The Navy Diary - chapter 2 - First Edit

Chapter Two

22nd January 1999. This was the day I had invited discipline into my life. I was 22 years old and 13 stone. 13 Stone being the least I had weighed for 5 years. A steady drinking habit from school was compounded by a move to Tenerife at age 17.

I needed the Navy more than the Navy needed me. Who gives a fuck though? It had taken me almost a year to gain entry. Mentally I was there physically I had run my engine at least 5 stones to heavy. In true style I did fuck all about the weight loss until the very last moment. I put myself through a month of eating cabbage soup. The kind of cabbage soup they give to heart patients to lose weight prior to a life saving operation. The Navy was my re-birth but this food was foul! I would go for muck out and simply piss out my shit. It worked though.

Arriving at HMS Raleigh, I was confused as to what was in store for me having attached more effort to heavy drinking in celebration of acceptance than of research of what lay ahead for me as a servant of Her Majesty the Queen. I heard from old sailors the horror story’s that always turn out to be bullshit. Though I met some guys who would have welcomed their turn in the barrel. I hate queers.

Too pass through this place all you needed was the ability to iron your clothes and clean the area you’re allocated. Simple. That is it. Mind numb the fucking new guys so the RN can re-mould its sailing drones to obey without question.

Ok you have to go to bed at a certain time and sleep in a room with a load of other guys that you can handle. The line is drawn when the fish odor from cheap sausages punctures the nostrils at breakfast. Later I was told the runt pig, useless, poor meat type was fed fish guts for monetary reasons and the RN purchased these animals full of fish guts to feed to their runts. “Submariners get the best food” the cunt at the recruitment office sold me not just told me.

Passing out day arrived, flags blew with pride in the steady wind, whilst family and friends enjoyed the glow of an unusually warm March afternoon. Inside the drill shed our troop; the team, where waiting nervously to march out. Really the team was myself who was leader [of course] of the class, a cute blonde chick with an ass worthy of following all day and a couple of lads worthy of a chat, but mainly a motley crew of people I had no time for, were sweating in heavy number one uniforms with full dress and bearing the SA80 assault rifle with bayonet for our forthcoming walk to glory. What a sack of shit, I was thirsty, eager to finish so I could ease off my hangover with a little rum. Why not I was a sailor now?

The troop marched, turned, smiled and did what they were ordered like good drones, until finally a reckless moment of throwing your hat high in the air to celebrate and greet kin, with kisses and tears. I kept my hat on, pointless in throwing the thing, the bar was open and I had my pass stamped like a good drone which I produced to some fuck at the door with an open look that told him I would be trouble. It was a look I carried; always have, even when I mean no harm.

“Rum, straight, no ice - thank you” I finished the disjointed sentence. Maybe I was in double figures maybe it was still single whatever the total I was running aground.
“Six pies” shouted Dolly across the room. More inaudible Scottish mumbling followed; you good big man I think he said.
“My cousin Wee Tommy has sent some sweets for us” he added with enthusiasm, before I replied.
My reply was a slow lift of the head with the type of nod a mafia Godfather would give to indicate that the death of a man was to happen. My day was over now. Certainly did not need to eat sweets from Wee Tommy the coke dealer. I was off the drugs now, I was a sailor. I added a robust “fuck off” after the nodding donkey head, so Dolly was clear of my posision.

Brutalised on Rum and the good cheer of others as I had no family in attendance; actions some years ago meant contact was purely now to indicate I was alive. I had a new family now the Navy. NO! My family was the drink, my faithful friend and we were about to have the most wonderful adventure together, fuck all these cretins in here. Tenerife was back in my blood, the players may have changed but the game remained the same and I was the king.

During my slump at the bar someone I had paid slight attention to a guy call Pat Young, was looking in similar shape to me. I had always chuckled when he was given the nickname “bring em” a pretty sick term really when added to his sir name. Still like most other sick jokes it made me laugh. Pat was looking drunk and sorry for himself as his family left hours before to begin the 500 mile trek to return to some backwater Scottish village, leaving Pat to celebrate with his new friends. What friends? No one really liked this guy. I knew then this was the type of degenerate I was looking to spend my time with. Spurred on with the realization I had nothing else to do it was time for the black Ralph Lauren Polo shirt to come out. The body was picking up pace and I was ready to party now, my night was not over it was just beginning. The second wind is the most dangerous wind. Fuck it. I was going out tonight and Bring em was coming.