by Mark Time
With the whole evening spare before reporting to the movements sergeant the next morning, we sat on our beds pondering what we should do. All options, we decided, were too dangerous. Despite being newly qualified commandos, there was nothing more frightening than being in a camp of 650 others. As a result, we dared not venture out any further than the heads, and only then once we’d done a recce to ensure there weren’t any green-bereted loons having a piss.
Late in the evening, an RAF corporal joined us. He was to spend a couple of weeks here before moving to more permanent accommodation at a nearby RAF communications detachment. We said little to him, not knowing whether to call him ‘Corporal’, as we were just out of training, or ‘mate’, as we were fully-trained dealers of death who laughed in the face of danger (as long as it wasn’t the face of a fellow bootneck).
But he had little to say to us, other than to request the direction of the NAAFI – somewhere we’d considered visiting, although we thought we might get bummed on the way.
We rose early the next morning and, with stomachs hungry from missing the previous night’s dinner, decided to go to breakfast. The RAF corporal followed us into the heads wearing his uniform. Jay and I instantly gained stature watching him shave with his jumper on.
‘We don’t shave with our tops on,’ I explained, echoing the words of my drill instructor in the induction fortnight of basic training.
‘I don’t give a fuck, mate. I’m not a Royal. Who are you again?’
‘I’m Mark,’ I said, a little more indignantly than warranted. ‘If you do that in the regular grots you’ll end up with a regimental bath, one that consists of bleach, washing powder and a hard, bristly bru…’
‘I know what a “regi” bath is, son,’ interjected the corporal. ‘Unlike you, I’ve been in longer than a NAAFI break. When I want advice from you I’ll ask for it. Got it?’
Well and truly put in my place, I didn’t really want to start my new career on a charge for arguing with an RAF corporal, so I left the debate rather deflated.
I saw him a couple of days later. He had moved temporarily to HQ company accommodation and had somehow lost both his eyebrows.
Welcome to 40 indeed…
EATING SMOKE
ONE MAN’S DESCENT INTO CRYSTAL METH PSYCHOSIS IN HONG KONG’S TRIAD HEARTLAND
Chris Thrall
Chris Thrall left the Royal Marine Commandos to find fortune in Hong Kong but following a series of bizarre incidents ended up homeless and in psychosis from crystal meth addiction.
But a man with Chris’s skills doesn’t go unnoticed for long. Soon he starts working for the 14K, one of the most notorious Chinese triad factions. And as the triad begins to cast its shadow over him, he is forced to survive in the world’s most unforgiving city, hooked on the world’s most dangerous drug.
Engaging, honest, yet full of Chris’s irrepressible humour in the face of adversity, this remarkable memoir becomes a truly psychotic urban nightmare.
‘Among the best of newcomers’ – THE STAR
‘A colourful cast from the sewers of Hong Kong’ – LOADED
AVAILABLE NOW £8.99
