All this talk of boots and rifles! In the good old days we had REAL weapons. Things so bright & beautiful, even those cool pilot sunglasses were no use and they had to put black-out curtains in the aircraft. Rifles were for playing with during our annual skive down at Bisley every year and boots were for wearing with seaboot socks out on the Line. The downside was the genuine grandad shirts - it took years for the collar stud scars to fade after we went to collar attached.
In't good old days we had holiday camps all over the world. Changi was particularly nice. Cheap beer, cheap fags, cheap food, and for the singlies, loads of cheap women. Hong Kong was interesting, over our side the bright lights and good life, over the border, Mau suits and the little red book. A kind of far eastern version of Berlin. Ah! Berlin! the sweet fraulines...
Malta made a nice detachment in January - not too hot but warm enough for shirt sleeves. Cyprus was OK except for the fighting-drunk Pongoes. Germany was of course a piss artist's dream but I remember the girls being exceptionally friendly too.
As ever there was the dread risk of Muharraq, Masirah, Sharjah or that ultimate in misery - Salalah. Khormaksar wasn't exactly a dream location either, towards the end, but it was an OK sort of place up until 1964.
But wherever Innesworth sent you, there was little danger of being shot at or bombed, as even Northern Ireland's "troubles" were still in the future.
Mini skirts and mascara - them really were't days, they surely were.! Sigh....
