Whilst Basic training and induction maybe a distant memory for many of the crusty old gits on here I'm sure memories of the characters you joined up with remain with you to this day. I joined as a Junior Leader in 1988 and can recal day one week one as if it was yesterday..... greeted by a red nosed Scots DG Sgt who hated us extra specially more because our train had been held up at Waterloo, it was clearly our fault and not the Railways.... Apparently his wife wasn't ugly and he wasn't on salad that night. Shown to our rooms and a battle for the bedspaces with strange lads with silly accents from all over the country. In my room I had a Black fella with a serious w@nking addiction, not shy would return from the shower with a towel round his waste, stand inside his locker doors and knock one out, then bimble back to the bogs to get some bog roll to mop up his paste from the bottom of his tardis. There was a geordie fella called Palmer, at 16 yrs old he would wake in the morning sounding like a 65 yr old with emphasemia... he would open the window and hock a dockers omlette that would stick a bison to the floor. He walked at the end of the week with some bullsh1t story that he was too violent for a career in the forces. In truth he was a wet that couldn't hack it We had a bloke who's reg number was one up from mine who cried himself to sleep at night and couldn't get out of his scratcher in the morning...... really popular fella when we ended up doing his block jobs. (vaguely remember him getting a Regi bath and a mild shoeing) Best of all there was 'Sweet feet Pete' a brummy, going to the 16/5th his feet honked like nothing on earth, he wasn't a grot by any means, but if he took his shoes / boots / PT trainers off you had to move away or you would be physically barfing. For a brummy he was very very posh and from a well to do family. They must have been outraged when he enlisted instead of opting for a comission. Knowing how badly this fellas feet hummed the training Corporal soon cottoned on that they could be used to his advantage. If we fcuked up, or if our Erasmus shaving foam tins still had signs of paint on them or our socks weren't smiley enough, we would have to lick between 'Sweet feets' toes, and chew on his feet.... at worst suck the juice from his socks. Knowing this was always a punishment, we used to let him off block jobs, so he could soak his feet so they wouldn't taste so bad.... Everything in the cookhouse for over six months tasted like toe jam and I reckon its the only hing on an equal parr to being a skiff victim. As I write this now I am chomping on a penguin its begining to taste like foot sweat residue. If that Trg Cpl is a memebr of Arrse then be aware, some of us are permanently scarred.