Army Rumour Service

Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!

Officers vs Common Soldiers... what exactly IS the difference...

Do Army officers follow the same metamorphosis as RN officers from their "birth"?

Roughly along the lines of- Tim Nice but dim > Alan B'stard > Alan Partridge

Attenborough famously narrated:

"The infant young officer hatches at Dartmouth, the rough edges of a regional accent are artificially erroded, and the plumage is chosen to reflect what they think their mentors will agree with.
The young hatchlings are released to the wild, beyond the bonds of their mentors and into the wild fleet, a fleet full of former mentors - who used to be hatchlings themselves. Those former mentors vigourously police the new arrivals, everything from their plumage to their accoutrements are held up to rigourous scrutiny. One hatchling feels very hungry-and opts for spotted dick and custard as a pudding during a wardroom run ashore: "That's not an officer's duff!" screams an old hand at the demure hatchling.
The hatchling wants approval from his peers,superiors and subordinates, in order to do so he needs to prove himself.He needs to demonstrate leadership & guidance. The hatchling studies and becomes slowly separated from his peers, as he raises his profile within his superior's attention, often to the detriment and bewilderment of his subordinates.
The old guard eventually move on and- the once hatchling finds himself in their former role - and thus the circle of life continues...A-HA!"
 
Last edited:
Pah, you all squeal and bleed the same in a dental chair
Marathon Man --1.jpg
 
Oh no! Where will I get my collars?

Ann Summers


Fill yer boots
 
Unfortunately not, I was in Blandford at the time though. I was most amused at those that thought the sky had fallen on their heads...the world carried on turning and we’re still shit at Comms.
Tell us of the fall out. I want to bask in the discomfort of those involved.
 
Officers drink fancy champagne cocktails and whiskies whilst the common soldier drinks cheap crap lager
RSM to assembled mess members...

"Right then - we have been invited for Pimms on the lawn at the Officer's mess at 1900 tonight.

Hold the moaning - I don't want to go any more than you do.

However, they will be paying for the drink on their mess bills so get over there and get as much down your necks as you can..."

I have never seen so many 1st Lts running around like Manuel in Fawlty Towers carrying jugs of Pimms on silver trays :)
 

Diogenes' limp

Old-Salt
Things have obviously changed for officers.
Most patches I lived on were semi detached.
Though also lived in flats.

And neither my father nor myself ever got 4 bedrooms.
Mid 70s, 4 Queens Drive, Maresfield, 4 bedrooms detached and a delightful place to live, not that I saw so much of it.

But it was on departing that a signal difference between officers and other ranks was revealed to me by the civvy chappies that did the quarters hand overs. Houses left in a state of domestic neglect were almost invariably officer's quarters. Too posh to polish I think they said, maybe it was too deb to dust.

They shared this pertinent gem as I handed back a spotless house, but didn't really have the heart to tell them it was the live in Nanny/housekeeper's work they were admiring.

Hope that helps the op in his quest, I'm sure it's much the same today.
 

jrwlynch

LE
Book Reviewer
And in that short example, I think you have just hot the nail squarely on the difference between Offr and ORs head.

Offrs, generally having been "educated" at university will have been exposed to woke-think and the belief that it is their inalienable right to never be offended. All forms of queefery are implicitly tolerated, if not encouraged. In search of a common identity they do stupid things like wear brightly coloured Fat Face tops, cords, and high-leg yard boots in the hope that they "fit in", when in fact we just make ourselves look like tw@ts when we go out in public. In all honesty, if we were true to ourselves we'd just wear jeans, trainers, and a Super Dry polo shirt, but we daren't because that voice in the back of the head suggests some invisible cav to55er of a Maj somewhere is judging us.

I will admit that it's a wry amusement to be working at Warminster (presenting as a half-century old civilian) and noting how the Officer's Mess appears to be infested by the output of some supervillain's cloning machine, with scores, even hundreds, of indistinguishable, identikit fresh-faced YOs; some popping their eyes at the grey-haired oldster daring to wear a dark-coloured shirt!
 
I will admit that it's a wry amusement to be working at Warminster (presenting as a half-century old civilian) and noting how the Officer's Mess appears to be infested by the output of some supervillain's cloning machine, with scores, even hundreds, of indistinguishable, identikit fresh-faced YOs; some popping their eyes at the grey-haired oldster daring to wear a dark-coloured shirt!
Conforming to the stereotype is impressively easy to do. One guy I was in the OTC with, on going to RMAS with ambitions of a chippy wedgiment of donkey wollopers, suddenly double-barreled his name. The sudden aquisition of checked shirts, red trousers, tweed jackets and brown suede loafers in a wardrobe previous encumbered with jeans, Stussy sweatshirts, hoodies and trainers was a phenomenon to beheld. Over time YO's develop a dress sense akin to their dad's, or at least the Capts and Majs in their circle swapping high street brands for Fat Face, Weird Fish, Joules, Ariat and Pringle golf-jumpers and odd mix-and-match ensembles that resemble the "Korean student about town for the first time meets bewildered young farmer" look. The strange thing is, you feel self conscious for NOT doing it, that is until you go home and see people who knew you before this metamorphasis, look you in the eye and ask "what the FUKC do you think you look like?"
 
Not all Soldiers are common, try telling a Guardsman, a Para Reg Tom, or and EOD op that they are just Common soldiers and your get a good smack in the chops for your trouble and probably ruptured testicles to boot.
Indeed, you're quite right. The days of Wellington's 'common and licentious soldiery' are largely behind us. However, what is alarming is the profusion of rather 'common' officers one sees cutting around.
 
As I mentioned on the Interesting Court Martial thread, a simple combat indicator is the way someone holds their knife when dining. If it is held like a pen, they are common and therefore an OR (see also LE).

Same if they have 'dinner' at lunchtime. Cut off social contact, immediately.
The meal served at midday or thereabouts is called ‘dinner’. If you disagree then ask yourself, in school what were the women who served that meal called.

(Although for some of the officer corps it may be ‘servants’).
 
Conforming to the stereotype is impressively easy to do. One guy I was in the OTC with, on going to RMAS with ambitions of a chippy wedgiment of donkey wollopers, suddenly double-barreled his name. The sudden aquisition of checked shirts, red trousers, tweed jackets and brown suede loafers in a wardrobe previous encumbered with jeans, Stussy sweatshirts, hoodies and trainers was a phenomenon to beheld. Over time YO's develop a dress sense akin to their dad's, or at least the Capts and Majs in their circle swapping high street brands for Fat Face, Weird Fish, Joules, Ariat and Pringle golf-jumpers and odd mix-and-match ensembles that resemble the "Korean student about town for the first time meets bewildered young farmer" look. The strange thing is, you feel self conscious for NOT doing it, that is until you go home and see people who knew you before this metamorphasis, look you in the eye and ask "what the FUKC do you think you look like?"
I mentioned it on another thread, but at Ballykinler where you did (NITAT?) the training package upon arrival in theatre all the grown ups where on the front row of the lecture theatre with us scum arrayed behind them.

The lecture was about personal security - the SNCO ripped into the assembled squaddery and mocked them for their dress sense, at the time mostly consisting of: Desert boots, jeans, rugby shirt - with occasional forays into Ron hills if the missus hadn’t nicked them to go with her white stilettos. We were all in civvies IIRC as we were on the first day and didn’t have chance to change after the puke pantech from Lisburn.

This caused muted cbuckling from the front row. The DS pointed out the proliferation of checked shirts, brogues and mustard cords and suggested that as higher value targets they might want to reconsider their sartorial choices too.
 
The meal served at midday or thereabouts is called ‘dinner’. If you disagree then ask yourself, in school what were the women who served that meal called.

(Although for some of the officer corps it may be ‘servants’).
It's often said that it was one of the subtle ways to weed out "undesirables" from the more status-ridden organisations like certain universities, banks, legal firms, clubs and so on that you sought either employment from, or admission to, when such information as your schooling is redacted from the application paperwork was to test what term the candidate uses to identify their mid-day victuals. Therefore, irrespective of whether or not I had "dinnerladies" serving out slop at school I eat "lunch". I don't care what you call it on any conceptual level, but I do care about being discriminated against by some snot with less wit and capability than me whose sense of entitlement grows from where his or her parents could afford to send them to fail their A Levels.
 

Latest Threads

Top