, he found himself laid under the same giant mast, praying that his switch from biscuits brown to biscuits fruit would allow his pants to last until shift change.
He was shaken out of his silent ponderings by a most unusual sight; a scuffer was walking up the bank towards him with a Gimpy.
"Where's your fcuking barrier, rozzer?" quipped Bloggs.
"Shut it fatty, I'm sector defence and the enemy are on their way here."
"Bollocks, I've been laid here for the last hour with my shiney NVGs and a clear sight out to five miles and I've seen fcuk all. You sure you've got the right location?"
"Yeah, the IntO briefed me five minutes ago and this is definitely the spot."
"Well there's your problem, 'Intelligence' - 'Officer' you're probably five miles off target"
The scuffer carried on setting up his Gimpy regardless, lovingly caressing the belt fed rounds as if they were freshly baked doughnuts. Then he stopped dead and scratched his balding head.
"What's up?" asked Bloggs, "Can't you find the up and down buttons?"
"Nah, got the Int cell on the net, the enemy are 4 miles to the south."
Bloggs laughed so hard that a small bit of wee came out. "Bollocks,” he thought, "there goes another pair of pants."
Suitably crest fallen, the barrier mech packed up his instrument of death and slouched off back to his landrover. "Fcuk me," thought Bloggs, "can this exercise possibly get any more farcical?"
The following night, Bloggs was back in the hot seat. He knew he was in for a rough one as a Wing Commander had been round asking odd questions; questions that pretty much gave the game away but as we have already discovered, Bloggs was under no illusions as to the relationship between officers and intelligence.
The phones were busy and little scraps of paper were being passed around like love notes at the back of class in primary school.
"Oh fcuk," thought Bloggs, "they've hacked the network and the officers are trying to figure out how to communicate without email again."
He considered knocking up a presentation on the use of pen, paper and the lost art of conversation but thought better of it; afterall, if they couldn't talk to each other, he might have a quiet night. Nevertheless, his cynical mind knew better than to be unguarded so he prepared his jiff-bomb umbrella and made sure his shoulders had sufficient slope to fend off the inevitable avalanche of sh1t.
The met office had sent out a weather report; "a clear and mild night with a slight northerly breeze". Having complete trust in the report, Bloggs made sure he had several layers of thermals and a full set of waterproofs in his bag; along with his spare Y-fronts. He would have had some extreme cold weather gear too but the supplier back at Coningsby had refused to give him some off the shelf because somebody might need them.
Later that night and as luck would have it, the GDF officer's computer was taken down by the network hackers and Bloggs was asked to print out the battle picture for the early hours, with orders not to read it. He followed the orders to the letter and passed the info to his SAC to read. Amazingly, they weren't being hit tonight (again) but he knew he'd be sent out anyway and given the high standard of planning to date, it was probably a wise move.
As he had guessed, Bloggs soon found himself on sanger duty. The SDSR had robbed him of most of his SACs and he had naturally flogged the remainder to death over the last few days; as all good SNCOs do. The Warrant had other ideas and sent him out on a 'character building exercise'. Bloggs had enough character for ten men after decades of such bollocks and decided that he was going to toss it off.
The current sanger guard was a particularly cretinous SAC, who we shall name SAC Cretin due to my lack of interest in this idiot beyond the anecdote he is about to provide.
SAC Cretin was standing inside the sanger, swinging around his million watt torch and making a Light sabre sound effect; alerting the whole world to the fact that he was there. In fact, the sanger was currently more of a fcuking lighthouse than a fortified fighting position. If there had been a real enemy, Cretin would have been blown to a million little pieces; which would have been a shame.....Not. This particular tw@t had been amusing Bloggs all night with his ridiculous radio comms whilst using call sign Romeo One One Victor:
On receiving an imminent attack warning:
“All Romeo callsigns this is Romeo One One; Stand Too, Stand Too”
“Romeo One One, this is Romeo One One Victor, please define ‘Stand Too’ in this context. Over.”
“Romeo One One Victor, this is Romeo One One, shut up. Out.”
On spotting the enemy:
“Romeo One One this is Romeo One One Victor, I see two suspicious men approaching. Should I challenge them? Over.”
“Romeo One One Victor, yes. (sound of facepalm) Out.”
On seeing a Landrover:
“Romeo One One, this is Romeo One One Victor, I see a suspicious Landrover, Over.”
“Romeo One One Victor, what is suspicious about it? Over”
“Romeo One One, it drove past me. Out.”
So Bloggs had little patience for SAC Cretin when it finally came time for him to take over the sanger. He had even less patience when Cretin left the sanger and blasted every last watt from his million watt Light sabre-cum-torch into Bloggs’ face.
“Here’s the torch.” Said Cretin.
“I might have been able to see it if you hadn’t blinded me you useless fcuking chimp, give me the fcuking radio and fcuk off back inside where you can’t do any more damage to our reputation.” Replied Bloggs. “And make sure there’s a fcuking brew waiting for me when I get back in.”
After five minutes and his vision had finally cleared, Bloggs surveyed the sh1thole that was to be his home for the next hour. It was almost a typical RAF sanger; a big square box with holes cut in it. What made this one stand out was the fact that it had obviously been designed by either a gnome or a glory hole fetishist; given that the windows were on a level with Bloggs' groin.
"Fcuk this," he thought, "I'm standing outside. And I don't care if the met’s ‘clear and mild night with a slight northerly breeze’ has turned into a force eight fcuking gale."
Exactly five seconds later, he gave up his ridiculous stand and returned to the Sanger. Clearing the pile of cat sh1t out of the corner, he sat down to wait, feeling thoroughly p1ssed off. And that's where he stayed for an hour. An hour of his life that he would never get back. He would later find out that an attack was supposed to have taken place but one of the 'enemy' had twisted an ankle on a blade of grass so they had diverted to the medical centre instead.
A few hours later, Bloggs was back on sanger duty but this time, he had a plan. Climbing onto the sanger roof, he got himself down into a nice comfortable prone position and settled in for the hour.
"Sergeant"......"Sergeant!"
"Sh1t!" thought Bloggs but his years of training as a warrior had honed his body and mind into a fine fighting weapon and he was able to go from deep sleep to alert and ready to rain down lead death in seconds. Well, his mind was, his body tended to lag a little behind.
"Morning Sir, how's it going?"
"Not bad,” replied the Officer, "but it seems you've had more sleep that I have tonight."
"On the contrary, I realised that I'd have a better arc of view and a stronger firing position from up here. I had merely dropped my head to rest my eyes from the incessant wind."
"You had such a good view that you completely missed me walking up the road."
"Ah, well.....That's probably testament to your skills at camouflage, rather than a slight on my powers of observation."
"Flattery may get you everywhere but if I catch you sleeping again, it'll be a double shift."
"Ok Sir."
Watching the Officer walk off, a malevolent grin crossed Bloggs' face.
"Don't worry Sir,” he thought, "I've been rimming your cup for the last few weeks so I figure you owe me one. Besides, I still have some residue from my biscuit brown incident the other day and your toothbrush could be just the tool for the job." His eyes narrowed, "Don't fcuk with your sergeants."
The Day The Hot Water Came Back
Sergeant Bloggs' pager went off, it was 5 PM. They'd let him have a good sleep so he decided to answer the page and rang work.
"The exercise is finished so you have the night off; get yourself in to work in the morning. We're also off ration packs and combined messing is now in use."
"Mmmph!" Bloggs swallowed his comment as the bloke on the other end of the phone was his Boss. "Ok, I'll see you at seven."
He put down the phone receiver.
"What sort of tool calls Endex at 1700 when half the personnel have been sleeping all day? At least they could have called it in the morning then I wouldn't have wasted a whole fcuking day; tw@ts."
He scrubbed himself down using the obligatory 3 kettles of water and wandered on down to the Four Seasons mess. There was a six mile queue so he did an about turn and wandered off to the bottom NAAFI. He didn't even bother to comment, it was pointless.
Half way to the NAAFI, Bloggs stopped dead. His mind quickly computed the distance to the nearest toilet and he broke into a wobbly sprint. He just about made it to the bog, ripped down his trousers and Y-fronts and gave birth to a whale. A whale shaped like one of those children's stacking toys, the circular pyramid ones. Then he screamed. Post compo poos had always scared him and this one did nothing to lessen the fear.
After a third flush, the giant log finally disappeared round the U-bend and Bloggs limped over to the sink to wash his hands. He turned off the tap and limped over to the hand dryer and then it struck him; that water wasn't cold.
"Halle-fcuking-luja!" he thought, "The hot water's back on."
Completely forgetting about his ripped and bleeding rear end, he ran off to get a shower. After a third scrub down, he finally managed to remove the last remnants of the biscuits brown; the officer had hidden his toothbrush well, the fcuker. Then he made a mental note to flog the SACs a bit harder since they hadn't bothered to tell him that the heating was back on.
Around the same time that the hot water came back, so did the alcohol. They had been dry for two weeks so it was about time Bloggs had a beer. Having had his second shower in an hour (because he could) he wandered on down to the Sergeant's mess bar. Given his heroics during the 'war', he decided he was going to get wasted; he deserved it afterall.
Jéan got the beers in. Jéan, or Jéan Lé Chinné to give him his full name, was a bit of a legend. If the rumours are to be believed, he could send out Morse code and voice at the same time, without using his hands. But that's a story for another day.
"What band we got on tonight?" Asked Bloggs.
"That duo that was here the other week." Replied Jéan.
"What, that bellend who didn't want requests?"
"Nah, not him, these guys can actually sing."
The duo was so good that the group decided to fcuk off down to the bottom NAAFI to see how the children were doing. A few beers later, after watching two idiots fight over an unflushed turd or some equally ridiculous reason, they headed back for last orders in the mess.
A few beers later, it was almost closing time. Bloggs was stood in the very civilised queue awaiting his turn when two silly wrafs started asking the guys to buy them drinks. One might have been a wrac but they all looked the same to Bloggs. When their lack of good looks failed to score them a free Lambrini, they decided to just push into the queue,
"What the fcuk are you two doing?" Asked Bloggs.
"Oh, are you really that upset?" countered wraf No.1.
"Upset? Are you two silly cows really that stupid?"
"Why don't we just buy you a drink?" Asked the uglier one.
"Buy me a fcuking drink? You gonna extend that to the rest of the guys in the queue?"
"No." And with that they turned their backs and got served.
The barman shut the grate. Bloggs' head nearly exploded, the arrogant bitches had cost him his last beer and the spineless fcukers who'd been in the queue with him, finally woke up to the reality of the situation.
"Fcuking equality?" Raged one of them, "Bitches only want fcuking equality when it suits them."
And with that, Bloggs staggered off to bed. He would have stomped but didn't quite have the co-ordination.
Getting Fit
The following morning, Bloggs woke up quite refreshed. He was, therefore, quite pleased that the trolls had pushed in and caused him to miss the last beer.
The night before, Bloggs had given up smoking. Today, he was going to go to the gym.
Today, he was starting his fitness drive.
Today was the day he started down the path to Olympic glory!
Bloggs was a ‘glass half full’ kind of guy and he always started things off with a bang; often though, he finished pretty soon after with a whimper but at least he tried.
He entered the gym and was pretty impressed. Rows and rows of shiney torture machines, none of which he recognised and a few rows of treadmills which he did. He climbed on to a treadmill and started with a gentle walk. Ten minutes in and he was feeling pretty good so he upped the speed and settled into a jog. Five minutes later and Bloggs had fallen in love.
A young wraf had jumped on to the cross trainer in front of him and she was fit and not just Falklands fit. As she settled into a rhythm, Bloggs found himself enraptured. Staring at the gentle sway of her perfect behind, he was soon hypnotised. Common sense completely switched off and he started thinking he was a younger man, an athlete of renown. He pressed the go faster button, and then pressed it again. He was triumphant, he was a stag in his prime, he was a God, he was....
.....flying off the back of the treadmill, landing in an undignified heap at the foot of an exercise bike.
The sight of a crumpled, balding middle aged man with a pot belly at the foot of her exercise bike almost made the girl behind him lose her grip. But she managed to hold on and tried to choke back her laughter. She failed miserably and Bloggs was gutted, his hopes of glory were crushed under that mocking laughter and his angel had left with nary a glance. He slouched off up to the Sergeant’s mess and after a shower, consoled himself with a doughnut.
After lunch, Bloggs was at a loose end. He’d been to the gym and came away injured, well, his pride was injured more than his body but his back was sore. He needed to sit down for a while and the cinema was open in an hour.
He limped on down to the bottom NAAFI and had a coffee while he waited. The coffee wasn’t bad, reasonably priced too but the same couldn’t be said for the cigarettes, which was the main reason he gave up. For some mad reason, duty free cigarettes were over four quid. Bloggs thought that somebody had a nice little earner selling duty free fags at almost full duty prices but they weren’t getting a penny out of him.
The cinema finally opened and Bloggs wandered in, paying his four pounds. The girl behind the desk told him that it was actually a fiver as the film was in 3D. Why anyone would want to pay extra for the indignity of wearing a massive pair of ridiculous glasses was completely beyond him. Bloggs just wanted to see a film, he wasn’t about to pay an extra pound to look like a bellend while doing it.
Realising that he had nothing better to do, he capitulated and handed over the extra pound. Feeling like a tit, Bloggs put on his giant bug eyed glasses and took his seat. The film wasn’t bad but he got very little from the 3D rubbish. He wasn’t going to be suckered into paying for new fangled technology again, especially if it made him look like a tit. The fact that he often made himself look alike a tit was completely lost on him as he wandered back to his room.
Sgt's Mess or Crèche?
Bloggs was confused. The anteroom was supposed to be a space for quiet reflection after a hard day's work. A den of tranquillity, filled with newspapers and comfortable chairs to fall asleep in; Bloggs thought commodes would be a good idea but didn't think it would happen; some members would never move. And there were no papers, they'd have been several weeks out of date anyway.
Saturdays on MPA are a little different to the average UK Saturday. Saturdays here are half days off. We finish at 1130 and the bar opens not long after that.
This particular Saturday was even more different. The dulcet tones of Kajagoogoo wafted through the dining room like a bad smell. Flight Sergeants passed stern glances, Sergeants tutted and one old Warrant fainted dead. Some **** had fired up the music laptop in the bar at full blast and left the dining room door open. At fcuking lunch time! The CMC, stood at the servery, dropped his plate and marched over to the bar. He slammed the door with a Chuck Norris level of fury and returned to his plate, deftly avoiding the falling masonry. Anyone who'd blinked had missed the action.
Most people assumed that it was the trolley dollies from Air Italia and forgot the incident; afterall, what would a bunch of civvy wnakers know about mess etiquette?
Bloggs and his crew finished up their meals and retired to the anteroom. The sight that welcomed them can only be described as sacrilege.
Bloggs was offended to the very depths of his soul.
A short, fat forty-ish SNCO sat on a bar stool in the middle of the anteroom. There were no Air Italia personnel in sight. This short, fat, red faced man, also had a Mohican.
A Mohican.
On a SNCO.
Bloggs' flabber was well and truly ghasted. But this wasn't what offended Bloggs. This wasn't the sight that made him want to remove his eyes with a spoon and fill the sockets with caustic soda. This wasn't the sight that had him retching for days afterwards. Oh no, this was a glimpse of the divine compared to the true horror of the scene.
As Hot Chocolate blasted out of the music system, Bloggs tried to run away but sheer terror fixed him to his seat. What can only be described as a grandmother, dressed in jeans and an old jumper was 'performing' to the music. The geriatric lap dancer was as horrible as she was beautiful; beautiful like a turd covered glass to the face.
She staggered around poor Mohican man like a wounded wildebeest, mewling like a crazed crone as she stroked his face and body. She attempted to arch her spine, which cracked and popped, and her jumper rode up her gunt exposing far more than Bloggs had ever feared to see. Varicose veins like a map of the Nile Delta covered her flab and Bloggs could swear that he saw faces moving under her grey flaccid skin.
What offended Bloggs' senses the most was the fact that Mohican man and his posse seemed to be enjoying the 'performance'. Whooping and hollering, encouraging her into more outrageous stunts as she twirled around like a dead pigeon falling from the skygyrating her false hips and licking her thin hairy lips.
Then, as abruptly as it had started, it was over. The octogenarian poison ballerina returned to her seat and Mohican man turned back to the football.
Bloggs felt violated, he prayed to be able to unsee what he had just seen but knew it to be a futile request. The trauma of that day would last an entire lifetime.
Badminton Masterclass
Bloggs was feeling confident, he was off to play badminton for an hour and he was playing against a bunch of young officers and a few ageing flight sergeants. He was going to run them ragged.
Setting off early, Bloggs arrived in good time to get a bit of a warm up on the treadmill. He'd been doing the gym for a few weeks now and was quite capable of a mile or two without falling off; even during periods of extreme female induced distraction. He climbed off the tredder (he'd adopted a very annoying name) and threw out a few stretches; he didn't want to lose a game to a wrinkly due to a pulled muscle afterall.
They had arrived; his opponents didn't know what they were letting themselves in for. It was going to be a rout, complete humiliation for them. Bloggs seemed to have a habit of allowing fantasy to take over when in the gym. The nets were set up in short thrift, games were planned and off they went.
Bloggs was drawn against one of the young Ops Officers and had a bad start, the court was obviously smaller than he was used to and the bats were the wrong size, but he stuck with it and managed a heroic loss of ten to twenty-one.
"Beginners luck," thought Bloggs, "I'll have you this time, young'n."
Game two was even worse. Bloggs was thrashed three to twenty-one but the youngster agreed that the court was obviously too small and that the shuttlec0cks were wonky; Bloggs was somewhat placated.
It was time to change opponents. He was now facing a Den; a flight sergeant of indeterminate age. Bloggs suspected at least seventy.
"Need a warm up Den?" Asked Bloggs.
"Nah, I'll be fine, let's just get straight to it."
"You sure? I don't want you popping your false hip out or slipping on some of that dribble."
Bloggs didn't know what hit him. The first three points were smashed past him faster than he could comprehend and he didn't even realise he'd lost points until Den called out "Four love." He managed to claw back a couple of points towards the end but the net was set too high for him and he started to get angry. His anger carried him to a two to twenty-one drubbing in the second game and Bloggs had had enough.
"Thus endeth the lesson." Exclaimed Den; a mocking grin on his face.
"Next time we'll get the courts measured and make sure we use the right kit. I'm not very good when I'm not using the right gear."
"Yeah, sure." replied Den but Bloggs didn't notice the sarcasm.
He wandered off for a shower and just to make sure he felt completely sh1t, his Y-fronts started to chafe.
A Night of Fine Wine and Food
Bloggs needed cheering up. His reaming at the hands of both younger and older men was sitting heavily on his mind. He needed something to help him forget. He needed a bottle of Cockburn's.
As luck would have it, it was the squadron dining in night and Bloggs was well up for it. After a month and a half of eating slop, some good food would go down a storm. They'd secured the presence of a few ladies from around the unit and a BFBS DJ. Bloggs' was hoping that at least one of them was UK fit; he wouldn't be disappointed.
Seven o'clock drew near. Bloggs had showered, twice, and had his best trapping threads ironed and laid out on his bed. His 'chiselled' physique had improved somewhat over the last month and he was starting take the odd peek at the mirror, pumping his arms and inflating his almost concave chest. He had some of his favourite music on – mid-90's Trance – and was bopping away as he cleaned his teeth.
Finally clean all over, he carefully put on his shirt and tie, trousers and his favourite Oliver Sweeney shoes. Applying a drop of aftershave, he examined himself in the mirror one final time.
"You're a stud Bloggs," he thought, and posed like a nineteen eighty's porn star. "Those girls are in for a treat."
Maybe his fantasy thoughts weren't quite confined to the gym.
Bloggs entered the function room and headed to the bar, the girls hadn't appeared yet so the lads were chatting amongst themselves. After a couple of beers, he had the obligatory chat with the OC's wife. She was attractive, gray-haired, had the look of a free spirit and the airs and graces of a good upbringing. She talked to Bloggs for just the right amount of time and with just the right level of interest, then off she went; the boss in tow.
The door to the function room burst open, the youngsters had arrived and had the girls in tow. Miss BFBS was taller than Bloggs and at six foot two, that was impressive. She was also blonde and cute so that was a bonus. OC Somewhere or Other (SoO) wasn't quite as tall but she was a cute brunette and complimented the blonde Amazonian from BFBS quite nicely. There were a few others but these two were the only targets on Bloggs' radar.
Dinner was served. Mr Vice gave the obligatory and amusing grace and they sat. Bloggs was pleasantly surprised to find himself perched between SoO and Miss BFBS; there was actually a young officer between Bloggs and BFBS but he found that his memories had omitted that small detail. Apart from just after the meal when said officer was trying his best to talk to BFBS but she was smashing him over the head with the sarcasm hammer, his complete ignorance of her tongue lashings had greatly amused Bloggs and he chuckled for a good time after. Bloggs was under no illusions as to his own chances but at least he wasn't the only one who would fail.
Bloggs was surprised at the quality of the food, 40 days of slop and rat packs had dulled his taste buds; although he had gotten over the worst of the compo poo pipe blockage. The mess had obviously shipped in a civvy chef especially for the event as no RAF cook had ever passed the trade training course; it was the hardest trade course in the RAF afterall and fully justified their place in the high payband.
Chat during the meal was light and Bloggs was amused by the continuing verbal rape of the young chap next to him and the failing attempts of the young officer trying to dig his way into SoO. She was too busy trying to highlight her own importance and the amazing amount of work she was expected to do; indeed, MPA would fall over without her.
"Pilot Officers must be really important," thought Bloggs, "I have obviously overlooked their prowess."
The meal was over, the port was passed and the boss said his piece; they could now get to the bar. Mr Vice had got off lightly. Bloggs decided that it was his turn to fire into SoO, she was in for a treat.
Twenty minutes in and Bloggs was regretting the move. He was busting for a p1ss but SoO was relentless. Her skill were almost infinite in depth and breadth, she had been to the most exotic places the world has to offer and she had the weight of MPA on her shoulders. He tried desperately to force a pause in her tirade to enable a tactical withdrawal to the bogs but it was a loosing battle. He seriously considered swamping himself, it would have provided a mild distraction. Then he saw his chance, made his excuses and dove out of the function room. Thirty seconds later he was at the urinal, p1ssing like a fire hose.
Bloggs attempted to sneak past SoO on his way back but she threw her claws at him and reeled him in. She had switched tact and started throwing questions at him. The alcohol had taken hold and she was getting flirty; touching Bloggs' arms, fiddling with her hair and other small signs. He realised that he had a chance now and went in for the kill. He leant in closer, matching her body language, and she responded instantly. Rubbing her foot up Bloggs' leg and breathing more heavily, she leant in to expose more of her cleavage and allowed her shawl to fall away.
Bloggs was playing the girl like a much loved saxophone, pressing all her mental buttons and snaking his was around her personal space. She was caught, she was putty in his hands, this girl would be in his bed before she knew it, she was....
....standing up and leaving. On her own.
Bloggs was gutted. What had gone wrong? She was really in to him, she was turned on, she had probably even been moist. Well, that's what Bloggs' alcohol fuelled brain was telling him. According to the rest of the guys, she'd looked pretty damn bored but what did they know. Bloggs decided that it must have been the wrong time of the month; she didn't know what she'd missed.
Afterall, what sort of woman could resist a balding, sweaty sergeant with a small pot belly?
Military Skills Training
Bloggs had started MST while on Purple Helmet but it had been chopped after the first morning due to the escalating defence state. Bloggs had not been surprised in the slightest and wondered what sort of idiot was running the show. Somebody had suggested it was Army run, which answered the question perfectly. So today, Bloggs had the morning off.
Well, he didn’t really but management were too dumb to check up on him. After a leisurely breakfast and an hour in the gym followed by lunch, he threw on his webbing and helmet and wandered up to the JEC. A massive yellow sign pointed towards the GDF lecture rooms, “Obviously for the benefit of the Army.” thought Bloggs as he followed its direction.
He had already forgotten everything that he had ‘learnt’ on the first day. He had heard it a million times before so paid little attention and he had slept since then; besides, the chance of him using any of that bollocks was effectively zero given his mere two months left in the RAF. He approached the afternoon’s lessons with the enthusiasm of a dead frog.
Map reading was first on the agenda, a subject so easy that you’d have to be brain dead to have any real trouble with it. Bloggs was soon surprised at how many people were actually brain dead. Given an eight figure grid, he had tracked down the required trig point in seconds. The instructor was extremely impressed:
“Where do you work?”
“I’m a techie,” replied Bloggs.
“How come you’re so good at map reading then?”
Bloggs paused for a moment while he imagined slapping the Pongo around the face with a damp fish. “It’s probably because I am clever. It’s not really that difficult is it? Afterall you’re only dividing a square into smaller squares and looking at what’s there. It’s hardly fcuking brain surgery.”
“Some people really struggle with it.”
“Then some people are dumb.” Bloggs really wasn’t in the mood today and he wasn’t pulling any punches.
The Pongo, realising he wasn’t on to a winner, let it go. He wrapped up the lesson and fired straight in to the next fascinating topic; radio voice procedure. Bloggs wished he suffered from narcolepsy as it would have come in handy for the rest of the afternoon. He spent the next half an hour wondering how some people managed the complexities of breathing.
Some of these idiots were incapable of following the most simple of instruction, even the Pongo instructor was starting to give up. He demonstrated the simple task of requesting a radio check and when asked to repeat it, some sat in almost catatonic states, clearly unable to move and think at the same time without sh1tting themselves. Those that did respond were forgetting everything; from their own callsign to the words ‘Radio Check’. Bloggs was starting to wonder what sort of tests were being taken at CIOs nowadays.
The afternoon was wrapped up with a Rules Of Engagement lesson and Bloggs was free to go. Bloggs felt his IQ bounce back to normal levels. He hadn’t experienced the negative IQ drag caused by a large group of retards in a long time and realised that he would have to live through the horror for another day.
Day two started no better; having been told to remember their weapon number, most people forgot. Others hadn't done their weapon handling tests and others had forgotten their slings. Bloggs wasn't feeling hopeful but at least he would get to fire off a few rounds and feel like Rambo for a second or two.
The group finally made it to the twenty five metre range and, after hurrying up to get there on time, waited a good twenty minutes for the instructors to appear. A brief was given, orders were signed and they were off. Bloggs was in detail three and so had to wait a further half an hour, in the brisk force eight gale.
At this point, I think it appropriate to give the reader an idea of the group makeup. Fifteen RAF guys, five navy and a single army guy. The army guy was a complete hero, Bloggs was in awe of his super trooper kit, he had the lot. He even believed that he was said hero and strutted around like a six foot cock....erel. Most of the morning, the range controllers had been instructing the course to remember to check their change levers; the lever which selects between automatic and single round firing.
The group on the range were given the order to fire and off they went. Bloggs suddenly heard a three round burst.
"Oooooooo!" came the chorus.
"I bet it was that army ****," quipped Bloggs.
And it was. He finished his shoot and sheepishly left the range. The lads ripped him apart and for all his heroic super soldier kit, he looked about as hard as a moist lettuce leaf. Bloggs had his go on the range, he splattered the target as if he'd been using a shotgun and walked away from the last ever time he would fire an SA80 smiling to himself.
Packed lunches had arrived, or what passes for packed lunches in MPA. Bloggs was just as hungry when he finished as he was at the start. A couple of small, dry sandwiches and an out of date carton of juice. There wasn't even a bag of crisps or a piece of fruit; hardly the sort of fare required by hardened veterans out on the range. Bloggs cleaned his weapon, with minimum effort and awaited the next lesson: firing manoeuvres.
"What are firing manoeuvres?" asked the instructor.
Dumb silence was the only response. Bloggs almost fell over dead, it was getting harder. They were then given a demonstration and asked to have a go themselves. Bloggs' team had no issues, he was given command of the group and possessing an intellect above the amoebic level of the rest of the group, had no problems remembering what to do. Other groups were less than capable, with half of them either falling over or 'shooting their own men' as they ran around like a playground full of five year olds.
They then went on to capturing the enemy and various demonstrations of testosterone fuelled throwing techniques. Bloggs offered himself up as the 'enemy' and was quite happy with the deal as he got to lie on the floor and take a little snooze; he suspected that he wasn't really entering into the spirit of things but he couldn't be bothered.
Bloggs actually enjoyed the following twenty minutes as he got to throw around some of the retards that had annoyed him over the last day or so and being a senior, he declined the offer of swapping roles; afterall, his back was still sore from his treadmill incident.
The last lesson of the day was on sanger duties. People were asked what sort of stuff they thought they should have in a sanger. Various stupid ideas were thrown into the pot and a few good ones. Bloggs suggested an electric heater as it got fcuking cold at night in MPA and the majority of the group agreed. The instructor wasn't quite as enthusiastic and even less so when Bloggs suggested a nice comfy sofa; he told Bloggs to shut up.
They finished the day in the lecture hall, filling in the obligatory course evaluation sheet. Bloggs went with his usual tactic of ticking good for everything and expected to get away quite quick. He was disappointed when several of the brainless ones started asking questions and suggesting 'improvements' to the course. These suggestions included a lesson on putting your webbing together - a task so simple, a four year old girl could complete it with ease – to fitting a sling to the rifle. Bloggs switched off and was woken when he heard his name called out. He collected his green card and walked away from two days of his life that he would never get back.
At least he wouldn't be surrounded by complete morons tomorrow. Well, maybe one or two.
Cpl Bloggs?
After the fun that was MST and the frivolities of the dining in night, Bloggs started to take a serious look at the job he was supposed to be doing. He'd pretty much ignored it for the first few weeks and nothing had really jumped out to bite him yet. His basic job was to manage three techies and to ensure that the comms gear was up and running. This consisted of around twenty PCs and a small rack of routing equipment. Hardly a herculean task and one that was well within the capabilities of a first year corporal.
He very soon realised that having very little to do during the day, he would attract all sorts of sh1t jobs that the management did not want to do. The first of which was his role as the super secret squirrel stuff inventory holder. The job had traditionally been held by the unit engineering officer (UEngO) but that post had been gapped for a month and Bloggs had been chosen from a cast of one to temporarily hold the inventory.
The new UEngO was finally posted in and Bloggs offered the SSSS inventory back to its rightful owner. The Officer replied by essentially flipping Bloggs the finger; he couldn't have been any less surprised. The next sh1t duty that Bloggs picked up was unit MT rep. This involved making sure that all unit vehicles were sorted including all mountain site vehicles and those of the outlying sections; liaising with MT Ops was probably the best part of the job as Bloggs had taken quite a shine to the young Pilot Officer.
Unsurprisingly, this duty used to belong to the UEngO who was more interested in playing with his Playstation or X-box; Bloggs could never remember which. The X-box was a special management aid, supported by the outgoing Warrant Officer. It was and aid to continuous improvement which took up a single sheet of A4 paper and took the UEngO four weeks to create. Given that this book was written in less than four weeks, you can start to see a picture of how effective the UEngO was at creating the illusion of actually doing something worthwhile.
The outgoing warrant was an bit of an.....I will use the word 'enigma'. Most days saw him giving a lecture on some electronic principle or another, occasionally he would wander onto other topics of little interest. These topics would range from calculating the energy required to heat the human body to one hundred degrees to a lesson in disarming an armed aggressor. The combat lesson was as good as you would expect; Bloggs offered to be the armed aggressor for the demonstration.
"Right Bloggs, pretend you have a bayonet fitted and lunge at me."
Bloggs smashed his broomstick into the warrant's stomach.
"I wasn't quite ready, can you do it slower?"
"Ok," said Bloggs and hit him in the stomach again.
"Right, this isn't working, can you just stand still with the pole?"
Bloggs complied and the Warrant sprung into action like a rusty spring in a bucket of mud; a bucket of really, really thick mud. More like clay really.
"Ok, I put this hand here and then.......erm......no, I don't, I put this hand here and...."
"You don't know what you're doing do you Sir?"
"Well, I'm a bit rusty."
"I thought you'd been practising Hap Ki Do for the last 25 years?"
"I said I'd been practising Aikido."
"Ah, that makes all the difference then Sir."
The warrant scuttled back into his office and didn't show his face for the rest of the day.
Anyway, we digress.....
Bloggs was looking at his job to see where an SNCO was required and so far he had come up with nothing. He was sat in an office with two engineering flight sergeants so engineering top cover wasn't an issue and all other tasks he had to perform, could easily be done by a corporal.
Apparently, two years before, a Warrant Officer decided that he didn't want to write appraisals on the three SACs and a corporal and had upped the corporal post to a sergeant. Bloggs wasn't happy, he'd almost lost his job in Saudi to come down to this sh1thole and be a glorified corporal; what a bunch of arse. He set himself a challenge; either downrank or disestablish the post before he left. Hopefully by the third month of his tour so he could get home early.
Lecher to Lechee
Having smashed in the gym for almost a whole month, Bloggs was starting to see real results; even his chest was filling out and given that twelve year old boys have bigger chests, that was something worth celebrating. The hundred pounds he had spent on supplements was well spent and suffering the torment of bad bowels was a small price to pay; others wouldn't agree given that the office regularly smelled like a cross between rotten eggs and a month old bag of pilchards.
Today he was working on shoulders. Forty-five minutes of extreme effort, moving half a metric tonne of steel and rubber with his bare hands; half a pound at a time. He had almost finished the last set. Straining with effort, his shoulders were a writhing mass of knotted steel cables, the veins standing out like garden hoses. His brow was glistening with sweat and as he tracked the movement of the weight with his eyes, he saw her and she was staring right at him. Bloggs now knew what it was like to be the last doughnut in a shop full of fatties.
She was perfection personified; in her own head, which was huge. Her legs were like two of the great pyramids flipped upside down and forced into yards of lycra. Each step she took on the treadmill used enough energy to power a small factory for a thousand years. Her hairy thighs would grate together as they moved, the front leg leaving a huge slab of fat behind the trailing leg, until that leg reached it's zenith and the slab would finally slide free; sending out a massive slap and tearing the very fabric of space-time.
Her stomach resembled an enormous puffball mushroom and her little flappy breasts looked like empty crisp packets. She was a truly monstrous sight, ripped out of the most foul nightmare and made real all she was missing was tentacles. Phileas Fog would have struggled to circumnavigate her in a hundred days, never mind eighty.
Gallons of sweat poured out from between her numerous folds and flaps, enough to irrigate the Sahara. Bloggs was sure that he saw a half eaten pizza fall out from under her armpit and like a striking bullfrog, she whipped out her tongue, speared it and returned it to her cavernous mouth; swallowing it whole.
Boggs felt sick. Not just queasy sick but sick to the very core of his being. If he hadn't been completely frozen in stark terror, he would have vomited himself inside out. Breaking free from his fear, he dropped the weight and ran back to his room; that was his only blessing, she would never be able to catch him.
(c) The Masked Geek - All rights reserved. 
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