NGLND XPX

by Ian Hutson

  To be brutally and rather adventurously honest with you, even though it’s obviously tried, test and completely fair, I am not terribly chuffed about this business at all. Retirement National Service may be good for the country and the country’s coffers, but I am not one of those lucky chaps who look good in a pith helmet, a fight and a bar in Bangalore.

  I must be the odd one out I suppose, as usual.

  Well, whatever - they woke us at sparrow-fart o’clock this morning, gave us a breakfast of cold kedgeree and PG Tips and then inspected our testicles. I don’t know for certain but my best guess was that perhaps the PG Tips had been expected to have had some sort of effect on them. Maybe terrorist, insurgent, cave-man or otherwise disloyal or malcontent testicles pulsate or something after an infusion of PG Tips. It felt as though we were on some sort of touchy-feely identity parade where the victim, a medical orderly, could only identify their putative attacker by the unique texture and disposition of their love-spuds. Yes, My Lord, the prosecution will present testimony to the effect that the accused resembled two dead mice in a wrinkly leather purse made from a hairy sow’s silken ear...

  In the afternoon some MD who’d been thrown out of the NHS for malpractice above and beyond the reach of his lady-patients underwear shone a torch up our arses and asked if we’d ever ‘walked on the wild side’.

  ‘Darling...’ I said, thinking that there was some hope for a good old-fashioned dishonourable but highly convenient discharge, ‘... Darling, I rode a rudddy Vespa on the wild side - with side-car and a helmet sporting matched Viking-horns and bearing the legend “Hello darling, fancy a ride on my funky moped”.’

  Apparently though that just puts me in line for fast-track promotion and gets me the anniversary of Kenneth Williams’ death off regular fatigues as a sort of positive-discrimination gay military Bank Holiday.

  Later on we all tried a bit of parading on the square so that the Colonel in Chief or someone could inspect us but, to be honest, everyone on the dais seemed to nod off as soon as they sat down. Perhaps they had been overcome by the cloud of Vicks Vaporub sweating off two thousand new old recruits? Life in the army seemed to be a lot to do with nodding off.

  Dinner this evening was fish, chips, mushy peas and more PG Tips. Someone enquired about pudding but was told that the man who made the spotted dick had been medically discharged sometime during the morning so they didn’t feel that they could serve it without checking it carefully first, and the necessary food-standard sieves hadn’t been delivered from stores yet.

  Lucky bastard. If I knew what it was that he had I’d try to catch it myself. Must be something where bits fall off or squirt without warning when they should really only wobble or dribble on a predictable basis at most. Hell’s bells, given that the average age in the catering corps was seventy-three they must get through pastry chefs at a real rate of knots if something falling off into the custard was sufficient cause for a change of old dribbly.

  “Lights out” happened just as I was settling into a decent session with a copy of Huntin’ Shootin’ Fishin’ Life and a red biro to correct the editor’s grammar and spelling. I am therefore writing this by the light of my Ronson flame which is bloody dangerous because I’m also working under an Army blanket to avoid something big and hairy with stripes shouting through the window again about “I-Z Lizah an’ Lizah means ALL LIZAH!”. Or something. He was too loud to hear. Anyway, I have christened him ‘Minnelli’. He seemed pretty heated, whoever he was, so I’ll humour him for the moment, just in case it’s important or he has stripes or a red cap. Stripes on his uniform that is, not stripes like a military zebra. This will be a short entry for several reasons: my testicles hurt, I think the MD left his not-inconsiderably sized torch in my arse and the air under this blanket is getting pretty thin because of the lighter flame hogging all of the oxygen.

  Goodbye, Day 1, I hate you and shall dance on your memory next time I have a leaky infected blister on my foot.

  Wednesday, 17th June 2027, soon after The Magic Roundabout on Channel 4+1.

  They woke us a full hour before sparrow-fart o’clock this morning and gave us a breakfast of still-frozen kedgeree sorbet and scalding-hot PG Tips. No-one seemed keen to inspect our testicles today though, so maybe yesterday was enough for anyone or perhaps they’ve just run out of camouflage Marigolds and laundry tongs.

  I have been given a pith helmet because our unit is being sent to Bangalore.

  It’s a shame that this isn’t the anniversary of the day that Kenneth Williams died because then I would have been off and wouldn’t have been around to hear that news. I seem to remember that I had an Uncle once who had been to Bangalore or somewhere nearby. Nearby to Bangalore that is, not nearby to Catterick. He died, just like Kenneth Williams did. I hope that this isn’t some sort of pattern forming.

  The good news is that I have also been given a uniform to wear in combination with the pith helmet, so it’s likely that I will blend in better than I might otherwise have done naked, even with my Army-approved PG Tips-sodden pulsating testicles. We were shown our rifles today too; big pump-action laser rifles with Grenadier launchers or something, I was too busy saying “ooh – shiny” to listen properly. Apparently, they have tele-coptic sights with cross hares and can be fired from both the shoulder and from the hip. I hope that they don’t get warm in use because I’m worried about my plastic prosthesis melting if I fire mine from the hip. I don’t think I’ll be firing mine from the shoulder a lot either, because they’re rather heavy, and it seems such a waste to lift them all the way up to shoulder height if they can be fired from the hip anyway. The sergeant says that they won’t actually issue us those until Hell freezes over and the regimental mascot cat presents the Colonel in Chief an intact snowball that smells strongly of sulphur.

  Dinner tonight was fish, chips, beans and cold, milky PG Tips. Apparently there was talk of a treacle sponge for pudding but it had been sent to the Officer’s Mess by mistake and couldn’t be chitted for or something in time to stop it being accidentally eaten by all of the wrong ranks. Anyway, the good news is that the custard is still in a warehouse on the dockside in Grimsby, so there’s always hope for later if Cook can get the seven-ton Bedford started. It’s “on the handle” because the battery was requisitioned by the C.O. for his mobility scooter. Mind you, if anyone can turn over a rusty, ill-serviced four point nine litre six cylinder engine with a starting-handle just on the simple promise of fifty gallons of unleaded bright yellow Creme Anglaise, it’s Cook.

  I have ceased wanting to visit the encrapolator, with or without a magazine and a red biro. It’s a similar sensation to what happened after I ate that bucket of anti-fungus wallpaper paste for a bet. I feel as though someone is making a Plaster of Paris mould of my alimentary tract again but without spraying in any release agent this time. May see the MD tomorrow and ask if he wants to swap the return of his torch for a dollop of intravenous castor oil or something. Might visit the NAAFI too and see if they stock packets of those industrial-strength Poo-More tablets that that miserable-looking woman advertises on the television; the sort that stop her handbag filling up with pita bread, pasta and salad while she looks thoughtful and preoccupied on the bus.

  In view of the time thus saved by not going to the bog I am writing this before Minnelli’s“I said LIZAH and I meant LIZAH!” request. It’s really a shame about my no longer needing to visit the great white telephone after Lizah because there’s an eerie glow coming from my arse that would be quite enough to show the way safely now. On the other hand, part of me feels safer not going just in case the monsters in the sewer were to see the light and use it to home in on my toilet and attack me through the u-bend. You know how I’ve always worried about that and how just one unexpected gurgle or bubbling noise from the cistern can affect my natural rhythm. The chaps have nick-named me ‘Firefly’ but the Sarntmayjah! reckons that “the sun might just be beginning to shine” and he says that he is considering me for officer training. He reckons
that I would make a magnificent leader for night patrols through enema territory.

  I am starting to suck nervously on the corner of my blanket the way I used to as a teenager. It’s been a conscious decision though this time.

  Goodbye, Day 2, I hate you and I hated your Mother too. I shall learn to wear army stiletto heels and then dance on your memory, with or without a leaky blister.

  18th June 2027, midnight (it has to be midnight somewhere on the planet).

  Bangalore has apparently frozen over and so has the Regimental Cat – it must have chased a rat or something into Cook’s walk-in freezer. Bangalore’s excuse is to do with the Burmese Glacier shifting south, or something. Immediately after breakfast they gave us our rifles and said that we’re bypassing all further basic training and going straight onto active service, for King and Country and an extra metric shilling a day.

  One chap shot himself trying to look down the barrel of his rifle to see if he could see the little bulb for the laser. Well, I say shot himself, it was really more of a “bzzzzt” noise followed by the smell of burning flesh and a “Goodnight Vienna” human shadow outline on the wall of the Quartermaster’s stores. I’ve heard the Vicar at home going on about ashes to ashes and dust to dust before but, believe you me, the vicar should have seen this – there wasn’t even a whole lot left in the way of ashes or dust. The urn they gave Mrs Crabknees next door after Mr Crabknees fell off the roof must have been mostly full of unburned coal, or full of somebody else, or full of bits of roof-tile.

  While they re-allocated Mrs Peerless’s beloved ex-son’s rifle and re-whitewashed the wall they distracted us with a Pathe newsreel about Safety Catches through the Ages and then a long lecture on venereal diseases given by the M.O. with a torch. That is to say, he gave the lecture, he hasn’t yet – as far as I know – given us any venereal diseases directly, although I never did see him wash either his Marigolds or his torch during our intake inspections, so to speak. The Doctor did most of the talking too during the lecture; his torch just sat there in the breast pocket of his white coat. That makes me wonder a bit. If the M.D.’s torch is out there in his breast pocket then whose torch is it stuck up my arse? The slides of the rashes, sores and tropical scabs reminded me of the sort of modern art we saw once at the Tate Modern. I’ve asked if we can get some big prints of them to brighten up the barracks walls. That should cheer the other chaps up. Some of them are a bit down in the mouth.

  I had great fun during the slide show though. Every time they put the lights out I eased a buttock up and caused confusion. Eventually they took the fluorescent tubes out of the light fittings and the Sarntmayjah stood at the end of the row of seats I was in, unholstered his swagger stick and stared at me the way the dog used to stare at the racing pigeons in our back yard before you relented and started buying larger tins of Doggy Nosh for him.

  I spoke to the Doctor after the lecture and he says that if I haven’t “gone” by the time we ship out and make orbit that the G-Forces will fix me in a jiffy when we accelerate out of the solar system. I assume that the G-Forces must be the Americans, they always have the best everything, including the best M.A.S.H. units. “Jiffy” must be some sort of army medical slang, I suppose. I just hope that whatever it is it doesn’t show through my trousers or ruin the dangle of my utility belt. I had quite enough medical derision thank you very much as a child when you made me wear those training pants – fifteen year-olds can be so, so cruel, especially during rugby practice.

  Dinner tonight was sieved spotted dick and chips followed by treacle sponge with PG Tips, all served in a tin soup tureen that looked awfully like the oil-drip trays they slide under seven ton Bedford lorries when they’re parked up for any length of time. Apparently there’s a new cook or something (the C.O. was quite fond of the old mascot cat), and this one’s a bit avantey-gardey and therefore possibly another foreigner. Plus the chits got mixed up again. A big hairy thing with stripes said to get it down our necks because it all gets mixed up anyway in the end. He’s obviously not as familiar with my “the end” as is the M.O.

  Quite frankly, I was tempted to throw some moonlight onto the matter but the chaps said best not as that might be misinterpreted and I could end up on a charge. I’m not entirely sure if they meant a charge for me or a charge for the torch battery. It’s lasting awfully well so it must be Duracell – the rest of the chaps were egging me on to make “Batman” signals with it half of last night and I think our calls were very nearly answered from the E.N.S.A. block.

  I’m writing this in the mess hall because “LIZAH!” has been delayed while the Military Police clean up our barracks before letting us back in. Apparently someone tried to shoot his own toes off with his new laser rifle for a medical discharge but hit the barracks mirror-ball instead and it all got a bit messy and in need of an official enquiry. The Army has formally cleared itself already but may sue the manufacturers of the mirror-ball (since they are foreigners). The barracks looks like a bit of a concrete colander now but the effect could be quite nice as the sun rises and the light from all of the new holes begins to shine in through the settling dust.

  Goodbye, Day 3, I still hate you but at least tonight’s dinner has put my bowels under an intense and positive medical pressure. Unless we ship out before dawn tomorrow whatever the blockage is will have been rammed clear by sheer weight and volume of spotted dick, treacle sponge and chips well before the wonderful American G-Forces can even get near to it with a “jiffy”.

  Stardate 19th June 2027, who knows when? I can’t see my watch. It’s the time after yesterday, anyway.

  We shipped out long before dawn this morning. While we were taking off from the runway at RAF Chocksaway a camouflage Marigold rubber glove, size “M”, popped out of my arse. Just the one. The right one. The right-hand glove, that is, I don’t have two arses. Not yet anyway, despite what the Corporal says about “ripping me a new one” if I don’t buck my ideas up a bit. I feel a lot better now but I won’t give up on the torch until at least tomorrow. It must be rattling around in there since one glove has gone.

  Apparently we have to stay strapped down for another day until the troop carrier gets out of the solar system under diesel-power and then we can go to Visualisation Drive or something. Fancy that. Me in space, like a real soldier! All I can hear at the moment though is the clank-cough-cough-clank of the big diesel engines on full throttle as we power out of Earth orbit. There are a lot of chaps chundering for England and there’s a looped address from the King wishing us well as we ‘Cry havoc for Prince Harry, for England PLC and for All-Denominations Saint George.’ All I can say is that if Saint George had had a rubber glove and a fifty-LED torch up his arse then he and the dragon may have got along a lot better, and traded tricks or something instead of getting violent and nasty with each other. Is that a treasonous thought? I expect that the diary censors will let me know in due course.

  I couldn’t half do with them letting us out of these straps so that I can visit the Usual Offices, Male, Lower Ranks, For the use of to cry havoc and let slip a few dogs of war – I think that the rubber glove that escaped may have been the only thing that was holding back most of the torch-lit tide of military custard. The feeling is starting to dominate my waking hours and I am losing sight of where the army begins and my backside ends. I think that what Granddad used to say is maybe true, it’s just that we never quite heard him properly and got the wrong end of the stick because of that misunderstanding with the jogger in the park toilets all those years ago. On reflection, it would be very interesting and useful now to be able to go back and let him tell us his army stories instead of cutting him short every time because of the neighbours and the potential for embarrassment.

  There’s been no sign of the American G-Forces so far. Maybe they’ll join us later? Breakfast this morning was a tube of concentrated kedgeree, a foil sachet of PG Tips and some orderly from the Catering Corpse sticking an “enlisted men - hydration hose” up my left nostril for “three minutes o
r two pints, whichever came soonest”. Between hydrating troops he used the hose to swill down the decks and water the plants. I noticed that the plants also all got three minutes or two pints of water whichever came first, even the plastic ones.

  They stopped playing the looped tape of the King about two hours after we broke out of the Earth’s gravitational pull and then they played a film about a nun looking after some rich git’s kids in Austria and making them sing a lot because of World War Two. They played it three times over, end to end. The last time they played it to us it was in reverse which actually made a lot more sense, since Julie Andrews took one look at Switzerland, tried a career making curtains out of kids’ clothing and then decided to be a nun who walked backwards for Jesus. Plus, played that way around, it ended with some rotten git called “Hitler” becoming baby-cute again and then being vacuumed up by his mother and slipped back to his father moments before everyone put their underwear back on and they all got sober in an Austrian tavern the night they talked themselves out of un-forming the Nazi party and retreated into a life of rural peace and obscurity. How much more sense does that make too eh?

  Most of the men are crying now but I don’t think it’s because of homesickness or emotion, it’s just a reflex action like gagging or going cross-eyed when you get shot in the brain. Apparently it happens to film critics an awful lot too unless they’ve been inoculated against Julie Andrews.

  I think that the torch may have done a u-turn somehow and lodged in my appendix – the right-hand side of my gym-bunny one-pack belly is glowing now. I can see the shadow outline of the forceps they left in me when I had that operation for that thing where my kidneys were strangling my liver.

  Must try to get some sleep.

  Goodbye Day 4. I hate you and the three-legged horse you rode in on.

  Stardate 20th June 2027, just as I was dozing, remembering happy times with my dog Tigger.