Pull up a sand bag and swing that lamp..the story begins!

„You know what the problem with you is? “ Marko asked while tossing a peanut into the air and trying to catch it in his mouth; which he was not successful, “You think too much you old Romeo.”
The peanut bounced of his stubble riddled and acne scared cheek and went on to fall down the side of his neck into his greasy open collar.
I said nothing; my misery was not being helped by my older so called friend; who at times like these, always knew everything better and would tell you so in that tone of voice people use as if they are tiered of telling the same old solution to the same old problems to a complete brainless idiot.
Shrugging my shoulders was all I could offer; anything I said would simply prove to him that his analytical insight was proven yet again.
He sighed and grunted a strained chuckle, again with his all knowing tone while glancing sideways at me with his wry smile.
My heart had been broken yet again by the local bike and as always I had fallen in love head over heels; utterly convinced the dirty whore was going to turn over a new leaf and become the woman of my life instead of the life of half the towns toe rags, something to show off to my friends or those who pretended to be my friends especially on my payday.
Looking back I had realised long ago that I was the only one in the group of lads who frequented the “Barley Sheaf” in Wilton who ever had a full time job.
We walked on down the narrow street behind the Wilton Royal Carpet factory where I worked in the Wilton shed, and although I could not hear the clatter from where we walked I could hear it in my head; that rhythmic clatter non-stop for eight hours a day.
I smiled to my self thinking how Rachel had the day before worn a very loose fitting t-shirt over her opulent breasts and had caught me taking a sly peep down her cleavage when she bent down over the frame to place a bobbin of wool into its place.
She had smiled with that smile a woman gives when she knew I had been looking and took pleasure at that tiny bit of power, as she saw me redden and grin sheepishly back at her.
Looking back now I realise she must have had some feelings for me that she herself never spoke of directly; but gave such massive hints to me that only a “Brainless” idiot as Marco described people like myself would not recognise.
Rachel was a fast creeler; a person whose job it was to make sure that the flat horizontal frames that held all the bobbins of wool, were kept full at all times when the loom was in motion.
“What’s so funny?” Marco asked looking at the pragmatic grin I had worn at the thoughts of the other day on my face.
“Nothing.” I answered.
“You know what Dave…Your fuckin stupid; and do you know why you’re so fuckin stupid?”
“Go on…I know you’re going to tell me.” I asked grinning harder at my little secret he did not know about.
“That mattress you fell in love with despite my warnings, she even went and told her slag friends that you’re a crap kisser but knew how to use your tongue…if you know what I mean?
I carried on walking along pretending not being annoyed at the dirty whore’s indiscretions.
We walked on for a while in silence; he had waited for a comment from me in return but had got none, which then had created an atmosphere between us.
He stopped now and then at a shop window to read some yellowed classified add someone had placed a long time ago but the shop keeper had forgotten about or simply could not be bothered about removing because at least it filled a window with something.
Marco’s old Vauxhall Viva was parked on the square in front of the old town hall.
It had seen more summers than the two of us and one could tell be the dull grey paint that had lost its shine around the time we had been conceived on the back seat of a similar such car.
Marco pulled his shirt out of his trousers to let the peanut fall to the ground.
“You know what she said about you?” I asked just before he slid the key into the lock.
He looked up at me with his busy black eye brows raised.
The look that told me he was uncomfortable with the prospect that whatever I was about to say might be true and the divulging the words out loud would confirm for him his own weakness.
“Most probably lies…” he offered knowing I was about to extrude something abhorrent about him that might shake him from his tree.
I paused a moment wondering whether to disclose the lie I had thought up.
“She said you had the tiniest cock she had ever seen and had to wiggle about to feel it although there was not much time for that before you had spent your wad.”
“She said that?” He asked, “That’s it…?”
He did not seem at all taken back and I felt my lie had failed to reach the spot in his ego that would deflate it.
I nodded not being able to think up a quick backup lie.
Marco looked at me with a smirk on his face that confirmed he had called my bluff yet again proving him the better man.
He opened the door and got in.
I grabbed the handle to let myself in but the door remained locked as he started the engine.
Bending down to look inside I knocked at the window to remind him to let me in.
He was winding down his window.
“The bus into Salisbury will be along in a few minutes and if you are quick you just might make it.
With that he pulled away leaving me stood watching the blue cloud of smoke billowing out of the exhaust as he made his way down the road towards Salisbury.
Smoke created with the petrol I had paid for.
“Cunt, Fuckin Cunt.” Was the only thing I could offer up in retribution at that moment and while I walked along the worn and uneven pavement towards the bus stop to get the bus, I swore it would be the last time he ever got petrol money from me.
The double Decker turned up full of gypsies and tinkers on their way into Salisbury to pick up their weekly supply of giros from the DHSS.
They all were sat at the back in an untidy pile of out of date clothing, unwashed dark faces and legs hung over the seats, boots muddy.
They played their part and acted like the arseholes from where they had fallen out of and gave me the stare as I took my seat close to the door.
It was not long before there was a kind of repeat of Marcos performance with a peanut; after one of the peanuts some dirty cunt was flicking at the back of my head fell down my collar and worked its way down my back to lodge itself in the crack of my arse.
I had decided it would not be prudent to turn and make an issue about it, but at the same time I seethed in rage at Marco putting me in this position in the first place; stuck in a bus full of dirty peanut flicking gypsies.

“Parade…Parade Shun” screamed the tiny demented man in front of us.
We responded accordingly to please him with synchronised boot stamping as we stood to Attention.
The memory soon faded of Marco and the bus full of Gypsies only the residual sadness that flittered like all the other thoughts of my past life into the darer recesses of my mind.
Today I had a new enemy to contend with, or might I say two, one was the middle aged, grim faced, dressed in the uniform of Her Majesty and wearing the Rank of Regimental Sergeant major on his hairy arm.
Red hair too, which told us all that it matched his demeanour indeed.
The other enemy was myself.
The Army had expertly exposed to me my lack of confidence in myself and tried to nurture it to make me strong of mind as well of body.
This had taken the form of being fucked about all our waking hours from six till five, and in the evenings entertained us with bulling boots and achieving the fine art of razor sharp creases in our shirts and trousers.
This art I hoped was about to help me as the bad tempered midget approached the front of our platoon.
He came to a shatteringly sharp and stamping stop in front of our Sergeant and screamed something about the rest of the platoons to stand at ease and our platoon to stay stood to attention.
Although I knew I was as immaculate as Jesus’ birth when it came to dress I knew also that the RSM was not a man known for his kind and understanding soul.
It was April and the cherry trees that lined the parade square were shedding blossom like a blizzard of pink snow; wafted along in squalls across the square towards us by the gusting winds.
We all knew what that could mean.
Just one malicious petal deciding to fall upon our berets or uniform could lead to a weekend duty stood on the gate greeting everyone else a nice fuckin weekend at home or shacked up with some bint they met down some drinking hole in Aldershot, the type of girl you would never dare take home to a pair of Hippy parents for fear of horrifying and causing them to think deeply about what went wrong in their lives for their poor thick cunt of a son to bring home such a monger.
As he went along inspecting each boy and doing his utmost to make one cry you could half laugh at the humour of it all, only for that feeling to flip over to abject fear when the mad midgets crap hat rolled into view just below your vision.
One very big rule in this game was never to look at the cunt in the eye, just stare over his head into the distance showing no sign of any emotion at all.
Poker faces were the name of the game, and the mad midgets game was to make that face break into some expression; preferably one of dismay or worse.
If that happened to you then you were lost forever; apart from the shit that the RSM screamed at you for the entertainment of the masses gathered about you but also the piss taking one would be willingly given after the parade with guys mimicking your sad and pathetic answers the mad midget had made you bark out loud.

With half an ear waiting for his usual catch questions my mind went back to the bus with its happy crowed of Gypsies.
I struck up a conversation with the already stressed up driver who explained to me that the fuckin pack at the back had done the same with him with the peanuts.
I glanced down to see a few of the said nuts lying at his feet.
“Why didn’t you just stop and kick them off?” I asked knowing what his answer was going to be.
“Right…more like they kick my head in more like.” He said.
I nodded in sombre understanding as another peanut clicked and bounced of the windscreen above my head accompanied by a loud woooo from the group of long unwashed Gypos at the back cheered as if the feat was nearly something of great achievement.

The mad midget’s hat floated just below my vision, leaning left and right and tipping forward to inspect my perfect boots.
He grunted and walked behind me to menace unseen.
As always my well shorn and proper shaped neck hairs stood on end as if the devil himself had breathed upon them; but this was not the devil at all, no this was something even worse.
The devil cant help being evil, the RSM was evil because he loved it and the power it had over those boys he was tasked to turn into soldiers.
An evil with wanton intent, something that gave him secret pleasure somehow and all hidden in a package called military discipline.
“Who ironed your shirt Taif?” a low rumbling growl and the scent of the RSMs stale beer breathe.
“Me, Sir!” I barked in the proper manner although loud and crisp my heart was sinking into a dull cloud of despair knowing that I was about to be found guilty of some crime the RSM had discovered and was about to inform me about in his usually hysterical way.
I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder as he rested his pace stick upon my shoulder and barked for the Platoon corporal to join him to witness the evidence that would prove me a unworthy being in this Queens and mans Army.
Corporal Sands stamped his foot and began to approach with the standard short and jerky movement that if seen anywhere else apart from on a parade square it would invite peels of laugher at such a sight.
I had often wondered, wrongly of course, if people in the olden days walked about like this due to my observations while watching Charlie Chaplin is a kid.
Sands snapped to a stop.
“What do you make of this, Sands?” the RSM screamed the question obviously annoyed that it had taken Sands more than two seconds to join him behind my back.
“Err… a crease sir.” He shouted.
“Yes…and what is wrong with this particular crease Sands.” The RSMs tone had suddenly become soft and somehow informative at the same time as if he was giving the poor corporal a chance to redeem himself for not spotting the obvious.
There was a silence now so silent one could hear the steam beginning to build in the small bony cavity of the RSMs head; a cavity that contained his bird sized brain.
I was by now stiff with fear, all sorts of shit was going through my head, the worst of which was the fear of being dragged by my elbows, backwards while stood to attention across to the guard room where the RSMs henchmen were waiting hungry for a fresh boy to scream at and fuck about from dawn to dusk…that and of course the obligatory piss taking from my so called mates.
“Look again you fuckin dim wit…there… look close.” The sudden scream bursting from the RSMs mouth like some pressure valve going into early retirement made me and I guess Sands jump.
In my head a voice was saying, “C’mon get on with it…”
“He has not used a damp cloth over the shirt causing the edge of the crease to become shiny,” he paused a moment to let it all sink in, And we all know what that can lead too don’t we?”
Sands was silent, not sure whether he was to answer or myself, who decided to remain silent, being pretty sure I would know if the mad midget wanted me to speak.
“Am I right in my assumption Taif?” the RSMS breath now blowing across my cheek from behind me.
I had to admit it; he was right about not using a damp cloth.
I felt like suggesting to him maybe he would be better working in the police force solving crimes while working in the forensic department but now was not the time to give such in my opinion good advice.
“Yes Sir!!” I barked.
A hand grabbed my collar from behind and began to gently shake me forwards and backwards.
“I also need to know from you what that might lead to Taif.”
Now I was really confused; might lead to sounded like some foreign language to me.
What the fuck was he on about?
Around me the rest of the platoon were just as tense and in dire suspense at what I might say and if I don’t know; we all knew our gentle RSM would kindly explain to us in his best shouts and screams, drops of spittle included of course.
The answer next time.