Poems about the Army Apprentices School, Harrogate
(Attributed to Terry Corbett, intake 54B, with some subsequent editing)

Pay Parade
Pay Parade on Thursday, a “five-bob week”, you’ll soon be skint,
Five fags, a doughnut, cuppa tea and ogle the NAAFI bint,
Tin of Brasso, block of Blanco, fourpence for the pictures,
A penny ‘kitty’ for the Zebo, again we’re six-day paupers.

Six days pass, it’s “ten-bob week”, you’re loaded up and happy,
Egg and chips, a bun and tea, we dine out in the NAAFI,
We top up all our cleaning kit, ten Woodbines, lot’s to smoke,
There’s cash left over for the week. By Monday you are broke!

Tuesday night you’re feeling low, someone lights a fag,
You’d sell your soul to Satan for just a little drag.
Shouts go up around the room, “Two’s up, pal, I’m first”.
His finger points, but not at you, your craving’s worse than thirst.

Can anyone remember when I had my claim to fame,
It was a ‘five-bob’ payday, two halfcrowns and sign your name.
We paraded at the ‘spider’, lined up alphabetically,
And after the ‘A’s and ‘B’s were paid, they started on the ‘C’s.

My name was called, I shouted ‘Sir’, and marched out for my share,
I halted on my left foot, with my right knee in the air,
Prepared to bang it down again in the regulation way.
Disaster struck, I should have stopped at least a foot away.

My right knee hit the table’s edge, it lifted in the air,
Ranks of halfcrowns placed in pairs cascaded everywhere,
Part-two pay books neatly piled now wildly flew around,
The Imprest Book was soaked in ink, destroyed upon the ground.

Halfcrowns flying in the air, twirling on the ground,
Rolling, spinning under beds and rear of lockers bound,
Utter chaos, total ruin, the Pay Parade a farce,
My right knee hurt like bloody hell, then I landed on my arse.

Three seconds passed, then all the lads there waiting to be paid
Gave out a cheer and called “Encore”, and pointed at where I laid.
A voice from Hell exploded loud, “You bloody rowdy sods,
Shut up, get out, fall in outside – no pay today, you clods!”

It looked like Armageddon, with me lying on the floor,
Papers, pay-books, Imprest, ink and halfcrowns by the score,
My bum was numb, my knee in pain, my self-esteem was shot,
The voice screamed out “Get up you clown, pick up the fricking lot!”

Limping round the barrack floor, my beret filled with cash,
I looked like Long John Silver, or Aladdin with his stash.
Crude invective and abuse was hurled at me awhile,
Old soldiers know which words were used, all of which were vile.

Splinters in my fingertips, I scrabbled up the money,
Filling up my blue beret while voices shouted “Hurry!”
Banged my head upon the bed as I stretched behing each locker
I wondered if I would be pegged and dragged in front of ‘Knocker’.

The Paying Officer glared at me, a very icy look.
I asked him if he wanted help, he yelled out “Sling your hook!
If there’s any money missing, it comes out of your pay,
Five bob one week, ten the next – a pauper ‘til Doomsday!”

Then everyone was duly paid, I had to wait ‘til last,
Limping to the table, but this time not too fast,
Saluted, “Pay correct Sir”, then hobbled to the door,
Unwilling hero of the hour, knee and bum both red and sore.

Based on an episode experienced by the luckless author.

With thanks to  Trevor "Bill" Powell for this contribution.