Paul Gallaher's Memories

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By Paul Gallaher
1st September 1978 - 1st November 1978

Army Days – Parrot story

Ask any young man about his Army days and he won’t say much; ask him when he’s over 40 and you won’t shut him up.
Some of the pictures taken are of poor quality, but it’s all I have, so any lads out there from my past: if you have any better ones it would be appreciated if we could link memories. Many of the pictures are from N. Ireland, West Belfast in 1979, and Maze Prison Guard force from 1981(ish).
I served about 6 years in the Kings Regiment. It is not possible to write up your whole army career in a few lines so I will revisit my Army days from time to time and start with our trip to Guyana in 1978 for 6 weeks of jungle warfare training.
Guyana in ‘78 (and probably the same today) was a very poor country. I had all of £10 in my pocket and I was rich. Kids were constantly begging and worse: trying to sell their sisters for a £1.00 a go.
A member of our platoon bought a parrot, “Polly” (original I know) from one of these boys, lovely bird very colourful. Never shut up squawking though. We also bought a bit of fruit and some meths: they told us it was White Rum, but I had my doubts. Tasted awful but in those days booze was booze whatever it tasted like.
The food was appalling, we were starving most of the time, when it comes to chow the British Army know how to feed their soldiers but we were attached to the Guyanese mob. No catering corps went with us: we ate what they ate, or at least tried.
One evening we were sat outside our billet (a hut) tired (because that fucking bird squawked all night) drinking the local beer and meths chaser (Rum my ass). We staggered to bed early hours of the morning, Polly was in fine voice. Say anything and that bird would squawk.
“Fucking starving”
Squawk!
“I’m fucked”
Squawk!
“I feel sick”
Squawk!
“Does that bird ever shut up?”
Squawk!
“SHUT UP!”
Squawk!
DING!
Silence.

I turned to see a friend who will remain nameless holding a metal mess tin in one hand next to Polly’s perch. Polly for some strange reason had committed suicide by nose-diving off his perch to my friend’s feet - well that was my first thought. Reality began to come through my drunken haze.
In my defence I would normally be outraged, instead I found myself staring at a not too pretty Polly, We were all transfixed by the bird. Somebody’s voice broke through the silence and said what we were all thinking: “Chicken”.
I will leave the story there and let you fill in the gaps.
I would like to offer a piece of advice to any up and coming chefs:- If you’re in search of a new trade mark dish, Parrot a l’Orange perhaps, Parrot drumsticks maybe, or Kentucky Fried Parrot.

Leave well alone, no, really!

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Tags: army parrot story soldier meths drunk guyana jungle

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