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Ban head‑punch bouts, Paras major demands

Thats why I said he didnt lack courage.
He kept on getting up and having another go.
Watch it again, look at the continual head back and up, body leaning back, arms flailing uselessly.
(I couldn't box for shit, wasn't really interested in learning boxing, but I had to learn how to scrap due to 70's boarding school.)
He is probably very good military material ; not sure he can do vicious when required.

It was probably his first time ever milling. Its similar when most people box for the first time, loads of defence and backing away. Once you get used to it, its becomes easier.
 

FORMER_FYRDMAN

LE
Book Reviewer
Even Mike Tyson said the best plan goes out the window once you get punched in the face.

Indeed, but there's only one way to learn the truth of that statement.
 
15 knots ISTR.
I was later told that a senior officer had brought his lady friend to see some parachuting and so it went ahead, despite the wind 'gusting'. I was in the first of several simultaneous sticks of 5, someone else in that stick broke their arm/collar bone and further parachuting was then scrubbed. I don't know how much of that is correct, I was in La La Land or CMH.

Milling is preparation for the abuse that follows.
Normally the RAF cancel the jump when their is even a sniff of the wind approaching 13 knots.

Usually after you have spent several hours flying low level around the UK looking out at sheep looking in.

The plane smells of sick, oil, avegas and sixty paratroopers farting with fear.

Stood at Action stations with BFO bergan hanging off your strop, occaisonally going airborne when Biggles hits an air pocket.

Doors open, red light on, yes I am going to be out of this flying tin can in a few seconds.

PJI waves his arms, jump scrubbed. I am sure they do it on purpose, just to get their hours in and piss off the pongos

I think what happened in your case was that the RAF PJI on the DZ was so busy leaching at the VSOs lady's tits that he forgot all about the wind speeds.
 
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Referee of the over 80's underwater nude leapfrogging world championships.
Free-fall extreme ironing and chip frying display team.
Official organiser, at the annual burial at sea winners, with a woman of their own choice.
kipper juggling on the sea front at Cleethorpes.
subtranian bog snorkelling through the sewers of Cairo.
The WRAC all male minge display collective.
The RAF Regt
Referee of the WRAC versus QARANC naked mud fighting contest.

I worry about myself sometimes.
 
All Arms P Company test week June 1983.

In the morning the Tranasium then milling followed by the stretcher race, so the fear factor was already high in my case.

P company against the Parachute Regiment recruits completing their P company week.

Opponents matched off via height and weight.

I was only about ten to ten and a half stone and 5ft 10 in height, so I was at the end of the line before they got to the dwarfs and midgets. I was paired off against a fair haired, mild mannered looking Para recruit of the same height and weight who looked more like a college boy than a 'born to kill dealer of death from above'. He looked as nervous as I did.

It was one and a half minutes of pure toe to toe slug fest. No footwork or you would be disqualified and start again. This suited me as I had no footwork or boxing skill anyway.

No protective head guard in those days. Fail to show enough aggression and you would fight again.

Most of the bouts were over by the time it got to us. Monster versus monster. The mats were full of blood and snot. The P Company Depot staffs blood lust was up.

Para college boy was being psyched up by his recruit Sgt.

"Kill the hat, kill the hat, kill, kill, kill". I could see my oppo changing from college boy to cold blooded would - be airborne killer.

I remained a peace loving RE postie corporal whose only mission was to survive with his good looks intact.

The bell rang and we were off. For the first thirty seconds we were knocking seven bells of shit out of each other.

After thirty seconds I started to tire and received a rain of blows. Should I take a fall here to gain a few seconds respite, or will they make me fight again.

Whie I was debating these options with myself, I felt him begin to tire and his blows slackened considerably.

"Yes" I thought and for the last 30 seconds I delivered a flurry of my own blows to Mr Para recruit.

The bell went after what seemed like a lifetime and the most important thing was I was intact, none of that blood and snot on the mats belonged to me, and I didn't have to fight again.

I don't know who won the fight and frankly I didn't give a f*ck anyway - Who-Cares-Who-Wins is my motto.

I received a couple of blows that hurt, one above the eye-brow and one on the side of the head.

These were soon forgotten about as the next event was the seven mile stretcher race in eighty degree height in Long valley.

I never saw Mr Para college boy again. Maybe he became an officer and finished as a General. Or maybe he was commissioned and eventually ended up working in Nigeria.
 
I certainly did it Hendon. I think that the Met police rationale was different from that of Paras. With the Paras it was to show determination and aggression. With the Met it was to get the recruit used to the idea of taking a punch. They were likely to encounter violent situations and many recruits had probably never been involved in a punch up.
We were told that. Wondered why the females didn't have to do it - Equal rights and all that. Maybe they thought women were not going to be in violent situations, even against other women.

I don't know about you I found that despite all the arrest and restraint training at the end of the day it all came down to what is known in Met Police terminolgy as 'a bundle'.

Rush the baddie so he can't start throwing punches, take his legs away. Cuffs on. Into the back of the van shouting and screaming. Off load in custody - into cell shouting and screaming that he would 'sue you and you would be out of a job and your wife and kids would be on the streets' etc, etc.

Next morning when woken and in front of the custody officer.

"Bejasus officer, was I really such a cnut. and you all seem like such nice peaple".
 
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From watching my mate fly across the dance floor after getting too close to the pretty WRAC who just happened to be a lesbian. Her girlfriend (Cam) took no prisoners!
There was no such thing as pretty WRAC lesbians when I was there. Lip stick lesbians han't been invented. The standard civilian dress was short spikey librians haircuts, jeans, Ben Sherman shirt, braces, and Doctor Martins boots.

And that was just the taker, not the giver.
 

4(T)

LE
Normally the RAF cancel the jump when their is even a sniff of the wind approaching 13 knots.

Usually after you have spent several hours flying low level around the UK looking out at sheep looking in.

The plane smells of sick, oil, avegas and sixty paratroopers farting with fear.

Stood at Action stations with BFO bergan hanging off your strop, occaisonally going airborne when Biggles hits an air pocket.

Doors open, red light on, yes I am going to be out of this flying tin can in a few seconds.

PJI waves his arms, jump scrubbed. I am sure they do it on purpose, just to get their hours in and piss off the pongos

I think what happened in your case was that the RAF PJI on the DZ was so busy leaching at the VSOs lady's tits that he forgot all about the wind speeds.


Maybe its discretionary.

Wind on the DZ during the Arnhem 50th was apparently 19 knots gusting to 25+.

Someone on the ground evidently decided that risking his career was a better option than waving off a stream of 20(?) aircraft, and so the jump went ahead. Funnily enough, I had my best landing ever.
 

Crazy_Chester

Old-Salt
All Arms P Company test week June 1983.

In the morning the Tranasium then milling followed by the stretcher race, so the fear factor was already high in my case.

P company against the Parachute Regiment recruits completing their P company week.

Opponents matched off via height and weight.

I was only about ten to ten and a half stone and 5ft 10 in height, so I was at the end of the line before they got to the dwarfs and midgets. I was paired off against a fair haired, mild mannered looking Para recruit of the same height and weight who looked more like a college boy than a 'born to kill dealer of death from above'. He looked as nervous as I did.

It was one and a half minutes of pure toe to toe slug fest. No footwork or you would be disqualified and start again. This suited me as I had no footwork or boxing skill anyway.

No protective head guard in those days. Fail to show enough aggression and you would fight again.

Most of the bouts were over by the time it got to us. Monster versus monster. The mats were full of blood and snot. The P Company Depot staffs blood lust was up.

Para college boy was being psyched up by his recruit Sgt.

"Kill the hat, kill the hat, kill, kill, kill". I could see my oppo changing from college boy to cold blooded would - be airborne killer.

I remained a peace loving RE postie corporal whose only mission was to survive with his good looks intact.

The bell rang and we were off. For the first thirty seconds we were knocking seven bells of shit out of each other.

After thirty seconds I started to tire and received a rain of blows. Should I take a fall here to gain a few seconds respite, or will they make me fight again.

Whie I was debating these options with myself, I felt him begin to tire and his blows slackened considerably.

"Yes" I thought and for the last 30 seconds I delivered a flurry of my own blows to Mr Para recruit.

The bell went after what seemed like a lifetime and the most important thing was I was intact, none of that blood and snot on the mats belonged to me, and I didn't have to fight again.

I don't know who won the fight and frankly I didn't give a f*ck anyway - Who-Cares-Who-Wins is my motto.

I received a couple of blows that hurt, one above the eye-brow and one on the side of the head.

These were soon forgotten about as the next event was the seven mile stretcher race in eighty degree height in Long valley.

I never saw Mr Para college boy again. Maybe he became an officer and finished as a General. Or maybe he was commissioned and eventually ended up working in Nigeria.

@Oyibo - nawaooo.
 

Crazy_Chester

Old-Salt
Ehen, he don come again. Show am pepper - flog am well well for this your milling competition
 

Oyibo

LE
So it was you. A draw you say. I thought Paras only did win or lose. Not that I gave a flying F**K anyway.

I hope that not too much of that blood and snot on the mat belonged to you!

Not me - only recruits on my P Coy. Although both me and my opponent were later commissioned.
 

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