TRUST ME, I’M YOUR BOSS!

Everyone knows that in most jobs, the “new boy, or girl” is always the target for practical jokes. It goes with the territory, it has happened for years and it shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. I know, as well as you do, that these days we are blessed with the “Brigade of Do Gooders” and the “Royal Regiment of Political correctness”. Both organisations which are, sadly staffed by complete wankers. Humourless, narrow minded humbug merchants, who had no toys and unhappy childhoods, and who if given a chance would tax us every time we cracked a smile or, God forbid broke out into unabated laughter. And as for becoming involved in the organisation or execution practical jokes, well the miserable shits would be clamouring for the reintroduction of the death penalty!!

Hoewever,when new people join their employer for the first time they are welcomed with open arms,assured everyone will help them, they are encouraged to share their feelings of trepidation with the team and reassured that if they have any problems,then”they only have to ask!!”They are normally then handed to a Mentor, a person of senior standing who is well established within the job, and who they are assured will look after and assist them every step of the way, and will train, guide and support them through the initial stages of their employment.

Now doesn’t that sound grand? Doesn’t that sound just the ticket? Of course it does! And as we all know, if something sounds too good to be true, then it probably is, and these comments, which have been used time and time again are no different. They are undoubtedly a crock of shit! Because as soon as the new boy or girl is sucked into believing this, then this is where it becomes slightly murky. As good as it sounds, there is, it needs to be said more than an element of dishonesty in these false reassurances. What the new people are not told, is that the mentor, the surrogate parent almost, will also covertly probe the new person for personal weaknesses and character flaws which he will then pass on to the rest of the crew, in order for them all to start planning and plotting the initiation procedure, a path, which sadly all new people must tread.

At this juncture, I take no pleasure in having to share with you something I feel you may already be aware of. In spite of their bravery, professionalism, and efficiency, the British Armed Forces are no different in this respect. Bearing in mind that service personnel in general, have a reputation for possessing what you may reasonably refer to as a somewhat twisted sense of humour, any such advice is also given to recruits, both male and female, with tongue firmly in cheek. Most of it is also designed to mislead the unwary and the gullible and ensure that they are set up and given the opportunity to make a complete fool of themselves, often in the most embarrassing circumstances. The depths to which some military minds have plumbed in order to organise a “stitch up”, are amazing, in some cases it beggars belief that such behaviour could exist in what is regarded as normal society. In fact I am confident when I say that some examples even border upon the criminally and mentally insane!!

For example, in my case I was well and truly “stitched up”, but compared to some poor souls, who are probably still having nightmares or in depth counselling, mine was a minor issue, and was brought about due to the fact that at that time I possessed an extremely trusting nature, other less Christian souls would have referred to me as a naive little bastard, but there you go!!

Anyway, the situation arose during my first operational posting to the RAF Police flight at RAF Binbrook, which was a fully operational fighter station in Lincolnshire, which operated two squadrons of Lightning fighter aircraft. I had not been there long and was still suffering from the “settling in” syndrome, I was trying to establish myself as an efficient member of the team, but was still somewhat unsure of myself and very inexperienced. I tried my best to look the business, but if truth be told, I was operating well out of my depth. My inexperience and naïveté made me a God given target to anyone who wished to practice their practical joking skills, and believe me there were plenty of those people around I can tell you.

I found myself in what could be termed as a very painful and vulnerable position early on in the tour, owing to the fact that the old fashioned working dress uniforms we were issued with, colloquially referred to as “hairy blues”, were the most uncomfortable garments ever created. They were made of a material which was a cross between sand paper and wire wool, or at least it felt like that, and in areas where you tended to sweat, they would erode the skin from you in seconds.

People were affected in different areas of their bodies, my particularly painful and vulnerable area just happened to be at the very top of the inside of my thighs. The area extended at least four inches down my legs and was as sore as fuck. Putting the trousers on every day did nothing to help the area heal, so I ended up walking as though I had shat myself. Over a period of time it became unbearable and having watched me struggle for some time, one of the senior ranks, eventually asked me if I had some kind of problem.

As we were alone, and as we had worked together quite a bit, I foolishly felt I could trust him. So, urgently needing to find a cure for this discomfort which was getting worse by the day, I confided in my “Mentor”, who I felt was acting in my best interests and coughed the whole story. I did draw the line at dropping my pants and showing him though, because if anyone had walked into the Police office and found us alone and me with my pants around my ankles and my tackle out we may well have found ourselves with some very serious and in depth explaining to do.

The guy concerned, who will remain nameless, but I am sure he will remember this incident, and should he remember me and find himself reading this, I would just like to say “You’ll get yours you bastard”……., sat and listened sympathetically for some time. He reassuringly explained the problem was a common one and could be cleared up quickly and with minimal fuss. His manner was that of a paternal uncle and I really felt he was trying to help me, well…..was I wrong or what!!!!

My colleague informed me that the medication cream I needed was held in the Medical Centre, and as we were on duty he sent me over there, he said he would arrange things with the duty medic, who was a mate of his, in order to spare me the embarrassment of an examination and said he would phone ahead to tell him what was needed. How nice of him, I thought.

I can hear what you are saying, “Why didn’t he tell you what to ask for???”

Well as I now know much to my fucking cost, if I had shown the Medic what the problem was I would have got the correct stuff, and things would have been different, but hey, hindsight is a wonderful gift, is it not?

Unbeknown to me however, my oppo, God love him, and may his next shit be a live hedgehog, wrapped in rusty barbed wire, had informed the Medic that I was ripe for a stitch up and as these two bastards were good buddies so they decided to have some fun at my expense. I was therefore given what I assumed was the medication I needed to treat this condition, along with the stern advice to use it liberally.

I got back to the Police section as fast as my sore thighs and crotch would allow, and ran straight through to the bogs, shouting a quick thank you to my “mate.” Upon reflection, bearing in mind what was about to happen, I now realise that I used the term “mate” far too prematurely and far too fucking loosely indeed, believe me.

As I passed him still sat at his desk, I seem to remember, looking back at the incident, that he looked rather smug. However, as I was focused upon ending my period of uniform induced discomfort, I surmised he was happy at having helped me and so I took no notice. Sadly for me, I should have done.

I hurriedly dropped my trousers and under crackers, opened the tube and lathered this cream on. The cool, soothing feeling was a blessed relief, almost orgasmic, as I had suffered so much in the past few weeks. This welcome but sadly, very temporary respite was absolute bliss, I got dressed, cleaned my hands and went back into the nick.

My colleague was sat quietly smoking his pipe and catching up on the paperwork and gently enquired if things were o.k., I replied they were, thanked him and said I felt much better. As I said this, I noticed, what I could now refer to as a smug self-satisfied grin spread slowly across his face, his bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Think nothing of it mate, glad to have been able to help” he said.

Now I know as well as you do that we have agreed that hindsight is a wonderful gift, but if we knew what was going to happen before it actually did, then from where I wonder, would all these wonderful learning experiences and jocular tales come from? Anyway I let the benign, smug look of contentment on my colleagues face slip from my mind and carried on working.

For the next few minutes everything was fine in the area of my nether regions, if I sat still I was o.k. and the soreness appeared to have settled. However, as the minutes ticked by, I felt the area between my thighs become slightly warmer; this feeling appeared to be slowly growing in intensity and began to spread to my scrotum. The warmth then increased drastically and I began to squirm slightly on my chair. My mate asked me if I was o.k. and I muttered something about a bit of discomfort, I completely failed to notice that he had developed a sly all-knowing grin as he was fully aware of the events about to overtake me.

My inner thighs then began to feel as though I had sat on a blow torch and my ball bag and contents began to feel like two boiling eggs. I became aware around about this time that my colleague had started to giggle, I gritted my teeth as I fought to control the pain which had by now reached a serious level and was beginning to affect my bum as the cream spread through my pants. Never mind I thought to myself, it will settle down in a few minutes as the cream is absorbed…..WRONG!

I left it as long as I could before I realised that I had to do something and I had to do it fast, I raced back to the bathroom pulling my pants down as I went, and as I closed the door I could hear my mate erupt into a fit of hysterical laughter, my last sight of him as I dashed for the toilet was of him prostrate over the desk, head resting on his arms, with his shoulder heaving up and down as he laughed uncontrollably.

I was by now aware that I had been well and truly stitched up, but at that particular moment I was more concerned with keeping my testicles from being chemically removed, the skin at the tops of my legs was by now bright red and extremely painful. I attempted to remove the cream with soap and water on toilet paper, but as the toilet tissue was of the infamous Izal variety, which will be referred to later in this book, sadly I have to say once more in unfortunate circumstances, I made little progress. The pain was by now unbearable and was showing no clear sign of abating so drastic measures needed to be applied.

In order to close this embarrassing episode I take no pleasure whatsoever in having to inform you that as a last desperate resort, I was reduced to removing all my lower garments except my shoes and socks, and had to attempt to mount the hand basin and sit in it, in order to submerge my bum and my testicles in cool soothing water.

The sight of my bare arse and genitalia firmly parked in the Guardroom sink and my upper body still clad in full R.A.F Police uniform, with my skinny white legs sporting black shoes and socks dangling beneath, would have been much of a talking point to any person unfortunate enough to have witnessed it, I can tell you. God knows what would have happened if the boss had walked in, but I can honestly say at that moment I did not give a fuck. My balls were top of my priority list, and even if I had been threatened with my photograph being displayed on the front page of every daily newspaper throughout the country, including the Provost Parade, it would not have made any difference whatsoever, such was my despair.

When the pain had subsided to an acceptable level, and having carried out a full check of my equipment testicular, I was able to regain my composure, get dressed and return to duty. I staggered back into the nick, sweating like an asylum seeker in a dole queue, and gingerly lowered myself into my chair Wincing as my arse came into contact with the seat, I noticed that my mate had succeeded in calming himself. His eyes were red and he was exhausted with mirth.

“Fucking hell kid that was funny” he says.

“Well, I’m fucking pleased you thought so you wanker” I replied, “What the hell was that then”.

“Apparently, it’s called Mycota cream”, he said feigning ignorance and pretending to read the instructions, “And evidently you use it for athlete’s foot”

“So how come I ended up with it all over my bollocks then?” I snarled.

“Sorry mate, I must have asked for the wrong stuff” he intoned, “Either that or the Medic misheard me. Come on mate, you know I wouldn’t do anything like that on purpose now don’t you”?

“Yeah, I’ll just bet he fucking did as well, you bastard, and yes of course I believe you, I thought they were both coming off then, bloody hell that hurt.”

I think the look on my face must have triggered some form of response, because all of a sudden, my mate suddenly started shaking his head from side to side, as he attempted to stop himself from suffering another fit of hysteria, his eyes filled with tears and off he went again the bastard.

There he was, my senior corporal, my mentor, one of the R.A.F Police’s finest, collapsed completely, prone over the desk with the tears of mirth running out the arse of his trousers. Whatever we would have done if there had been an emergency I have no idea. There were two of us on duty, I could hardly walk, and my opposite number couldn’t even look at me without totally losing control and pissing himself laughing. Talk about the Keystone cops!!

As Confucius say” Never trust man who pretend to be your friend if it involves your bollocks, your woman or your money.” Well o.k. then, perhaps he didn’t quite say it like that but I’m sure he would have said something equally profound if he’d seen me with my bare arse and my meat and two veg firmly planted in Guardroom sink!!

Upon reflection, this experience, as funny as it seems now, did teach me a very important lesson though. It taught me not to accept any advice at face value. It also taught me to read very carefully, any information provided by manufacturers of medication, before I ingest, apply or even more importantly insert it into my body. It had been such a painful experience that at first I flatly refused to accept any advice whatsoever, just in case, but then you can be forgiven for feeling you may be becoming paranoid.Well,whether you are or not, it doesn’t mean to say that they’re not out to get you does it ???

/lin���4���

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