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The Eejit's Cup

My two companions were drunk and disorderly ‘Who put a twat like you in charge anyway?’ the Scotsman growled.

‘The Army’ I replied ‘will you please get in the vehicle?’

‘Lusten ersehole ah’m wantin’ anither drink an’ the pubs are open ye ken?’ he slurred,

I looked at the duty driver who read my mind ‘I'm only the driver mate don’t involve me.’

Jock pushed past me I grabbed his shoulder pulling him back. ‘Come on Jock don’t be...’ He swung at me but he was slow, I sidestepped retaliating with a right cross and down he went like a sack of soggy sago.

His mate, the Brummie, stared open mouthed. My temper snapped; enough of this shit. ‘You want some too arsehole?’ I shouted ‘get in that bloody vehicle NOW!’ He shot into the Landrover and sat looking sheepish. ’Right, driver,’ I said ‘give me a hand with Horrible Hamish here.’ Between us we stuffed him moaning into the back. On arrival at the Guardroom both were asleep.

I’d left Aldershot for Colchester having failed my Paratroopers' course. I’d got through the physical bit (just) then my medical records arrived. My eyesight was below acceptable standard I was rejected. I felt six feet lower than shark shit.

They’d put me in charge of two cook privates posted to my unit. Unfortunately the buggers had just been paid. Supping a beer at the station it was all very friendly. However they continued drinking on the train then, at Colchester, instead of reporting to the Regiment they’d wanted more ale.

                      ******************

We were met by the Regimental Sergeant Major. ‘Sergeant Gorton!’ he yelled into the guardroom ‘Get these drunken buggers into the cells. You in charge gunner?'

‘Yessah’ I bawled slamming to attention.

‘Right get your sorry arse over to my office.’ he pointed to a nearby building ‘double you idle bugger’ he screamed.

I trotted, waiting on his verandah whilst he jailed the drunks. Later in his office he asked ‘what happened gunner?’ I told him. ‘Right, greatcoat off, jump on those scales’ he ordered. I was confused but obeyed. He looked at the dial ‘Ah nine stone thirteen pounds that’s light welter.’

‘What’s light welter sir?’ I asked

‘It’s a boxing weight lad; I'm short of a light welterweight.’

‘But I don’t box sir.’

He looked genuinely amused ‘The duty driver says you did OK at the station so now you’re one of my boxers sonshine.’

‘But’ I protested ‘I don’t want to let you down sir.’

‘Don’t worry lad’ he said ‘the fight’s not for ten days you've plenty of time to learn.’

The next ten days were hectic with finding my feet in my new battery and training for the fight. My opponent’s mates played mind games saying ‘he’s been boxing since he was ten (That bit was true) he’ll kill yer.’

Fight night: I was sitting in ‘our’ dressing room listening to the hullabaloo from the Gymnasium. Shouts of ‘stop his heart Henry’ and ‘butcher the bastard Bert’ made it all sound terrifyingly bloodthirsty. Bodies were being helped back bloodied, battered and bewildered. My knees were knocking when they called my name. ‘Yer up in two minutes move yerself.’ My heart sank.

Climbing into the ring the gym seemed ominously quiet I was the newbie, the unknown quantity. Tales of my dropping 'Horrible Hamish' had spread growing with each retelling. The mob was salivating in eager anticipation of my demise.

My second said ‘stand on that’ pointing to a shallow box of resin. I managed to stand on the edge tipping it all over the ring. ‘Clumsy bastard’ he cursed and the whole proceedings stopped whilst a broom was fetched. The crowd jeered.

Round one: My opponent crept out cautiously it seems mind games work both ways. This guy ain’t much I thought after dodging a couple of blows then landing one of my own bringing blood from his mouth. I moved in for the kill. Wham! I walked straight into a trap. I was on the floor with the ref counting five, six, seven, I was confused what the hell had happened to one, two, three, four? I leapt up glaring at the ref, he stopped at nine.

The second round was frustrating we were evenly matched landing blow for blow. I was knackered when it ended.‘You’ve got the sod now’ my second said.

‘I have?’ I asked in amazement it didn’t feel like it.

Round three: He came out like a whirlwind three minutes to go. His experience showed, every time I threw a punch he covered up I was anxious to get at him but my arms were leaden. Should I turn southpaw that might confuse the bugger? He attacked strongly all technique gone as we went toe to toe trading blows each desperate to land the winner. I could hear the crowd going wild; bloody hell they were shouting for me! I stepped in quickly and nearly fell as I trod heavily on his foot then the bell went. It was over, he'd won.

To be fair he was the better boxer and I had taken a count. Ah well it was not as bad as I’d feared. After showering I went to find him. He was still in his gear looking forlorn. ‘Fancy a beer?’ I asked after congratulating him.

‘You’ve hurt me foot I can’t walk.’ He said resentfully.

The finals were next night. Alas my opponent couldn't fight as I’d broken his foot. After the contests the winners were called and the colonel awarded the cups. My name was called. I was puzzled, at the ringside I told the Irish sergeant checking the names that I was a loser. ‘Bejaysus son you've won da best loser’s cup’ he told me ‘dey give dat to the eejit who takes the biggest beating.’

The colonel said 'It's easy to go on when you're winning damned hard when you're losing.'

I've won many cups at different sports  since then but the ‘eejit’s cup’ is still my favourite.

Copyright © J A Milligan All rights reserved
Written by blocat
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