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sport and a uniform the girls would surely swoon over. And I could join as soon as I left school.
    I paid a visit to the Army Recruiting Office, my inquisitiveness equalling my enthusiasm. The recruiting sergeant advised me to sign up as a Construction Materials Technician. He said, rather vaguely, that it was ‘like being a geologist in the army’. I have to say he was a very nice man, and very smart – though his clipped moustache made him look a little too much like Grange Hill ’s Mr Bronson. Nevertheless, I went ahead and took the technicians’ aptitude tests. With a ninety-nine per cent pass mark in the bag, I was given the date for my interview. It was with the excitement of a small child on Christmas morning that I exited through the door facing the adjacent Royal Navy Careers Office.
    I stopped in my tracks and stared.
    The RN had just changed its window display from flares-wearing sailors to Royal Marines Commandos looking likeharbingers of death and doing things James Bond might have wet dreams over. I studied the pictures. The word ‘Commando’ jumped out at me. It was the magnet, the tractor beam that attracted thousands like me every year. So, in a moment of utter insanity, I forgot all about a job that could give me a well-paid lifelong career to take on an occupation that involved killing people and shitting in plastic bags.
    Inside, a tubby sailor sat behind a desk. He looked me up and down; given my diminutive stature, he probably thought I was sounding out the vacancy situation for Royal Navy stewards.
    ‘I want to join the Marines,’ I said, boldly. Having just passed a technicians’ interview, I reasoned I was surely a prize catch.
    ‘Well,’ he said, dismissively, ‘you’d better go over to America then, son.’
    I was flummoxed. I just stood there, not knowing what to say or do. Apparently passing a technician’s interview didn’t mean you were exempt from looking stupid. Eventually, he spoke for me. ‘I take it you mean the Royal Marines? There is a difference, you know.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Sorry. Yes.’
    ‘Dave?’ he called over his shoulder, and from a backroom appeared a giant of a man with the world’s thickest arms. I gulped. Did I really want to join the Marines – sorry, the Royal Marines – if they were all like him?
    Fuck, yes .
    ‘Right you are then, Lofty,’ said Dave the giant in a surprisingly soft voice. He pointed to a bar spanning analcove. ‘I’m not going to bother my arse talking to you unless you can do ten pull-ups. You know what a pull-up is?’
    I nodded confidently. Of course I did. I watched Superstars .
    ‘And it’s not like they do it on Superstars .’
    Fuck .
    ‘They do pull-ups underarm,’ he said. ‘Royal Marines do ’em overarm.’
    He grabbed the bar – he didn’t need to jump – and demonstrated the grip. Then he paused and gave a sarcastic smile. ‘Of course, the ability to actually reach the bar is part of the test.’
    Happy with the task ahead, I jumped up and pulled myself up, planting my chin over the bar as instructed. I repeated this manoeuvre again and again and again, and after doing the requisite ten I carried on.
    ‘Alright,’ said the giant. ‘Get down. No need to show off.’
    I giggled in excited relief as my feet hit the deck.
    ‘Good effort,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll talk to you. Come through.’
    After our introductions, he asked the ultimate question.
    ‘So, why do you want to join the Royal Marines?’
    It was as if he had asked me to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity, only with commandos as elementary particles. I was totally stumped. I had popped in on a whim and was totally unprepared.
    ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’ve passed the technicians exam for the army.’
    That should impress him .
    ‘And?’
    Maybe not .
    ‘Well, it looks as though the Royal Marines are better.’
    ‘At what?’
    ‘Being commandos?’
    Well done, that’s brilliant stuff .
    He paused. ‘How much do you know about