We all know the drill … It’s late Friday morning at around 11:00 am and you’ve just finished Commanding Officer’s PT.
You’re now hanging out of your a**e on the parade square, covered in your own sweat, vomit and tears – all because someone suggested ‘just a few beers in the mess’ the night before.
Rewind; It’s 3:30 am the morning of the PT and you look at your watch and you realise you’ve only got three more hours until you must draw your weapon from the armoury.
Fast forward back to the drill square at the end of your gopping phys session.
You hear the Tech Quartermaster inform your Company Quartermaster Sergeant ‘there’s an armoury check on Monday morning’ and every weapon ‘must be cleaned’.
Even though you’ve been sat in your room all week doing nothing but; Drinking JAK Brews; watching old episodes of Jeremy Kyle and making good use of your WIFI subscription.
NOW was decided as the best time to let everyone know there’s an inspection.
Your Staff Sergeant or CQMS then shouts to everyone, ‘every man Jak, back down at the armoury with rifle cleaning kits for mid-day after you’ve showered and changed.’ – upon hearing this, a little bit of you dies inside.
So, you spend the next four hours of your life cleaning your weapon, the OC’s and every other officer or senior rank who has decided that their rifle is a self-cleaning rifle … the clue in in the title, ‘Personal Weapon’.
It is now 4:00 pm and you’re waiting for the customary block inspection carried out by the OC and Company Sergeant Major (CSM) – walking around each individual room, engaging in the same obligatory small talk, whilst checking out your pictures from ‘that one time in Ibiza’.
All while this is happening, you’re crying inside, just hoping to beat the Friday traffic home.
But that is alright, there is no rush. Your OC only needs to travel to the other side of the pad’s estate to get home.
Now it is time for your Company Sergeant Major to earn his wage, … ‘Right, fellas! No fighting; don’t drink drive; don’t drink too much; don’t get into trouble or get arrested.’
The time for whacky races begins! … everyone jumps in their expensive cars with 90% on finance and proceeds to drive through barracks at ridiculous speeds, with their custom exhausts screaming like Lewis Hamilton in the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.
But you’ve still got one more hurdle ... the gobshite new bloke on stag that won’t lift the barrier because ‘you’ve not signed out the guardroom register’.
So you inform him that you’ll rip off his arms and beat him to death with the soggy ends ‘if you don’t lift that gate barrier’.
FINALLY, you’ve made it! You exit onto the motorway - you can almost taste the ice-cold beer at your local boozer.
You make it to 70 MPH, just as you see traffic starting to build up ahead, you then proceed to sit in five hours of back to back traffic until you make it back home/pub - just as ‘last orders’ gets called.
Enjoy your weekend guys!
If this sounds similar, to how every single one of your weekends begin? Please share with friends and family, so that they can understand your pain.
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Picture: MoD/Crown Copyright