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the Corps, son?’
    The core ? What was he on about? Working on the basis that it must be some sort of alternative name for the Royal Marines, and deciding to come clean, I said, ‘Actually, pretty little. I liked the look of the window display.’
    That’s it, I’ve blown it. I’m trying to join the Royal Marines here, not frigging Debenhams .
    ‘Well, at least you’re honest. That’s a good start. Integrity is something we seek. We can book you in for the aptitude tests but, to be honest, you need to start reading up on life as a Royal Marine. It’s totally different from the army. We wash, for a start.’
    Our talk ended with a test date booked, and a handful of pamphlets given out by the sailor. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘have a look at these as well.’
    I smiled and thanked him. There was no way I was going to be a matelot. I had been seasick on the pedalos on Bridlington boating lake.
    I returned a couple of weeks later to conduct my numeracy, literacy and mechanical aptitude tests. I found them comparatively easy and the maths test was especially pleasing, as no calculus was involved. The adjudicating naval petty officer called me in to his small area once the marks had been completed.
    ‘Listen, son,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a look at your marks andyou should be applying for a technician or artificer’s job in the Royal Navy. You can read and write… you’ll be over-qualified as a booty.’
    I listened, but my mind was elsewhere. I was imagining myself as an alpha male, abseiling from helicopters and storming exotic beaches.
    I was then interviewed by a Royal Marines warrant officer. This went swimmingly, not least because he too was from a broken home. He waxed lyrical about ‘the Corps’, as he repeatedly called it, and said more than once, ‘It has been my family.’
    A family was certainly something I was hankering after – a group of people who would look after me, where I could blossom into someone I could be proud of.
    * * *
    After passing the PRC, my joining date couldn’t come soon enough. Even then it was too long.
    As per usual, my stepdad’s Friday night consisted of going to the working men’s club and getting so drunk he could hardly mutter his name. On one particular occasion, my mother joined him and I was left to look after the puppy they’d just acquired – logical, when you’re about to purchase a fish and chip shop.
    After yet another gut-churning clean-up of the dog’s arse gravy, I stuck on a video of Gremlins . Later on, the back door slammed open and I could hear my mother screaming obscenities over the film. She stumbled into the living room, bleeding heavily from the mouth, followed by my stepdad,who stood there glowering. He had punched her full in the face, breaking her two front teeth and splitting her lip.
    I didn’t know what to do. He’d used me as a punch bag often enough, but this was the first time I’d seen him physically abusing my mam. He launched at her again, grabbing her hair. This time, thirteen years after I’d last seen her in this situation, I could do something. I launched into him with every joule of anger I had, knocking him to the floor.
    I thought I’d done a satisfactory job but my fighting ability wasn’t really up to his standard. He got up quicker than a drunken arsehole should ever be able to, and grabbed my throat, choking me out with his gargantuan miner’s hands. My weight training hadn’t prepared me for this. If he’d asked to arm wrestle I might have been able to put up some form of resistance, but he was doing me serious damage.
    Just as the stars in my eyes started to be extinguished, his grip loosened as his body crashed to the floor. My mam stood over him, a half-full vodka bottle in her hand. When you get hit over the head with one of those babies they don’t smash like they do in the films. He was out for the count. We left that night, but within two days we were back. Strangely enough, he never hit me again.
    I tried to