A Night With The Army
Growing up in the grey, concrete wilderness that was a Glasgow housing estate, there were two annual events which brought a little colour and spectacle to our monochrome lives.
The first was when 鈥渢he carnival鈥 arrived. Now, at this point, please don鈥檛 clutter your head with exotic images of a South American street festival. The 鈥渃arnival鈥 in involved a half dozen or so fun-fair rides (dodgems, watlzers etc.) and a few stalls where, for example, you could try to hook a plastic duck and win a yo-yo. Still, in relative terms, it was a spectacle. There were lots of coloured lights, loud music and the sweet smell of toffee apples and candy floss mingled with the savoury stench of hot dogs and onions.
The other big event was when arrived. It was usually at the end of June or early July that a convoy of military trucks and trailers would snake its way through the streets and set up camp on the red ash playing fields at the bottom of our road. There would be tanks and artillery, walk-through caravans and organised displays. The highlight of the week involved paratroopers dropping from the sky with red smoke streaming from their heels, aiming for a target near the school rugby field. As I recall, one or two would go hopelessly adrift and end up in nearby woods鈥r somewhere near Carlisle.
It was a bit like the circus coming to town and, when the week was over and the line of green trucks drove away, there would be a sense of anti-climax. No wonder, then, that so many local teenagers decided to follow the circus all the way to the front line. In fact five of my six older brothers joined up and came home telling of their adventures in Bahrain, Germany, Canada and other places so far away from Easterhouse you couldn鈥檛 even get there by Corporation bus.
All of this came to mind tonight as I was driving back from Inverness in time to attend an event at the Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow. It was organised by the and, we were told, the audience included ex military personnel, members of the media and some of Glasgow鈥檚 鈥渙pinion-formers鈥. This was the Army鈥檚 way of telling 鈥渢heir side of the story鈥. We were assured, however, that they were 鈥渘ot declaring open season on the media鈥.
Waiting in the foyer I met Allan Rennie, the Editor of the . I shared with him my fear that we were about to be brainwashed.
鈥淒o you think we鈥檒l still be the same people when we come back out?鈥
Allan laughed but suggested that that I had maybe been watching too many episodes of Doctor Who.
This kind of event is not without its critics. Outside the Concert Hall I had been met by members of a Quaker group who were handing out pamphlets listing the questions 鈥渢he army refuse to answer鈥. Then, as the event began, one woman sitting in the row behind me made her protest by continuing to speak at a conversational level and was eventually ejected by security guards.
The presentation itself was led by Colonel Andy Bristow who has clearly perfected his patter which included a plea that audience members sit near the front because 鈥渙nly the back five rows will be asked to complete the assault course鈥.
The Colonel and his team took us through a slick mix of slides and videos which covered everything from recruitment numbers (not being influenced by the war in Iraq) through housing for married service personnel (being improved) and worries about equipment (soldiers have always complained about their kit).
Indeed, on this last point, the Colonel had a little fun at the media鈥檚 expense. He told how, when serving in Iraq, some newspapers suggested that soldiers were running short of basics such as Mars Bars and toilet paper. This, said the Colonel, was not true and 鈥渂esides, if we had run out of loo paper, we always had the newspapers鈥︹ As a finale, the Colonel went through the questions posed on the Quakers' pamphlet. He answered some of them and suggested others would have to be taken up by the Navy or Government Ministers.
I couldn鈥檛 stay for the post-presentation finger buffet. I made my way outside and down the steps of the Concert Hall where I became aware of a small crowd hiding behind a wall.
鈥淗ello鈥, I said, peering around the wall and rather spoiling their plan to ambush me, 鈥渁nd who would you be?鈥
They shuffled forward. There were six or seven of them, clad in camouflage gear and wearing clown make-up. They told me they were and agreed to pose for a photograph. I assumed they had been there to protest at the Army鈥檚 event but, despite further questioning, I couldn鈥檛 get any real information from them.
I was going to tell them my joke about camouflage jackets (I left mine lying in the garden and haven鈥檛 see it since) but I didn鈥檛.
Probably just as well, really. Some of those clowns have no sense of humour.
