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Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney
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to join the "Professionals". Inside the office was a shiny sergeant with a moustache. "Can I help you?" he said. I told him I was considering joining the army and wanted to know more about it. His uniformed fellow "Professionals" smiled out from posters on the walls. The sergeant had a spiel as polished as his boots: he outlined enthusiastically the exciting future that awaited me. For one demented moment I half thought that joining the army might be a good idea anyway, but I snapped out of it. He asked me if I had any criminal convictions. I said I hadn't. He said it would take six to eight weeks to process my application, but he could see no problem. Once the initial processing had been done I would be sent to St George's Barracks in nearby Sutton Coldfield. He said this was a selection centre where all recruits had to go through various written and physical tests before being chosen for a specific corps or regiment. After that I would be sent for basic training with my new regiment. I filled in some forms and asked him if he could put in writing that I had applied to join.
A few weeks later I returned to court. The magistrate told me that after considering my appalling record he had contemplated sending me to crown court for sentencing, because he only had the power to give me six months' imprisonment. Before he went on to sentence me I played what I thought was my trump card: I told him I was joining the army. He had spent his life listening to the often pathetic gambits of criminals trying to avoid punishment and he tended to treat them with contempt. However, he had the air of a man who felt that most young people — certainly all young working-class men - ought to spend their youth in the army. He asked me if I could prove my intentions. I passed the army recruitment papers to the court usher who handed them to the magistrate. While he looked at them suspiciously I said that becoming a soldier was something I'd wanted to do for a long time. He said: "You might just be saying this." He spent another short while staring at the papers in front of him before turning to me with a slight smile, as if he had had a devious brainwave. He said he intended giving me a total of six months' imprisonment, a term which would take into account the most recent offence, my previous record and the breach of my current Supervision Order (thankfully, he didn't know I was also on bail for the earlier offence which had yet to be heard). However, in the light of my good intentions he was prepared to defer sentencing for a little while. What that meant, he said, was that if I was not in the army on the day he set aside for sentencing then I would be sent to jail. However, if I was a soldier by that date he would suspend my prison sentence for two years.
I walked glumly out of court thinking my trump card had been trumped. I was faced with a dilemma: either the army for three years or prison for six months. It was coming up to Christmas and I thought of the misery of being stuck in prison with people as anti-social as I. At least in the army there would be better food, a bit of money and free time. And perhaps the moustachioed sergeant was right: it might open up other opportunities for me in the future. All in all, it seemed the least unsatisfactory alternative.
The night before I went to St George's Barracks I stayed with my mother. She was pleased I was joining the army. She had never lectured me, but I knew she had been worried about where my life seemed to be leading. I had long hair then, and she was also pleased I was going to have to get it cut.
6
Pigs, Fucking Pigs
"If any of you are lying, you are going to be in serious trouble," said the serious uniformed man seriously. "SER-I-OUS TROU-BLE."
I had only been in the army for one hour and could not yet distinguish between the different ranks. I was standing in a large gym with around 100 of my fellow new recruits. The serious man's face exuded doom: "So
A few weeks later I returned to court. The magistrate told me that after considering my appalling record he had contemplated sending me to crown court for sentencing, because he only had the power to give me six months' imprisonment. Before he went on to sentence me I played what I thought was my trump card: I told him I was joining the army. He had spent his life listening to the often pathetic gambits of criminals trying to avoid punishment and he tended to treat them with contempt. However, he had the air of a man who felt that most young people — certainly all young working-class men - ought to spend their youth in the army. He asked me if I could prove my intentions. I passed the army recruitment papers to the court usher who handed them to the magistrate. While he looked at them suspiciously I said that becoming a soldier was something I'd wanted to do for a long time. He said: "You might just be saying this." He spent another short while staring at the papers in front of him before turning to me with a slight smile, as if he had had a devious brainwave. He said he intended giving me a total of six months' imprisonment, a term which would take into account the most recent offence, my previous record and the breach of my current Supervision Order (thankfully, he didn't know I was also on bail for the earlier offence which had yet to be heard). However, in the light of my good intentions he was prepared to defer sentencing for a little while. What that meant, he said, was that if I was not in the army on the day he set aside for sentencing then I would be sent to jail. However, if I was a soldier by that date he would suspend my prison sentence for two years.
I walked glumly out of court thinking my trump card had been trumped. I was faced with a dilemma: either the army for three years or prison for six months. It was coming up to Christmas and I thought of the misery of being stuck in prison with people as anti-social as I. At least in the army there would be better food, a bit of money and free time. And perhaps the moustachioed sergeant was right: it might open up other opportunities for me in the future. All in all, it seemed the least unsatisfactory alternative.
The night before I went to St George's Barracks I stayed with my mother. She was pleased I was joining the army. She had never lectured me, but I knew she had been worried about where my life seemed to be leading. I had long hair then, and she was also pleased I was going to have to get it cut.
6
Pigs, Fucking Pigs
"If any of you are lying, you are going to be in serious trouble," said the serious uniformed man seriously. "SER-I-OUS TROU-BLE."
I had only been in the army for one hour and could not yet distinguish between the different ranks. I was standing in a large gym with around 100 of my fellow new recruits. The serious man's face exuded doom: "So
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