Band Cramp

'Outsiders call us a marching band, because they only ever see us when we're marching a parade. They'd be right, too, if it weren't for the fact you're all as feeble as door mice after a night of rat poisoning, drunkenly running to some miracle antidote that will save you. Well, I've got news for you, Adonis. You're not a marching band. You're a drum and bugle corps and this is band camp. You're now on the field. Welcome to hell.'

Whatever point Chase was trying to make was entirely lost on Gareth. He simply stared at the scruffy Scottish band leader and wondered why such a tall man needed to stand on a black box, approximately a metre square. Gareth wondered several things, in fact, such as why they'd all been placed in rows of three, horizontally, and why Mandy had frozen in an uncomfortable smile as her eyes danced over all of the members.

'You said Adonis was a marching band, earlier,' burped Old Man Sam.

'We all make mistakes,' sighed Chase, 'such as letting family get in the way of professional decisions.'

'Get yer head on straight, Chase, or I'll have ya fer it!'

Several members giggled at the prospect, but were immediately cut short by Chase's murderous glance, in response. Except one person.

'I should be over there, marching with that lot. Just 'cause I'm pit, doesn't mean-' Lofty started, but was quickly interrupted.

'Lap it,' Chase chided.

'What?' Lofty replied, dumbfounded.

'You lip it, you lap it.'

'Don't be daft, Chase, I just wanna-'

'Then be out there and lap it, Lofty!' Chase roared, keeping his gaze forward and at the area around Gareth.

Lofty, who stood behind Chase, along with what Gareth assumed was the "pit" section, jogged away from the band leader, seemingly startled.

'Eyes on me,' Chase coolly commanded, his greasy hair dancing across his face by the increasing wind. He looked positively frightening.

'So, first thing's first, my lovely chumlies - drill basics,' cheered Mandy, producing the same two drum sticks which Stefan had used earlier. 'You're all in a block made up of three members per line. You will all follow my commands, line by line.'

Gareth looked around, only to find that he was in the middle of the front line. Sadie was to his right and Stefan was to his left.

'Yes, Mr. Firkins, that means you'll be going first,' grinned Chase, menacingly.

'All you need to do is keep your left foot in time with the beat,' Mandy smiled, a glint in her eye and starting a beat between the two drum sticks, 'and follow my instructions.'

'There's a lot of drill lingo used for marching, Mr. Firkins, but me and Mandy, here, we thought it'd be fun to see what you'd make of the phrases and commands, having never heard them before,' Chase explained, crossing his arms.

'But what if-' Gareth started.

'Uh, uh, Mr. Firkins. We know what happens to those who lip it,' Chase interrupted, 'so cease your interjection. Just get on with it. Everyone'll support you like how sand bags support a circus tent and the clown within it.'

Gareth didn't feel reassured, at all, and chose to place his right hand in his pocket for a bit of medallion comfort. Mandy, who was keeping a close eye on Gareth, noticed this and immediately gave a condescending smile.

'Hands out of pockets, my 'nana,' she simply cooed.

'Corps attention!' Chase shouted.

There was a shuffle as the block pulled in their legs together and their arms straight down their sides. Gareth turned left to examine Stefan's stance, so he could replicate it.

'Eyes front, Mr. Firkins. Use your peripheral vision, if you even know what that is,' Chase sneered.

'Dave Pritchard, you'll be taking drill basics, my buttercup,' Mandy smiled, waving her two drum sticks out.

Gareth stared forward, eyes locked on Chase as Dave marched up to the front of the field. Mandy took a step back and Dave replaced her, grabbing the drum sticks with a lick of his lips. Chase remained on his box, as if he was a hawk on its perch, watching Gareth's every move. A deep sense of dread ascended from Gareth's stomach, where his noodles had once settled.

The two sticks began slamming together at one second intervals, clacking in the air around the block.

'First line, you'll move eight paces forward, eight paces backwards, then everyone on Stefan's side will shift eight paces left, whilst everyone on Sadie's side will shift eight paces right. Everyone in line with Gareth Firkins gets to move eight paces back towards me. Roll step. If you don't know what a roll step is, I'm sure you'll figure it out' Dave's deep voice commanded, his eyes settling on Gareth with spite. He then added 'Move too close and I'll have you.'

A roll step? Gareth had just mere seconds to figure out what that could possibly be. As the sticks slammed in time to form some form of starting beat to march off to, Gareth took a chance.

He put his right leg out and rolled his foot from his heel to his toe, then doing the same with his left foot.

'Left foot in time with the beat!' Dave roared.

Gareth immediately amended his pacing, only to find both Stefan and Sadie had gone ahead of him. He took large paces to catch up to them, only to then lose count.

'Straight legs!' Dave shouted, smacking the sticks continuously in time.

Just as Gareth put his left leg out, straight, Stefan and Sadie began to march backwards.

'Eight paces back, on your toes!' Dave growled, the vein growing, on his forehead.

Gareth, more annoyed at himself than anything else, took large paces backwards, trying to stand slightly on his toes as he did so. After four paces, he bumped straight into Stefan, who proceeded to nudge him to his right.

Confused at how he could bump into someone if he was travelling in a straight line, Gareth lost count, once again. Before he could be pushed from behind by the next line, he took a step forwards, once again, just as Stefan and Sadie seemed to step away from him.

Eight steps forward and then it's over. Gareth could feel the relief rise within him, only to dissipate as Dave's furious face locked onto Gareth's, growing by the second. Suddenly, Gareth felt like stepping backwards and away from this angry giant, but decided to continue forward... five, six... Gareth then realised he'd taken far too large a pace size, having reached Dave by his seventh pace.

Dave clacked his sticks in time and stopped them on the eighth and final beat, the vein on his head throbbing as his eyes locked on Gareth's. Without further warning, he proceeded to whack Gareth on the head with the back of a drum stick.

'I'm doing my best!' Gareth fumed, rubbing the top of his head.

'Well, it ain't good enough,' Dave spat, 'not even for a newbie. Can you count?'

'So what if I lost count? There's too much to do, all at once' Gareth replied.

'That doesn't answer my question.'

'Yeah, I can count.'

'Can you count to one?'

'I'm not stupid, I can count to one!'

'Then count one lap around the field, Firkins.'

Gareth's jaw opened in disbelief. He turned to Chase, as if to say that he was being unfairly punished, only to find Chase nodding in agreement.

'This is bull,' Gareth cursed, under his breath.

Turning to his left and away from Dave, he started to jog towards the fences of the school field, where the instruments had been lined up, ready for later. This was unfair. Despite his best efforts, he felt like everyone was against him. It almost felt like not getting things right, on your first try, was seen as intolerable. He'd never marched before! What did they expect? Gareth's thoughts were all over the place, as he jogged around the perimeter of the field.

He turned his head to watch the rest of the block perfectly recreate the exercise, line by line.

'Hey, mate,' came a hoarse voice.

Gareth faced forwards to find Lofty wobbling all over the place, having evidently given up from jogging, let alone running.

'Hey,' Gareth replied between gasps of breath.

'You're worse than me,' Lofty commented, giving a laugh which sounded like a dying dog, 'but us worsies have got to stick together, right.'

'Cheers, but I've got this,' Gareth spat, slowing his jog.

'I'm telling ya, you'll be doing... the figure eight block in a moment. They... won't explain it, so I will, right. You go... forward for eight paces, then left for eight, back for eight, forward... for eight, right for eight, back for eight, left... for eight, forward... for eight, then... stop,' Lofty explained, quickly running out of breath from trying to keep up with Gareth.

'How am I supposed to remember something as stupid as that?' Gareth's eyes narrowed.

'It's a figure eight... remember it... and you'll need to shift when... going left and... right.'

'Shift?'

'Yeah, mate, you... point your feet left... but keep your waist upwards... facing forward... when going left... and point your feet right when... going right.'

Gareth thought about this for a moment, slowing his pace. He didn't think he could ever get this all right, not all at once, anyway. He gazed to the ground. One thing he did have, however, was determination... and maybe a Lofty-sized bit of help.

'Keep in line with... everyone... and you can't go wrong... mate' Lofty wheezed and fell on his back, gasping for air.

The sticks ceased their clacking and were soon replaced by Chase's voice.

'Whilst I find it enviable that you've seemingly killed Lofty, Mr. Firkins, I highly suggest you pick his carcass up and march it straight back over here. Unless, of course, you're a glutton for punishment and wish to endure another lap of our surreptitious field?' Chase's gruff voice cut through the morning air with ease.

Gareth, unsure of what to say or do, decided it best he not reply and avoid lapping the field, once more. He looked at the collapsed Lofty and then at his large rump of a stomach. Wasn't this just as punishing as lapping the field?

To say Lofty weighed a tonne would be insulting, but it certainly felt like he came close. Gareth helped support the limping Lofty to the front of the field, back to the pit section.

'Thanks, mate,' Lofty wheezed, collapsing on the grass.

'What happened?' Elisa asked. 'Lofty normally survives a full lap.'

'Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,' replied Gareth, hobbling back to his space in the block.

'Grab your instrument, Firkins. You'll need your horn for this,' Dave commanded.

Just as Gareth turned to look for his trumpet, Stefan produced his battered horn from his left hand, having taken fetched it whilst Gareth handled Lofty. Stefan smiled. Gareth replied with a weak replica.

'Figure eight block. You'll all be marching together as one, this time, so don't trip over each other... otherwise it'll be your heads on the chopping block,' Dave threatened.

It was then that Gareth began to notice that Dave was fearsome in a way Chase and Ealga could never be. It wasn't his deep, base-filled voice which vibrated Gareth's spin to chilling proportions, no. It was his choice of wording, as if he'd once slaughtered his family and would be happy to do it to other people. Dave's blood lust was like an aura which radiated from not just his body, but his tongue, and it put Gareth on edge.

'Corps attention!' Dave boomed.

In a flash, everyone had their horns parallel to their body, in front of them. The instruments' mouth pieces were in line with their eyes. Gareth was, of course, behind everyone else. Looking a Stefan, standing next to him, Gareth adjusted his trumpet to mimic the same stance, pointing the horn's bell to the ground.

'Count one, when you step off, you bring your mouth piece to your lips. Got that? Horns up on count one!' Dave shouted, his sticks beginning to tap in time. 'One, two, one, two, three, ready, move.'

Prepared, Gareth stepped off with his left foot, remembering to keep his leg straight and to roll his heel to his toes with every pace. A good start. Now, if only he remembered to raise his horn to his lips on the first step...

Cursing under his breath, once again, Gareth lifted his trumpet to match Stefan and Sadie's, desperately trying to keep in level with them, in the corners of his eyes. This must've been what Chase meant earlier by "peripheral vision".

Things were going well. Gareth kept each foot in time with Dave's beat, making sure his heel hit the ground with every stick smack. Then, after eight paces, Gareth remembered Lofty's words and pointed his left foot to his left, taking a pace leftwards. He followed through with his right foot, keeping his torso twisted and his head forwards. This was uncomfortable. He felt like a dish cloth was being wrung dry. Still, he was in time with both Stefan and Sadie, which only elated Gareth.

Five, six, seven, eight... and almost falling backwards, Gareth placed his left foot back, wondering how anyone could keep balance between travelling left and then suddenly the other way. He adjusted his feet accordingly and wobbled backwards, making sure he stayed between Stefan and Sadie. He assumed everyone was doing it perfectly behind him, but he couldn't see as he was at the very front of the block. He just hoped he didn't annoy anyone too much.

Finally, after several rotations and with Gareth's shins straining beneath the rolling of his feet, the figure eight block was over. In true Gareth style, of course, he pushed his horn back to its "attention" state after everyone else had already done so to halt. With the mouth piece at eye level and breathing far heavier than he should have been, Gareth felt like he had finally accomplished something.

'Corps parade rest!' Dave shouted.

Stefan and Sadie, Gareth's only visual aid, dropped their trumpets to across their crotch area, cupped in front of them. Their right leg pushed out in a much more relaxed stance. Gareth followed suit, slightly after in order to mimic their manner.

There was a slow applause from atop the box. Gareth followed the sound to find it coming from Chase's hands. For a brief moment, Gareth thought Chase was finally congratulating him, until he saw Chase's expression of sarcastic irritation.

'You almost did well, Mr. Firkins. Almost. And then I realised Lofty has a mouth too large to keep shut, which may explain where that energy went when he was running. He spent it on you, Firkins, you. No wonder he collapsed. Well done for making one of my members collapse for some piddly information on marching a figure eight. Well done,' Chase spat, deflating Gareth as quickly as his elation, 'so now let's see you survive the elimination block.'

'Make a mistake, you're out of the block, so let's go over a few basic moves...' Dave started, his deep voice threatening and assertive.

Despite whatever was being said, however, Gareth's mind wandered. All these people... united for a marching band. It seemed almost ludicrous. It wasn't just kids, either, there were plenty of teenagers and adults of all ages. What could possibly be so fun about "band" that made them stick together every weekend to do things like... this? So far, Gareth had been shouted at for doing things incorrectly, shunned for doing his best, and was made to run around a field. It felt more like a boot camp than a band camp. In fact, why was he even here, again?

That's right, to make his mother proud. To make someone proud. It wasn't just to avoid prison. It was more than that. Sure, he didn't get on too well with his mother, but at least she still sheltered him and put up with his antics. Were they his antics or Darren's? Now that Gareth thought about it, he wasn't so sure, anymore. He had to keep going. He had to.

'One, two...' Dave started.

Startled, Gareth's thoughts washed away and he suddenly focused on the here and now. He had no idea what they were doing first, so he'd just have to wing it.

'One, two, three, breathe and roll,' Dave called.

Gareth pulled his horn up as if to play and took a step forwards. It was a good thing, too, as everyone around him did exactly the same. For now, he was saved.

'Corps right turn and...' Dave called, clacking his snare sticks together.

Gareth panicked and turned ever so slightly to his right. Everyone else turned 90 degrees on the spot, within four counts, before continuing to march forwards. Gareth almost got it right... and luckily Dave had missed his mistake.

'Lofty, get out,' Dave called.

Everyone, including Gareth, continued to march forward as Lofty waddled out of the block.

'That's not fair, mate, that was fine,' Lofty replied.

'I'm not arguing about this, Lofty, get lost. You're no marcher,' Dave shouted, before continuing with 'backwards hut!'

Gareth began to march backwards, steadily keeping in line with Stefan and Sadie.

'Maybe I don't wanna ding a triangle all my band career. Maybe I wanna march?' Lofty angrily barked.

'Lofty, get your backside off the field before I make an omelette out of you!' growled Chase.

'Corps left turn!' Dave called, increasing the tempo drastically.

Gareth did a left turn, this time in four counts and on the spot, before proceeding to march forwards. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

'Didn't even last five sets. You're a disgrace. Get out, Firkins,' Dave boomed.

Confused, Gareth turned his head behind him. The block was marching backwards, away from him. His heart sank. He'd made the mistake of continuing to march forwards after the turn. Such a stupid mistake.

'Forward, hut!' Dave called.

Gareth sighed and slowly walked away, to find Chase grab him by the arm and fling him off the field.

'What's the big idea?' Gareth gasped.

'Get out of the way of the block, before it crushes you, Mr. Firkins, or will I have to, instead?' Chase uttered, letting go of Gareth and focusing his attention back to the marching block. 'You clearly hadn't listened to the instructions beforehand, otherwise such a puerile mistake would never have occurred.'

Gareth had been eliminated from the block thanks to his mind wandering elsewhere. Great.
The stick beats became almost too fast to think about keeping time to, causing more and more members to be eliminated. Eventually, Stefan, Ealga, Aaron and Nathan's brother, Bob McCormack, remained.

'Stefan, that was a weak flange and you know it. Get out' Dave asserted.

As Stefan left the block, the beats stopped.

'Looks like it's the same three as always. Well done, although I'm sure the Telford Scouts will have had a more difficult time wheedling out the weaker members,' Chase smiled an indignant smile.

'Take a ten minute break whilst we set up the field, my chumlies!' Mandy called.

'Oh, and Mr. Firkins, I suggest you warm up your lips with your tin whistle of a mouth piece,' suggested Chase, 'for you'll soon be playing and marching at the same time.'

Gareth looked at his mouth piece, then looked at the grass, knowing full well that the worst was still to come.

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

"Setting up the field" consisted of simply spraying a few lines across the field, Gareth noticed. His break had been uneventful in that he didn't wish to speak with others and others didn't wish to speak with him. To remedy his boredom, Gareth surveyed the field as Chase, Ealga and Dave marked it with white spray paint.

Gareth watched as Ealga marched eight even paces out along a large white line, sprayed by Chase right down the middle of the field. Ealga marched along the front of the field, parallel to the pit section, making sure Dave marked out a blot of white spray paint at every eighth pace. Chase, meanwhile, placed a wooden sign in every one of these blots, each sign sporting a number.

Watching the three of them then place down grass coloured mats, seemingly at a further eight paces down from each numbered sign and vertical to the field's front, was a strange process; alien to Gareth, robotic to the others.

Chase caught Gareth watching.

'Whilst you're watching, I suggest you practise your tongue and technique, Mr. Firkins. Your roll step needs a lot of work, for example, as does... virtually everything, in fact,' Chase commented, spraying over a few of the faded lines near the front of the field.

'My roll step was perfect,' Gareth grumbled.

'Perfect for causing more note wobble than Lofty's stomach, you mean. Think on it. This is your warning,' Chase replied, turning away from Gareth and grabbing several folders from behind one of the numbered signs.

Just as Gareth's lips were buzzing from blowing raspberries into his brass mouth piece, the field had finally been finished.

'Everyone on the field before the heavens rip us apart!' Dave commanded, menacingly.

Despite Dave's wording, the skies did look particularly dank, once more. Shadowed clouds had culminated above the field, threatening to unleash its watery torture that lay trapped, within.

'I appreciate your considerate efforts, Dave, but you'll be joining the others on the 50 yard line. I'll be taking the next part,' Chase asserted, a business-like expression having formed on his face.

Dave joined the blob of band members in the centre of the field, where Gareth now stood. From this angle, he could see how the field worked. In front of him, down the central line which split the field in two, was a small sign marked with the number "50". Eight paces to the left of that was a marker with "45" on it. "40" followed from that, another eight paces on, then "35". The numbers went down in 5s until eventually hitting "20". The same formation stood to the right of the "50" marker, extending outwards. Thinking it a bit odd that they stopped at "20", Gareth assumed that the markers would have reached all the way to "0" had the band had more money... and members.

'Part One - the opening number. I don't expect you to play, just find where you'll be in the opening set. Each section leader will receive something I call a "dot book". This "dot book" has every position that you'll be standing in, on the field, during our opening number. Think of it as a grimoire for marching, where you cast the magic before my very eyes. Or some rubbish like that,' Chase explained, handing out coloured folders to several of the members.

Stefan received what looked like an illuminous yellow folder with the word "Brass" on its front. Ealga received a cyan folder labelled "Percussion", whilst a woman, tall with olive skin and silks which waved around her incredibly thin body, received a pink folder labelled "Colourguard".

'Why can't you just call out where we all go, like last year?' Yammers piped up, looking bemused.

'Because,' Chase immediately responded, as if expecting this query, 'it was a nightmare to cease your incessant arguing with one another about who was "Snare One" and "Snare Two". We took a millennia to organise everyone into just one set, let alone an entire show. So this year I'm making you all think about it a bit more, Mr . Yammers.'

Stefan proceeded to open the folder of secrets, just as a drop of water pricked Gareth's nose, revealing the most confusing bit of paper he had ever seen.

'What's that supposed to be?' he asked, his nose wrinkling at the many lines which dotted the page, as well as the three lettered names which sat above bizarre crosses.

'This is the field,' Stefan responded, running a circle around the page with his finger, 'and this is the first set of our opening piece. The crosses represent where we stand when we open the show.'

'So which one's me?' Gareth snapped, having figured that much already.

'The cross labelled "Fur". Two paces outside the 40 yard marker, sixteen paces from the front.'

'What?!' Gareth responded, confused at how on Earth he was going to know how far back sixteen paces would even be.

'Find the 40 marker. There is a line which goes from the front of the field to the back from that marker, like all other markers. Follow it until you hit the second grass mat. You can do this, Gareth,' Stefan explained, rolling his eyes.

Gareth, feeling that familiar sense of anger rise from the pit of his stomach, looked about to find the "40 yard marker" at the front of the field. There was, of course, one on either side of the field.

'There's two of them,' Gareth gritted his teeth, 'so which one do I choose?'

'The one on the left side, if you were looking towards the field's front. Now let me set everyone else' Stefan sighed.

Gareth, decisively grinning and bearing it, stomped to the front of the field and to the 40 yard marker on his left. Following the line down, he found the first mat, then the second. Not knowing what to do next, he simply stood there, feeling a little stupid.

The clouds had now let loose their wrath. Several marching members used this time to grab waterproof coats and all manner of coverings - a luxury Gareth didn't have. Warren had warned him, but it was no good if Gareth didn't have a waterproof coat to begin with. Feeling drowned and irritated, Gareth decided he'd have to get wet now, then change later.

'It's just a clearing up shower, get on with it!' Chase shouted out above the fizzing waterfall of the falling rain.

It surprised Gareth that they weren't going inside until the showers ceased. What if they slipped on the grass and injured themselves? Who was to blame for that, themselves or the staff for continuing?

'Chase, mate, we can't continue in this water. It's like the Niagra Falls,' Lofty commented.

'Don't be silly, Lofty, any shower's a good enough excuse to enjoy yourself. If you're worried about your clothes getting wet, rain's always a good excuse to get naked!' Big Gay Brett chuckled, causing Kara to chuckle along with him.

'No one will be getting naked on my field whilst there are children here, Mr. Maynard,' Chase retorted, evidently not caring about how wet he became.

'Sorry, Chase, it won't happen again,' Brett pouted, not looking sorry at all.

Eventually, everyone was stood in their specific spots, which Gareth noticed looked very rectangular in shape. Two people stood in the very middle of the rectangle; two colourguard members, both holding a very tall looking flag.

'What do we do, now?' laughed one of the colourguard members.

'Stand here for a bit, 'till someone says otherwise, Kelsey,' chuckled the other girl, in response, who so happened to be Tracey Diggby.

Gareth's eyes darted from Tracey, who wore incredibly short shorts which threatened to blend her thin legs into her torso, to the one known as Kelsey, who sported shoulder-length gingerbread hair and pale skin. She looked no older than thirteen and there was a distinct impression Kelsey wasn't the most out-spoken individual.

'Stop staring at someone so young, Firkins,' Tracey snorted, spotting Gareth.

'She's... not, what are you, I mean?' Gareth stumbled, unsure of what Tracey meant.

'She means Kelsey's jail-bait, mate, and you don't wanna head back to prison,' Lofty laughed, his dog dying chuckle rupturing Gareth's ear drums.

'I was looking at Tracey, not Kelsey...' Gareth blushed, angrily, 'and anyway, at least the girls are better eye candy than you'll ever be, Lofty.'

A couple of band members chuckled at that, but most didn't. A thick tension descended over the rectangle formation, at that moment, causing Gareth to stop talking.

'Why am I not surprised to hear your whining vocals, Mr. Firkins? Not only do you lecherously stare my daughter up and down, but you always talk on the field. Rule number one in my band is that there's no talking on the field,' Chase growled, before turning his attention to everyone, 'got it?'

'Loud and clear, drum major, sir!' Dave shouted, causing a slight groan around the field.

'Shut up, no one likes a shoe kisser, Mr. Pritchard,' Chase snapped.

Gareth chuckled at that, but no more so than anyone else. Despite this, he still caught the attention of Chase, staring daggers straight into Gareth's retinas.

'I'm not done with you yet, Mr. Firkins, because you always find a way to aggravate me in our short time as acquaintances. So let me put it you another way - you lip it, you lap it.'

'But everyone else-'

'Don't lip it, lap it,' Chase sneered, pointing at the field's perimeter.

'Really? really? You're making me lap this stupid field because I made a joke?' Gareth snarled, finding his anger rise dramatically. This was unfair.

'Adonis isn't a joke. Lap it,' Chase repeated.

Gareth stomped the ground with his foot and punched the palm of his other hand to take the aggression out of his system. He couldn't let Chase get the better of him. He had to do something otherwise Chase would simply cause him to explode by the time the weekend was over. He couldn't think of a decent enough retaliation right now, so jogging around the field was simply the easiest way to relieve the tension he had build up. Gareth decided it was best that he simply followed Chase's imperative... for now.

One lap later, everyone had already been placed into new positions on the field. Gareth returned to a field marked with scattered occupants, resembling no identifiable shape, what-so-ever.

Stefan soon pointed him in the right direction and Gareth found himself in the furthest back corner of the field, nearest the 20 yard marker and far, far away from the front.

'You all have twelve slow counts to transform the show's first set into your current set, like a larvae metamorphosing into a beautiful butterfly of shrapnel,' Chase explained, his voice barely audible as Gareth stood at the back, trumpet now in hand.

'Reset your bodies back to where you were, my lovelies!' Mandy called, a permanent and somehow threatening grin locked on her face. 'Run, run, run, or Dave'll kill ya!'

Not wishing to test this theory, Gareth ran back to his starting spot. No sooner had he arrived, Mandy started smashing her two drum sticks together to form a slow beat.

Twelve counts. One, two, three, ready, move!' Chase called.

This was far easier said than done.

Gareth took a pace backwards, only to immediately collide with whoever was behind him. To allow them to race off, he slowed down a bit, only to find Big Gay Brett come dangerously close to Gareth's held out horn. Seven counts in and Gareth realised he wasn't going to make it to his new position, at all.

Twelve counts were up and Gareth had only made it half way.

'Commendable, but ultimately shite. Try again,' Chase said, disapprovingly.

Finding himself repeating this set more times than he could keep count of, Gareth could never quite make the set without literally leaping in time with the slow stick beats, backwards. By the time they were ready to discover what the next "set" was, the top of his legs were sore from strained muscles.

This time, Gareth was to be placed on the 50 yard line, directly in the middle of the field, but right at the back. Everyone was to form a perfectly straight line vertically down the field.

'Sixteen counts at 130 beats per minute. Ready?' Chase smiled.

Gareth certainly was not. As he relocated back to his second set, he found himself immediately thrust towards the 50, gasping to make it within the beats allocated to him. He simply couldn't make it. To make matters worse, his trumpet was constantly held out in front of him - a feat he wasn't used to, causing his upper arm strength to dwindle rapidly. His horn soon found itself shaking uncontrollably.

'Mr. Firkins, can you tell me why you're wobbling? It can't be that tin whistle in your hands, not when the Baritones have heavier instruments to exploit. It can't be your self-proclaimed "perfect" roll step to absorb the shock from your feet as you move. So tell me why you're so crap at holding your posture,' mocked Chase, stepping onto the field and towards Gareth.

'Look,' Gareth roared in response, 'I've been trying to make this "set" thing whilst doin' your stupid technique garbage of facing forward and all that junk, but I can't do it. This is impossible!'

'Nothing's impossible if you put your mind to it,' Chase responded, 'although you're so thick that I wonder if you ever had a mind to utilise.'

'I'm not stupid, just sayin' what's fact. That "set" thing can't be done. I'm stretchin' my legs as much as possible and I still can't do it!'

Chase was upon Gareth like a hawk.

'Ever heard of jazz running, Mr. Firkins?'

'Ain't that something ballerinas do or something?'

'Goooood,' Chase cooed in a patronising tone, 'then maybe you aren't as thick as I thought. Run in time to your spot, across the field. Move like a flamingo, dancing on the field, running from a predator. In fact,' Chase turned to the rest of the corps, 'just for this one set, everyone face the direction they're moving to, as opposed to looking to the front of the field. Reset!'

And they did so, with the stick beats suddenly skyrocketing in tempo, the rain slashing down into Gareth's eyes.

Facing the middle of the field with his horn down and held in front of him, Gareth flung himself forward, desperate to reach the central line. Whilst feeling like a Lofty, bouncing off the ground in a camp fashion with every step he ran, Gareth was determined to get this right.

Then, on the last pace, he slipped.

With an almighty squelch of mud, Gareth landed face first into the water-logged field. He stayed there for a few seconds, contemplating his existence, before finally pushing himself off of the ground.

He was greeted by thunderous laughter, the rain trickling down his face and washing cracks of caked mud away.

'Any damage sustained?' Chase asked, a sudden concern in his voice.

'Yeah, my bloody pride!' Gareth roared, pushing Chase down into the mud with him.

Chase, the back of his head crashing down into the mud, grabbed Gareth with a murderous intent in his eyes.

'I meant the trumpet, you thick, friggin' thief!' Chase bellowed, pulling Gareth back down into the mud, with him.

The trumpet was fine, having landed a few feet away from them, but Gareth didn't care. He cared only about making Chase pay for the morning of what could only be described as pure torture.
Gareth shoved Chase's face into the mud, spurring a fierce kick from the band leader, landing straight into the back of Gareth's knees. Gareth found himself spiralling backwards to the slippery earth, ready to raise muddy hell on the drum major.

'Jesus Christ, everyone, don't just stand there and cheer!' Ealga shouted above the circular cheering which had ascended.

'No, you're right,' Yammers replied, 'we need to place some bets on who's gonna win.'

'My money's on the tall, scruffy Scot' Kara cheered.

'I reckon the kid's got something. 20 quid says you're wrong,' Yammers nodded.

'You're on, Yammers,' Kara replied, adjusting her glasses and proceeding with various pitched "come on"s to the mud wrestling pair.

The fight didn't last long, however, as Ealga soon rammed Gareth off of Chase and held the two apart.

'I've always said water never halted any regiment, but... Thanks to that no good criminal, that patch of field is so battered, any attempt to march on it will result in an accident. You can thank him for having to cancel today's marching until this weather lets up!' Chase growled.

Ealga, fury in her eyes, turned to Gareth.

'We don't like you and you don't like us. Sort it out and get your attitude in shape, or we'll like each other even less,' Ealga warned, shoving Gareth away from her.

'I don't think I can like him any less,' Aaron spat, cracking his knuckles.

A flash of lightning caused Gareth to jump. Mere seconds later, a clap of thunder crashed its way through the grey skies.

'Actually, my chumlies, lightning is one of two wonderful weathers we're not to march in, the other being the beautiful, beautiful snow. So even if Gareth wasn't such a willy, we'd have to pack our bags and have a cosy time inside, anyway. We don't want any members becoming a lightning rod with their brass instruments now, do we?' Mandy smiled.

Chase turned to Gareth as she said this, making Gareth think otherwise.

'I think an early lunch is in order,' Chase cursed, wiping the mud from his face.

Angry at himself for letting Chase get to him, Gareth stumbled back to the main building, his muscles aching and his pride beaten, wondering if he could recover from such a dreadful morning... ever.